Sevite · a · Deux · Mains

Horsefeathers. Yase. One inch of thorn tip from the hedge and three parts ephemeral bottled nightmares of seaweed and endless black water beneath pulling you underwater. Yessss.

And some WD-40 and paprika.

Perfect. It will be perfect. Yes. Yes, perfect. Boss will be pleased.

She pushed them all into the funnel and batted it down with a cotton pad on a long thin wire, splattering her face and the heavy leather apron. Physically, the sheer amount of space the ingredients took up could not fit in the space of the gun's barrel. She did not, however, understand physics, so the implausibility of such things did not bother her.

The gun was left upright in the workshop's clamp, and she skittered over to the cupboards.

Grape Jelly; no. Virgin blood; no. Giraffe bile - salted or unsalted; no. Baltic Acid; no. Carrot Baby vomit; no. Meconium; no. Mule semen; no. Kiwi-lime Mad Dog 20-20; Yes. Vicious. Perfect. Pesticides; no. Mint toothpaste; maybe. Tigerbalm; no. Pig musk; no. Concentrated deer urine; maybe. Earth Tunnel Tribe hob blood; yes. Yes. Crystal Pepsi syrup; no. Hrph.

Pulling the deer urine, hob blood, mad dog, and mint toothpaste together, she skittered back to the work bench.

Double-Tap looked up from the awkward care and cleaning of her rifle, paws working carefully. Her dark-furred hyena face blinking slowly at the working bipedal creature. DT gathered her pieces as quickly as possible and high-tailed it from the lab, claws scrabbling against the floor tiles.

Bultungin took no notice, her four-footed clanmates oft evacuated when she was spinning. The ingredients mashed most pleasantly in the mortar and pestle, turning an ugly oil-color, black with twisting strands of purple and red, and smoking. She etched symbols into the metal, the concoction melting into the steel.

Now. Let sit for three days under a red silk kerchief soaked in alcohol. Yase.

Boss will be pleased.

All around the estate, things were calm. The night birds swooped, devouring the rodents skittering for safety. Soft wind touched the grounds, even the ghosts seemed subdued. The usual vibrant life of Hellwood was calmed, like their meditating master, echoing her silent focus. With the last of the fae-creatures blood purged from her system and their number in her rolodex, her mind had settled and the thought had continued to haunt her.

He had asked her the Question. The Question she had never thought of. That she should have thought of.

And so, the Question had been haunting her. Fifteen minutes of a conversation, and he had opened her eyes to the Question she didn’t even know that she had been looking for.

Father’s Question consumed her.

Father had spoken Truth to her, cut through her lies and told her the face of her soul, the things she hid from everyone, lied even to herself to keep it deep deep down away from the prying eyes of the Requiem. Things hidden so long she forgot she felt them.

He spoke of her hate for vampires and their stupidity, their incessant bickering, their sycophantic fawning over her for all the wrong reasons, their misunderstanding of her purpose. Their fear of her power. Of how she tried so hard to save them from themselves and the creatures that would destroy them. Of her dance in the Requiem, her endless boredom and the search for something she didn’t even know how to articulate. And he told her he couldn’t give her the answer, but he could tell her the Question.

Thus she was sitting on the back porch of the sprawling mansion of Hellwood, leaning back in the wrought iron furniture in the stillness of the night, soft breeze tickling gently the hairs on her arms. Thinking about the Question, and cutting through her own lies.

It was perhaps the greatest challenge she had ever faced.

She watched the stars, deep in contemplation.

Two weeks ago:

Papers and ink pens of all sorts lay strewn about the lavish office setting. Hardwood desk and shelves law beneath crumpled piles of rejected documents. Others were pinned to the walls, ideas and snippets of phrase, magazine clippings of single words that attracted the eye and cut to the hard of things pasted alongside. Thesauri and dictionary and books of law and prose law every where, some bookmarked and tabbed and dogearred and spine-broken.

In the middle of the ample space lay a giant of a woman. Supple limbs and soft tan skin and big brown doe eyes made up the visible parts, steel and ink and will and venom and wit and sex and roses and sweat made up the rest.

Currently, she was taking a highlighter and a pen to a copy or Robert's Rules of Order with a slightly distasteful expression, as well as kneeling on a three-set of books detailing Native American Tribal Governance prior 1800, one on Feudal society, and one on Republic Democracy.

Pursing her lips, she whistles, and a young woman - much shorter in stature than her employer - appears at the door to the study.

"I'm going to need more tea, Lydyan. A lot more tea."

Desire.

There's the familiar god-like glee in my chest. It feels like a ball of emotion, singing, screaming, shreiking, aggressive, laughing, euphoric, frightening. Power. It's what power feels like.

