Hey guys,
Been a while. I spend most of my time on Facebook for this sort of thing these days.
But...
To my Cammie friends, I have a new PC concept I want to bring in, something old (1520 or so for embrace) A Nosferatu scholar of vampiric and ancient history. Imagine the eternal shy nerd cursed to forever live in libraries and places of learning and never grow real social skills. Slightly pathetic and cowardly but immensely knowledgeable. Anyone up for ties so I can solidify an age app? |
The piercing blue eyes stared back from the full length mirror. Hands that had trembled for decades moved agilely, the finger joints unswollen and painless as they adjusted the tie.
He waved a hand, flipping an unruly strand of blond hair from over a smooth forehead, wafting the scent of mothballs from the khaki starched cuffs of the uniform short.
His gaze fell down to the yellowed news clipping. The same piercing blue eyes stared back in monochrome.
“Are there any old photos we need to worry about?” Argent had thought it was a joke. He didn’t remember, he was too young to recall that war. None of them did.
Mages seemed to live only briefly, perhaps it was the nature of their existence, to burn bright and fade away. To leave a reeking smoking crater one day when they went to far, or to slip silently into an unremembered grave.
“Drosselmeyer,” yes, that was him. It was the name of the old toymaker inexorably hobbling toward his unremarkable grave.
He’d needed to know the face was his. Angular lines that set off ice blue eyes stabbing from beneath beetling brows. His body, the youthful smoothness of alabaster skin stretched over chorded muscle.
He looked again to the flaking image one last time before pressing it down and allowing it to flake to dirt. Friedenshersteller, he had to laugh. A forgotten name, best left lost to time. The Peace Maker of the Reich, an ugly pun.
His hands went to the collar, ready to tear the old fibers away, and paused. There was a time when this uniform meant something different to him. Before the war got ugly, when the greatest mages battled toe to toe and at each other’s sides, so many friends, so many worthy enemies, it had been a time to remember, forgotten.
From the table, red crystal lenses set in a steel mask glinted by the light of the hanging bulb. Gray gunmetal, a death’s head motif in the sleekest German design of the 1940s stared upwards.
Slowly he unfastened the bandoleer. He couldn’t destroy it. Not now, not yet. There was so much more to do, for the first time in decades, there was so much he could do. |
Shade walked stiffly from the gathering, grimacing over his shoulder at the near complete haven. This one would be trouble sooner or later. He lit a cigarillo and exhaled silently; twin streams of smoke flowing from his nose.
Somewhere in the city an insane and ravenous elder vampire was hunting its own species. It had proved it was crafty, stealthy and above all deadly. Totilla's comments were still suspect, how could anything that insane wield powers of Lancer magic and maintain the focus of a Dragon? It had killed at least one Gangrel, and a yet to be determined number of mortals.
He cringed in an imagined cold breeze, adjusting his coat. The smell of powder still clung to his hands. Rubbing a fleck of dried blood from his wrist the image of horror on Maurer’s face flickered in his memory and he pushed it down to join the countless other witnesses of his actions.
The Indian was a lost cause, insane, a victim of another predator. This was the best way he assured himself.
He had at least united the prophets; that was a small good deed. If they were truly prophets was yet to be determined, but they understood each other far better than an outsider would. That he understood. |
The candy apple red Ferrari was pure excess. The disheveled and stoned debutants curled in the seat beside him were a let down.
For the hundredth time that month he rolled his eyes over the misfortune of coming to this world after the height of Ecstasy’s popularity. Even the raw want of the cocaine addict had a spicy charm, but pot? The drug was the embodiment of apathy. The gluttony it inspired was as bland as pre-sliced white bread.
The music from the club vibrated the pavement as the Ferrari’s engine slowed from a roar to a purr and finally went silent. The valet stared wide eyed as the pretty dark skinned man in the tailored suit threw him the keys. “Just make sure it’s got gas in it when I get back.”
The dread-locked teen-ager grabbed the keys and smiled from ear to ear, crumpling his vest and tossing it into the car. He heard a muffled groan as one of the girls tossed it back. Leaning over mouth dropping open and blinking he looked back up to the stranger. A strong scent of spices and flowers lingered in the air of the car’s cockpit like cabin, mixed liberally with the last wisps of ganja smoke.
Manjunatha Das shrugged. “Amazing the options they add to these sports packages isn’t it?” Smiling he turned as the car peeled away. A lingering slurred “Who is he?” hung in the air as the befuddled girls noticed their new companion.