Like you can run for days.
Write until your fingers bleed.
Draw or paint or craft for hours on end.
Fuck until your partner begs for cessation.
Have the energy to dance until you break the dawn, then laugh off to breakfast.

Sheer crimson gold radiant warm energetic power trapped on the end of a fishline, writhing and shreiking and singing for all it's worth, yet unable to escape the meat and bone cage of my ribcage. And I fear to touch it and let it out; afraid of getting lost again in that boiling sea of euphoria.

I want to. Like a child wants to touch a flame. I want to touch it. I want to revel in it.

I'm restless.

I want.
I Want.

...I want.

-Hart, thought pattern on the rush of Glamour

The night was still stifling hot, and the breeze that rushed past did nothing to cool the sweat on the dealers' skin. They weren't supposed to be here, they knew. But it was too easy! No guards, no rez cops on this section of the indian town, and a bunch of gullible kids.

The group they had here was all middle school to junior high age, gullible fucking native brats listening to a smooth talking coyote turned dealer. Round bright eyes followed the lilt of his speil, and he thought he had them all, but when the offer came, there was only silence.

"We're not allowed." Said a little one, she couldn't be more than eight. Gustal grabbed her by the shirt front; he was always short on temper. Stupid fuck. He was going to lose us this take.

"What do you mean you're not allowed? Didn't you just hear Michael? Your parents would never know! You'd finally have some -real- fun!" He shook her gently, and she looked a little scared. Dammit Gustal.

And then I heard it. A tapping noise. Kind of like a click of wood on concrete, coming closer. It was footsteps. No... Hoofbeats? And then a low growl.

"No senior. Not our parents. Los Alces Carmesis. She eats bad boys and girls." The girl was looking past Gustal, further into the blackness of the alley. "You better go, senior. I think you're a bad, bad man."

Gustal dropped the kid, and the brats all scampered off as I looked further down the alley, searching out the noises. I was looking too low. The shape that stalked forward was huge, bigger than a normal man, antlers sprouting from it's brow and steam rising from it's shoulders and face.

Gustal barely made more than a grunt as the beast pinned him to the brick by his throat, pierced by the bone crown, gasping gurgles and a bubble of blood erupting from his throat as he was opened sternum to pelvis. The thing opened his ribcage with a snap and a bulging of muscles, and with a quick yank and a shake of it's head, dropped the torn remains and meaty chunks to the alley floor.

It turned, holding up the bloody dripping heart, pooling hot blood near it's hoofed feet.

"Never. Children." It forced the words out in a feral growl, an almost female vibration in it's hiss.

And then I was running. I never went back, and spread the warning. Never sell on the rez, never sell to children, or Los Alces Carmesis will get you, like all bad boys and girls.

I'm writing a timeline for Akuete from chronicle start to present (including plots, events, and files) by sorting through my last three years of files and emails. Eventually it will be in journal or WIKI format, but for now it will just be text.

If you have a scene or a plot or something you want to be remembered or added, comment it below. please include the date as well as can be reckoned, so I can include everything I can remember.

Needless to say, I have a lot of files and emails to go through.

ADD!

Yeah kid.

You probably have seen me before. You have the look of that lame ass Arthurian legend bullshit about you.

Lemme guess, your other outfit has a fluffy white ren shirt?

Thought so.

Do you remember back when you were taken? when you glimpsed some flash of white? something glorious? You saw the White Hart, and you chased it into the Hedge, didn't you. You're not the only one. Some saw a fair white-haired maiden. Some saw a White Buffalo. Same thing, really.

You all some something you -wanted-.
Something you -desired-.
And you chased it into the Hedge and into slavery.

That was me.

Ha! Hate me if you want to.
You won't be the first, nor will you be the last. We were all slaves, and you can carry that grudge throughout the rest of your life.
Or you can move on. Like me.

And I swear to you, I'm going to enjoy every minute of it.

So grab a drink, it's on the house. So's the hookers and blow. I'm free now, and so'er you. Why waste it?

Oh, yeah. Sorry.

My name's Hart, nice to meet you a second time.

Sighing, the Creole stretched, flexing her small hands and thin limbs to the extend of the reach, feeling the worn carpet through the thin fabric of her wifebeater. Her lower half was only coeverd by boxers, and their fabric was also light, sold for the comfort of the desert heat. Right now, however, the air was sticky with humidity, and it annoyed her after extended dryness.

She simply lay there on the floor of her living room, staring at the overcast night through the recess of her home's sky lights in the ceiling.

She felt the pleasant weight of gravity pressing down on all her limbs, making her feel at one with the floor.

She wiggled her bare brown toes.

She came to a conclusion.

"Jesus H. Fuck, am I ever bored..."

And so, knowing the large gatherings coming up in Atlanta, Cleveland, and New York, she put her idle hands and idle mind to work coming up with a solution to her boredom.

She smiled an imp's smile as the pieces began to connect themselves.

x-posted from my ooc LJ.

Dear persons, friends, and other creatures.

In the nicest way possible, fuck off.

I finally managed to get myself together over the last week and organize what I need to do with myself to become a happy, non-stressed, adult human being on my way to a job in the special effects field.

I need to find a house/apartment, I need to consolidate my student loans and debt, I need to close an outstanding bank account, I need to find car insurance and possibly register the car in AZ.

Because of these things, and the amount of time and dedication I will need for them, I will be unlikely to do art or ICLJs. So unlikely, in fact, that I don't want to hear /anything/ about owing anyone anything. I plan on doing one sewing project before SERE. That's it. I will be doing no other art or crafts for people besides me. Period. Don't ask about things I may have promised you or talked to you about in the past. No offense, but they are simply unimportant to me at this point in time.

I need to come first for me for once.

This also accords to cam stuff.

I realized I am not having fun in Requiem. I'm just not. I try desperately to get involved and get no-where, so I'm giving up. I may retire Akuete, I may not, but I'm fucking tired of being angry and frustrated over a goddamn character who everyone's trying so hard to keep out of plot or involvement. I'm tired of having to fight to do everything. There's limits to how much I can laugh it off.

Tess, Roo/Kevin/Rowan, Martin, Glen: I will gladly finish the scenes or background ties we need to take care of.

I am not opposed to people asking for scenes in the future, and I will happily be pulled aside at games or by locals (since I'd like to be involved on a local level for once, ChiKalb's No Escort Scene reminded me how much I miss being involved in things, even if just to watch.), but I am not willing to dedicate large amounts of computer time right now, when I will be spending it on ANST Forsaken stuff. This will make me cry, and be one of the hardest things I've ever done, because I -fucking adore- being involved on a national and global level and having a thousand ties all over the place.

However, my priority in Cam right now is ANST Forsaken and USCC stuff.

Thank you for this semi-state-of-the-Gillian address.

This has been a Public Service Announcement of the Gillian Public Broadcasting System.

i'm allergic to my cats. why do i have them? for moments like these.

they're sitting on my back, curled up on the aching msucles, producing body heat, vibration through purring, and massing with their little kneading feet. i have two tiny furry massueses...

edit- and i'm apperantly stoned enough on vicodin adn muscat that i posted this to my ic journal, and can't figure out how to delete it right now. but it found the edit button.

This game is life, you see.
Or unlife.
Swing swing swing at the ball. Hit it or not, it usually matters more that you tried, rather than standing staring at the oncoming missile like a jacklighted deer in a hunter's bright lamp.

Whiff, went the flailing branch. Which-whack, snicker-snak, like the vorpal blade of Jabberwock fame, but still just a stick. The small thin figure wandered throughout the falling leaves of the cemetery, stick clutched in her small hand, waving it left and right, brandished like a fierce sword at the falling leaves.

Walking the ball is just plain lame. Then you only go as far as the rules say.
Or you strike out.
And that's even worse. In this game, there really isn't a bench warmer...let alone a bench.

She swiped viscously at some of the falling leaves, marveling at how the desert looked like fall, but smelled like spring. It was February, and the leaves were just now collapsing from their branches, leaving the trees naked. She was barefoot, gravel and grass scratching at her small rough feet as she hopped ungainly through the land belonging to the dead. To any observers, it could be a child in jeans and an oversized sweatshirt heading back home.

I hate sports analogies. I'd rather just hit some of the Acolytes with a baseball or baseball bat.

The creole sat in the comfort of a squashy green couch arrayed in her living room, nic-nacs spread over the shelves and walls like so many baby scorpions on their mother's back. The fingers of one hand flew idly across the keys of her laptop while the other held a cool glass of thin lacrima, so like unto vodka this batch, to her lips.

She paused mid-swallow, and read more thoroughly the email that had just popped into her inbox. Eyes smoldering, she tapped a number into her cell and had the plane arrangements done in under ten minutes while the message "I'll be there an hour and fourty-five minutes before dawn. Have a car there." Making a mental note to tip the secretary quite well, the voodoun had her travel bag and Tanbo and was out the door before her half-full glass warmed.

She wrinkled her nose as the serpent curled it's warm scaly belly closer to her neck, and drummed her fingers against the steering wheel as she headed towards the airstrip. Sometimes, calls were urgent.