The bouncer chuckled as Manju passed the velvet rope. “Looks like you’re having a good night, anyone we should expect?”
Das smiled up at the face that grinned down at him from a mountain of muscles, “just Lita, no work tonight. Is my sister here yet?”
The bouncer’s smile turned into a wistful sigh. “Oh yeah, she’s here. Dancing as usual.”
Manju’s smile had that hint of mischief, his dark eyes glittered from the soft honey-toned oval face, “one of these days you really should just ask her out.” The bouncer’s darker face flushed, even his shaved scalp glowing ruddy, but he remained silent. The man in the tailored suit walked on while the bouncer’s mind wandered.
Inside the music thudded deafeningly. The crowd swayed, a kaleidoscope of colors.
He made his way to the bar, nodding and smiling at the half-remembered faces. Here and there a secretive look, some vague recollection of a connection. Grinning he caught the bartender’s eye. “Hallo, Grace.”
The buxom woman smiled back. “Been a while Manny. Planning on sticking around?”
He winked to her, a tongue-in-cheek smooth move. “I just might be, if you’ll be here.”
“I don’t know, you’re no-where as cute since you lost the accent.” She pointedly ignored him for a moment, taking another order.
Catching her attention he waved her closer to the rail, leaning in whispering in her ear. “You’re a bitch.”
She smiled innocently, “I learned it from you.”
He grinned back, “just the Rum Love.”
She poured his drink with a smile; her shoulders slightly more slouched than before as he turned away.
The music picked up and the rhythm became a more complicated staccato of the Eastern beats he knew. Moving to the balcony he leaned over the rail.
There she was, as always, the center of attention. |
| » Foolish Games |
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The lone figure sat quietly in the darkness of the isolated clearing. The rough stone altar loomed large dominating his field of view, incense burned as he chanted the funeral prayer.
Nearby the sound of leaving cars and hushed conversation dwindled. The subtle sounds of the park enveloped him as he maintained his vigil. Spiraling tendrils of smoke rose and wafted away in the damp summer air. Across the park a body slid lower down a riverbank as the prayers for its spirit continued.
Shade concluded rising quietly, he brushed the dirt from his jeans and sighed, slipping off the dark-lensed glasses. Too many of these vampires were fools. They had no purpose, no goal. Perhaps peace had lead to arrogance. In stagnation they had forgotten the healthy caution that was required of their species.
He began his nightly walk, this evening passing silently through the woods, he thought of the events that had troubled him.
D’Ocham, A Lancer too foolish to notice the condition of his prey, unfortunate, but expected. Their doctrines lead to callousness. In believing God had chosen them they forgot that no honor was forever, even an Emperor may loose the mandate of heaven. It was a mistake perhaps, but one of how many?
The Gangrel, brash, talkative, dangerously foolish: Dakota. He may have been an Indian, but clearly not of the old ways, more likely some cowboy or recent embrace. Two dead from his hunt, and he’d thought them police. The fact that Shade had identified the forged badge did not change the fact that he had killed them thinking them the real thing.
Lady Westfield, there was a surprise, a Gangrel who simply forgot to cover her tracks. Her sire had been a poor teacher, though what more could he expect of Rose.
Shade shook his head and moved deeper into the woods. He would not worry himself over this court’s foolishness. There were higher concerns. His eyes grew black and his senses shifted to the other world that needed his attention. These vampires were not his concern, not yet.
Jul. 15th, 2007 @ 01:24 pm
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| » Wiki, ok, why not |
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Added a couple of wiki pages for the PCs, go nuts with the rumors:
William Sykes
http://cam-wiki.org/index.php/William_Sykes
Shade
http://cam-wiki.org/index.php/Shade
Feb. 9th, 2007 @ 05:03 pm
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| » Let the games begin |
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This is a quick email to let you know that the following changes have just been made on your application for Unretiring a PC for Simon Dupree-Johnson (Shade, Wu Shen):
Status set to Approved
Hexagram 29
The mind is uncontrolled.
The person is quick to anger.
Most problems in this person's life are self-created.
Spiritual achievement is lacking.
The person faces important life decisions and problems that should be overcome.
The person does not take responsibility for his emotions and states of mind.
The person is likely to blame others for his problems.
Danger and the Way of Dealing With Danger
The hexagram itself represents danger because the yang lines are enclosed by two yin lines, like an abyss ( see Hexagram 29, left). The hexagram also represents the way to deal with danger:
First, know that the danger is external to your true self. Second, your true nature will not be affected even by great suffering because the danger is external to your spiritual essence. All great spiritual beings have experienced great suffering in their lives. Indeed, suffering is necessary if one is to penetrate to real meaning of life. Take heart in the time of danger!
In dealing with danger one should imitate the element of water which the hexagram represents: This teaching below is taken from The Book of Changes and the Unchanging Truth by Hua-ching Ni.
- Be content with a "low" position. Like Water, by remaining low, one may be safe and free from competition.
- Remain profound. A profound mind is as quiet as the deep ocean. Therefore, it is undisturbed by the waves on the surface.
- Give generously. Water constantly gives without asking to be repaid.
- Speak faithfully. The flow of Water is always faithfully towards the sea.
- Be gentle. Water moves with gentleness, it can overcome even the hardest obstacle under Heaven.
- Work capably and be adaptable. Water can fit what is square or what is round. It keeps its true nature in any container or circumstance.
- Take action opportunely. Water freezes in Winter and melts in Spring. Its inflexibility in Winter is like death. Its softness in the Spring generates new life.
- Never fight. Water does not fight for itself, thus is beyond blame.
The Myth
The Dark Lord of the North or Xuan Wu Da Di is a deity that comes from the pre- history of shamanic times (c. 6000 BC). In relatively modern Chinese prehistory (c. 1200 BC) the Dark Lord has become the human figure of a warrior with wild, unruly black hair, dressed in the primitive clothing of the tribal peoples of Neolithic times. He is powerful and strong deity capable of powerful punishments and redemptive deliverance. He is frequently depicted as the black tortoise who rules over the direction North in Chinese cosmology. He is called "Xuan" for the color black and "Wu" meaning "tortoise.
Prehistory: The Snake and the Tortoise
The Dark Lord speaks to a more ancient myth, that of the snake and the tortoise, in religious prehistory. Very ancient drawings of a black snake and tortoise together symbolize the Dark Lord. These reptilian creatures, the snake and tortoise, were probably themselves worshipped or were powerful medicine to help in overcoming one's enemies. From Shang times onward, the flag bearing this symbol was part of the king's color guard. In Neolithic prehistory the tortoise - also known as the somber warrior- and snake together are the symbols or totems of a powerful shaman who fights evil against the demons of the Invisible World. (Above, 3rd Century BC drawing of the black turtle and the snake, colorized. According to ancient tradition, the black tortoise is yin; the snake, yang.)
This shaman, among some tribes was called the "black shaman." This shaman would be a great warrior, menacing and powerful, with the ability to slay enemies by raining down catastrophe upon them. The specialty of the black shaman was exorcism and he often fought battles with the demons of the Lord of Death. (Left, probably the most ancient known inscription of this symbol)
The Dark Lord In Chinese Mythology
Xuan Wu, also called "Zhuanxu" was said to have been born during the period of the Yellow Emperor. He was a crown prince in the country of Jing Le. Like Buddha he refused to made a king and left worldly life to study religion. Xuan Wu thereafter devoted his life to the study of Taoism and eventually became an Immortal. The Jade Emperor, one of the Supreme Deities, then made him lord over the northern heavens because Xuan Wu was the only deity strong enough to deal with dark powers inherent in the primal direction of the North. Talismans such as the one above originally were for warding off evil spirits. Later the talisman became a method for achieving ecstatic union with the deity.
This deity, The Dark Lord, was especially worshipped in northern China during the Yuan Dynasty (1271-1368 BC). The mountain Wu Dan, which is named for him, is his sacred place. At the peak of the mountain at Tian Zhu Peak stands the Golden Temple built in honor of him during the Ming Dynasty (1368-1644 AD). The Golden Temple still stands there today and is a place of pilgrimage for his followers. Fittingly for Western movie enthusiasts, The Golden Child sits to the right of the Dark Lord as he grants audiences on his throne in the northern heavens. The epic film of the Manchu warrior-woman, Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, takes place at the monastery of the Dark Lord on Wu Dan Mountain.
The Dark Warrior is often shown with long, wild hair and dressed in primitive, tribal clothing. This manner of dress symbolizes his wild, atavistic and dark, powerful nature. He is a strong martial deity who has sworn to kill all the evil spirits in the world. The Dark Lord of the North is often the chosen deity of those who study the martial arts and war.
All immortals and enlightened beings were also once human and did very bad things and for this they often experienced profound suffering. Yet they were able to gain control over their minds by constant perseverance. This control of our lower nature is the gateway to higher realizations.