Smirking, the rail thin wisp of a young woman skittered quietly along the hallways of the ranch, past the study and the empty kitchen. Grabbing a cookie off the counter, the girl wrinkled her nose and continued padding towards the center of the U-shaped complex of buildings. Peering through the slick dark foliage and odd humidity around the hot spring, she saw and heard noone. At least, she didn't spot any humans, and didn't want to look for denziens of the other planes anyway. Creepy things.

Unfolding the wrinkled print off from her jeans pocket, she read it again, her face cracking into a broad, arrogant grin. Israfel took a deep breath as she started twirling herself around the area thick with plants, taking in the loamy smell of rich desert springs and wet sage and laughing. Soon, the sing song laughter took the form of words, and her celebratory dancing was to the tune of "I told you so! I told you so! I told you so!" interspersed with mad giggling.

Eventually she worked herself dizzy and collapsed onto her back, the broad grin still etched across her face. And Israfel did something she rarely did.

She spoke quietly, and swore. "S'all right Christian. That brainless bitch wasn't good enough for you anyway."

Eyes half closed, she drifted through the feelings and tang of a sea of blood. Laying flat on the giant stone sarcophagus, the rush of a thousand ties sent shivers down her spine. Stretching luxuriantly on the cold stone, her mind followed the branches along. She paused, smirking. These were unexpected. So much more useful...Very unexpected indeed.

Blood ran down her face from her ears and nose, landing on her lip and then dripping slowly to the floor. Still, she ignored the pain and pushed harder, the strain in her mind and blood approaching unbearable. The creole licked her lips and tasted the vitae. It was almost time.

She forced the heady vitae running through her body to her mind, and used it. She burned through the first of it, feeling the essence of it's intention run off her in waves.

The pain and stress washed away in a feeling of euphoria. She could feel them. So many of them.

She pushed farther and farther, tracing the bloody ties up and down and out over hundreds of strands. Broodmates. Cousins. Aunts and Uncles and Childer so far removed that they would never know who she was. She could feel them all.

And one by one, she could feel their confusion, their anger, their fear and surprise.

They could feel her too.

Akuete collapsed backwards onto the cold stone sarcophagus, laughter shaking her small form til her sides hurt.

Anything you can do, I can do better....

Dark clouds circulated around Hellwood, shifting in a nervous pattern across the electricity filled sky. Shocks skipped from could to could, full of energy, but never coming to a full storm head.

In her living room, stocked with knick-knacks and brik-a-brac out the wazoo, Akuete paced agitatedly past her squashy green couch and the huge sarcophagus. Open upon the sarcophagus was her laptop and a variety of papers. As well as a half empty bottle of kleren, and the wet spray arcing across the papers and sinking into the stone from where she had snorted and sprayed it.

She scooped up Daedelus, the homunculi that looked like a teddy bear whose jaw opened on 4 hinges down to his hind legs, and petted him, trying to calm her enflamed nerves. The creature cooed, knowing his mommy was disturbed as she paced the length of the room.

Thoughts tumbled through her head, not waiting for the previous one to form in coherancy before rushing in themselves.

He knows who I am.

He knows what city I live in.

She shivered, half in excitement of being chased again, half in trepidation. Her fingers soothed the creatures fur, and she rubbed behind his fuzzy ears.

And he knows I'll be in Las Vegas this weekend.

The petite creole wrinkled her nose, setting down the warped nightmare version of a child's toy gone wrong and absently watched him hobble off.

If they don't chase you after a couple hundred years, they don't chase you, my copper skinned ass! What is it with every joe-vampire I've met popping up to haunt me the last few years?

Akuete closed her eyes, flexed her fingers expirimetnally, and relaxed every muscle in her body. Focusing on each limb, each part, and letting every tension unwind. Her legs were crossed beneath her on the cold stone of one of the many rooms in the catacombs. In other places, water would have been dripping from the walls, but the bedrock and sandstone had none to give in the desert.

She focused all thoughts of the feelings of her family as her voice and hands and spattered blood worked through the Song of the Blood, and the sacred magic coursed through her veins and set her blood afire anew. There, beyond the edge of feeling, was the feather-light sensations of her family around the world.

Carefully, oh so painstakingly, she focused her superb senses on those feather-light touches, and pushed.

Nothing happened.

Perspiration would have dotted her brow, had the creole done a Flower earlier in the evening, but tonight was a night for practice. And she could practice with distractions later. The theory was right, she knew it in the very core of her being. Every god has stories of stealing from other gods, and she knew at her core that she could do the same.

Straining her mind and senses, she pushed again, searching for that sensation of euphoria, that little 'click' that would let her accomplish her goal.

It was there, it had to be. She'd find it if it took her a thousand years.

She growled, pushing harder. And felt a nudge.

Maybe it wouldn't take a thousand years....