Jan. 22nd, 2007 @ 09:56 pm
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| » So... Ever wonder where the old bastard was? |
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Biting wind over snow covered tundra. It had been too long.
The heavily swathed figure made his way across the plain. The wind whipped the heavy quilted coat about its angles as it leaned on the strange ornate staff. A gifted observer would see the small figure following, her light summer robes undisturbed by the wind.
Slowly a small cluster of poles and fallen walls resolved from the swirling snow. Shade grimaced slightly and leaned on the staff. Xiaolei beamed up at him, she’d grown stronger as they neared the ruins of the shrine, manifesting in his mind. “You are home.”
He turned from her face, weary of the constant pain of his failures her whit eyes brought on. Scanning the town he sighed heavily, no steam escaped his lips. “Nothing left…”
She simply shook her head, bemused. “Look Wu Shen, with your sight.”
He shuddered at the thought of the angry spirits that haunted the place but forced himself to see them. The shadows swirled around his irises and his own inhumanity became clear.
Noises began to encroach on his senses, the sounds of a village, no too much, a city. The small huts stood semitransparent in the moonlight, stretching outwards in circles. Faces, hundreds of them, all ages, smiled as they passed him. A small child ran by brushing the skirts of his coat leaving them undisturbed.
“I don’t understand?” The Khaibit turned to look at his former wife, confused. “Is this…
A gruff voice interrupted from behind him, “It took you long enough boy.”
Turning he faced a young roguish face. Its dark eyes sparkled with a bemused merriment. Familiar eyes, last seen yellowed with fever.
“Master…?”
The ghost nodded, “I’d say I hoped to see you sooner, but such was not my plan.”
Shade looked down, sorrowful. “I failed.”
“Yes, but that’s a lesson you had to learn sooner or later isn’t it?” The spirit still smiled, having mellowed with its years among the other ancestors.
The small figure of Xiaolei ran to her fathers arms. Shade looked away, forcing his vision return to normal. He sat upon the frozen earth and set out incense and rice as was his custom, saying his farewells. The whispers of the dead enfolded him in a peaceful murmur, blending with the wind.
He slipped into the light proof sleeping bag as the East began to show the first streaks of light and let the sleep come over him. Tomorrow he would set out for Tibet, alone.
Jan. 22nd, 2007 @ 07:56 pm
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| » Maybe... |
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A cold mist settled on the docks. The figure materialized from the mass of shadowed cargo containers. To an onlooker he stepped from the shadows. A more skilled eye would have seen that phrase was more than pretty symbolism.
Walking quietly he whispered to the solitary dockhand stamping his feet in the cold. The startled man bowed deeply. The other returned the bow and stood a moment looking out across the river at the illuminated spires in the distance. There was a trace of a laugh, and then he stepped further into the ships shadowy crates.
The dockworker turned looking for him, then shook his head and returned to the ship’s cabin, shaking uncontrollably.
Jan. 10th, 2007 @ 07:09 pm
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| » (No Subject) |
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Delilah sat in the back of the limo with Bill, silent, the tears that had been wanting to come but were forced back finally breaking free.
He watched her silently, giving her a moment. Each silent shuddering sob pulling at him, tearing down the resolve of his decision to keep the distance between them formal until their lives were less 'complicated.'
( Read more... )
Sep. 5th, 2006 @ 10:22 am
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| » Sometimes it looks back. |
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Bill focused; it was a matter of concentration. His brow knit as a half forgotten face materialized, taking shape from the wispy blur that had shifted before him in the glass a moment before. The brooding face of a perpetually dour man, clean shaven, hair cropped so short it was a mere shadow of stubble. The jaw was strong, harsh and solid, like a rock at the seaside. The brow was heavy, lending to te look of concentration a sinister aspect.
He took in the details. The face wasn’t young, but it lacked the deep lines of age. The scowl he wore showed his mood, but even in lighter time the face was not bent to joviality, if he was older he’d seem stern, but the traces of youth that lingered made it appear simply angry. He tried to calm himself, letting his face fall into it’s most comfortable lines. The change didn’t help. It wasn’t a kind face; even at its most relaxed there was an expression of displeasure. He shook his head and opened the spout, cupping his mammoth hands beneath the clear torrent he filled them with icy water and splashed it over his head.
He returned his gaze to the glass, addressing it. “Wha’ are you doin’ you bloody pratt.”
It didn’t answer, at least his sanity was holding.
He shook his head letting the water spatter the surround.
He’d offered to kill a man. It had come naturally, thirty years of London gutter boiling to the top. You could take the thug off the streets but it would cling to him. Under it all, the suits, the travel, lay a hard bastard. He was capable; prison had taught him how to act cold, nature had granted him a body made for destruction. On the streets you play the game, be twice the bastard you are, don’t let them see your remorse.
He wasn’t sure he liked the ratio. It wasn’t that he’d lost control; he’d felt nothing, maybe it was the years of removal from the old life. Crime and punishment, death and profit, the Meat-Grinder. It wore your soul down, but it could fade away.
Decades of playing the dilettante had dulled the sharp edge of recollection. He focused another kind of will, forcing himself to remember what it felt like to beat down a man over a few quid. Had it slipped away. The physical reactions, cold ice in your gut when some hard-case pulled a knife and all you had was what you could reach; that adrenaline rush of fear, the cold satisfaction of blood and bone giving way under your fist. It was life at its most painfully vibrant, contrasted with the threat of death. It made you hurt, it made you die a little on the inside, every time you lived. The word dichotomy came to his mind and he laughed at himself, big word for a small mind.
Somewhere deep inside something stirred, smelling blood. The Dog. Kindred called it the Beast, he never liked that. It was a dog, a fighting bull that needed to be whipped down and kept in its cage. It kept you hungry, but like anything in life, hunger couldn’t beat you, you couldn’t let it. You ate, but never too much, you let your dog out for a bit, when you needed it, then back in the cage with a kick before it got ideas.
It wasn’t The Dog that piped up when he’d made that offer, he wouldn’t allow himself that comfortable lie. It was him, the cold voice of reason that said “this is how you get favors owed you, this is how you climb.” He spit in the washbasin and doused himself in another double handful of icy water.
It wasn’t some kindred thing; it was the way men were, the way Darwin worked on the streets. Traits got rewarded and people with them rose to the top. Hard men were a mix of animals. They were all a little bit dog, a little bit fox, and maybe a touch of rat. Somewhere along the path of evolution a spider got in and it made them like to complicate things, webs, patterns, entanglements.
The look on Delilah’s face came to him, interrupting the focus. His image blurred and was drawn back into the mists of the looking glass. She was angry, not shocked, but put out. He’d stepped on her toes, spoken what he should have kept quiet. It was her place to make the offer, but he knew she wouldn’t. Plans were in place but not ready, this should have been the work of an employee, not a member of the First Estate. He’d shown his roots and it looked bad.
What could he offer in a world of fops and generals? Noting yet, just old fashioned hands on experience they wouldn’t have. The same thing they could get from any two penny thug. The glower returned, hidden in the glass, but there.
“You’re a son-of-a-bitch Bill.”
Aug. 21st, 2006 @ 10:19 pm
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| » South Africa, 1994 |
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In the distance a single building stood in tumbled down ruins. A half mile away at best, it was simply too far to reach before dawn safely. The hill they stood on was marked by a single slender wooden upright. The rod was old, its top splintered away, easy to overlook; but it was machine made. It was anomalous in this terrain of twisted brush and grass. The marker stood firm and upright marking some significant event that had long been forgotten.
The jeep had already lost its spare. Sykes cursed his luck as the guides set up his tent. This was supposed to be a quick trip, a tourist jaunt to the places of historic interest, not a two day affair. It was only luck, and memories of less prepared journeys that had made him bring the lightproof sanctuary.
( Read more... )
Aug. 2nd, 2006 @ 07:43 pm
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| » India: May, 2006 |
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The jungle is alive, it’s more than a metaphor, everything one sees moves, crawls, throbs with an energy. It’s not sentient, it’s chaotic, but chaos has its own rules, eat or be eaten, struggle or die. Above this, there was something odd in the air that night, mixed with the ever-present damp of the jungle was another wet scent, metallic and tangy, that fed the raw hunger of life for life. The wilderness vibrated with the tenseness of Rudyard Kipling’s Tiger prowling its darkness. The tension was shattered by the sound of gunfire. The jungle went silent, expectation echoing in the quiet.
“Righ’ I've jus’ abou’ ‘ad it wiff ‘is nutter.”
( Read more... )
Jul. 28th, 2006 @ 08:31 pm
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| » Exchange of Tokens |
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It had taken hours to settle Lizzie into the temporary haven. Her nerves were raw; he understood this, but some plans wouldn’t wait. He spoke into the Land Rover’s cellular line, "i's Bill, I wan'ed t' see yah for a bi’, if yah could."
"Sure, Bill, where are you right now?” He felt a moment’s guilt. “I'll come meet you."
"S'ok, i's late. I can come t'you."
"Bill, I'm across the street in the library. Are you still at the house?"
"I'm near,” he gunned the engine, closing the distance between the two havens rapidly, “so I can be."
"I'll see you there; just come in."
( Read more... )
Jul. 28th, 2006 @ 01:31 pm
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| » What goes around... |
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Ganked from everyone who ganked it from everyone else, so much so that I have no idea where it started.
But since it's for William Sykes, my new Requiem PC, I thought it might be neat for making ties.
1. What would you like to see me do with Bill?
2. How can I improve the roleplay of Bill?
3. How can I add to the roleplay of others with this PC?
4. What kind of story do you see coming from Bill?
Jul. 21st, 2006 @ 01:16 pm
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| » He said... |
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"So, we need to speak, Bill."
"Is there a problem?"
Here it was, some comment about his behavior, his demeanor, something wrong. He knew it was a matter of time before the ridiculousness of the situation would be made obvious. He gritted his teeth, why did Lizzie push this?
( Read more... )
Jul. 20th, 2006 @ 04:09 pm
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| » Master of the House |
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The giant sat quietly in the back of the limo. It was rented, but at times like this appearance was everything. This was legitimate business, mostly. He shifted in the leather seat, astounded that his nerves were raw for such a small thing. Perhaps it was because this was his; his first minor move in the world, it was satisfying, and thrilling, and the stakes were for once his own.
Walther Barnes slipped into the passenger cabin as the liveried driver shut the door. This meeting was unorthodox, but the pub needed the capital, whoever this investor was they’d offered to buy in, and given the loss he’d taken on his divorce e needed all the help he could get.
In the shadowy limo the stranger seemed to be inhumanly large. Walt had never felt himself cramped in so large a space. His eyes traveled up the frame before him. Italian shoes, barely scuffed on their soft leather soles, The suit was Brookes Brothers, perfectly tailored light summer cotton, but it was all wrong, the scale was not human, the body beneath contoured with a massive bulk of un-concealable muscle. When his eyes saw the face atop the mountain of flesh the universe wavered a moment, it was impossible.
Sykes smiled and Barnes paled as the rumble of his fellow passenger’s voice struck a familiar chord. “Allo’ Walther ol’ boy. I’s been ages, ‘asn’t it.”
Barnes had never expected to see Sykes again, much less to see him this far from London. It was unsettling; something tickled his brain, something unnatural. He looked at Sykes massive bulk in the enclosed limo and swallowed. “Bill… I… you look good.”
“So d’ you mate. Never expected to see ol’ Bill again, did yah?”
Barnes simply nodded, “not since prison, no…” He looked over the spotless limo, the tailored suit, the apparent ageless youth and menace that faced him. “Time’s been good to you I see.”
“It ‘as Wal’, no mistakin’ tha’ is there?” Sykes slid out a cigar and lowered the window the name of the pub was framed perfectly. “A lan’lord too, an’ ‘ey said we’d never make nuffin’ of ourselves din’t ‘ey? West End Pub though, a shame Wal’ ferge’in yer roots like ‘at.”
The landlord shifted uncomfortably. Walther Barnes left the East End behind with his days as a street tough. He’d paid the price for his greed over a two year span in Swansea Prison. Once out, he’d pulled his few remaining favors and gotten himself a visa to the states. He’d even married an American girl. Walt had tried to be an upstanding member of society. Somehow that never worked for him, the chance for a quick dollar was always too tempting, drawing him inexorably away from the more honest work. “They don’t know the difference here Bill, it’s not like it was.”
The accent was clipped, precise, movie star British. The massive man bristled. It was one thing to put on airs, but Walt had purposefully rejected his past; it was a path that Sykes had refused to travel. Perhaps it was to the man’s credit that even now the mask held.
“Alrigh’ Wal’ firs’ thing we do is change ‘at ‘orrid name. Remember Dir’y Dicks?”
The landlord felt his face turn red, then he looked up and down his host and deflated, some fights weren’t worth it.
Jul. 18th, 2006 @ 10:03 pm
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| » Reunion |
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When he’d first seen her his jaw almost fell open, almost. He’d thanked his stars he didn’t make an ass of himself from the start. It had been sixteen years since the night in London. He hadn’t thought of her often, but he’d thought of her, and that said something. She didn’t look different at all, no that was wrong; her eyes had changed something odd in her blood.
( Read more... )
Jul. 11th, 2006 @ 11:01 am
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