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Found 5 results

  1. Rorye Shannon-Kearney

    Words and Wax

    August 15th, 2020 9AM The Book of Kells Occult Shoppe and Tea House Graceful fingers lifted the match to her lips and she blew out the tiny flame. Attention watched the curl of smoke waft from the newly lit candles in the window and incense, scent of Nag Champa always one of her favorites to calm the room. Not that it was in need of calming, the tea house through the bi-level stairs bustling in it’s quiet murmur as usual- that was always moving but relaxed. This time of morning, the shop half was almost always empty and she could stock shelves and tidy books from the archival room in mostly solitary thought. Stick safely in its burner, she started to rearrange the glinting trinkets on the driftwood displays hanging in the front windows to either side of the door, pausing to wrap her hair around a fist and stick it up into a messy bun. The shopkeeper went through a full range of appearances lately it seemed. Hanging on more fondly to the semi-bohemian comfort than the ARMA needed tailored leather sheaths and clothing, her sandals, worn jeans and white linen shirt with red embroidery around the neck and sleeves made for a nicely lazy morning. Nina and Jesse were tending the tea house, and she… was on her own to enjoy what she did best, turning the sign in the front door to “OPEN” while sipping her coffee.
  2. Rorye Shannon-Kearney


    The Book of Kells; Tea, Reads and Occult Shoppe November 11th, 2019 4:30pm Gloved hands dusted themselves, well… more of a mucked crumble of somber and soggy dirt as it plinked to the ground. Breath curled mist into the twilight air, the sun lost in her protected small courtyard. Glow of the city had already started to light up the sky in its nightly throb. Quiet. She was surrounded by brick so old it had faded to orange, the garden completely shut off from the world. Her old Victorian perched comfortably within towering monstrosities, a reminder of bygone eras that held nostalgia for the opulent. Downstairs, a shop and teahouse. Upstairs, renovated to a thing of beauty she appreciated on a daily basis. Michael had purchased the building next to it, demolished the thing to give her the oasis she wanted, then built the teahouse as an extension to close it off. It was the only place she could go to be with her thoughts, and even that anymore was questionable. ++ “It’s an old bank,” her brow cocked at him, the helmet clicking off the zipper on her coat’s wrist. “It’s yours,” tall stature seemed fucking proud of himself, hands in his pockets, the Scottish drawl lost as he grinned at her and rocked back once on his Harley heels. She blinked, “it’s an old bank.” “C’mon… Bee? Imagination, we can make this work.” ++ Sigh was long, surveying the summer wares that were now covered for the winter. Back of her glove wiped a smear of dirt from her cheek. The large stone in the corner of the garden was always there. Overseeing her survival after the world died and her refusal of Hells to die with it; a fire had torn through, rebuilding again, renewed happiness and trust, dealing with her own change. Only recently had she the peace of mind to clear the grass away and make it a part of the garden proper; decoration the world thought it was, its Celtic Tree of Life engraved over the stone. Beneath, a grave and secrets. Secrets only she knew, and would ever know. Something she could not share. Not with anyone. ++ “You don’t have to follow your parents’ path anymore. You are NOT a factory worker… sewing fucking hoodies for every sports team on the planet?” Her glare was tight, “so you think you’re going to save me? I can’t accept this.” His fingers rifled red curls backward, then forward, sigh defeated… “stained glass… a café, you love to cook… books, beautiful things… a place where our friends can be. Not in a factory.” She didn’t know where her bubbling anger was coming from. The fact he thought she needed saving? How disappointed her parents were going to be? That she couldn’t afford a dream herself? “I don’t need a knight in shining armor, I'm not a child. I hope you got a good return policy. C’mon, I gotta go to work.” ++ Gloves slid off, banged together to get the rest of the mud off. It was rare anymore that Michael invaded her thoughts. She preferred it that way, there was a point when life moved on, the train of thought shutting the trickle of memories away as she stuffed the gloves in the back pockets of her low slung Levi’s. Arms fell to her sides, standing still a moment to take in the sky. The world was suddenly so quiet, thick haze pressing in from all sides. Full moon soon, the monthly gathering of the oddities of Hells most likely already in full swing inside. Darkness was only a bit off. ++ “I know you don’t… just…” his brows furled. “I just wanted to do something for you… you never let me do anything for you. Plus, we could live upstairs… it’s been renovated.” “Why would we live upstairs?” “Because I want you to marry me.” Her lips pursed curiously, and he captured them in one fell swoop. It stole her breath, reeling in fluttering thought. “Yes?” he smiled against her lips, the grin always a boyish charm. Laugh was soft as she nodded slowly at first, then definitively as her dark eyes glanced back at the building… “My dad is going to be so pissed… he’ll probably kill you.” ++ *npc* Rorye! She blinked, casting a glance over her shoulder, realizing Nina was trying to get her attention for half a minute. The older woman had come out the side door, apron still on. Her palms slid the chestnut curls that had escaped their loose plait off her cheeks. *npc* Your candle. Eyes questioned a moment, well-worn brown leather knee high riding boots clicking on the self-laid cobbles as she trotted toward the back door. She was moving quicker than news of a candle would seem logical. Poncho of thin, fine mulberry colored wool snapped when she pulled the door suddenly open and made her way with long strides through her workshop and into the store proper. Incense. Beautiful things… antiquery and twinkling crystals. The murmuring sound of customers chatting over eclectic and delicate teacups. None the wiser. Lit up like a beacon, the antique sconce was perched on top of a skull behind her counter. A skull with fangs. A parlor trick to everyone but Nina and herself. It always merely twinkled, the flame never going out; flickering to get her attention when she was troubled, or by herself stocking new items in the shop. Now? It was a blaze, lighting the room in an unusual glow. Eyes flicked to the teahouse up the stairs and through the archway, then back to the compact brass chamberstick. “Get ready to close the shutters, don’t alarm anyone yet,” voice was under her breath, already moving toward the twisting stairs that led upward to her living space in the turrets of the house. She made a beeline for her closet, poncho whipped off and tossed on her bed, snap of sheaths, buckles and leather sharp as she armed her blades, flicker out the window catching her attention. Braid flung at the turn on her heel. There were people on the roof across the street next door. There were never people on the roof next door. What the fuck were they doing? She owned the derelict building. It was locked up, ready for demolition. Door thrown open to her patio to take care of this bullshit, she stepped out, breath caught, a Celt raging to the surface like boiling water. Hairtriggered, sensitive… Jesus, the sky. Full moon, usually not for another hour. Trespassers on the roof forgotten, she was already on her way back to the shop. Kells had become the “place to be” for a full moon. They closed the shutters, people read in the shelter of the recently refurbished and barricaded building. This was not a normal full moon. She had no idea what the fuck this was. She’d never stopped moving, back through her living room, foot off the railing to leap downward to the landing, then kick off the wall to again bypass the stairs and hit the landing with a feline grace. “Nina, now!”
  3. Calista Burke


    September 4, 2019 11pm Bakkhos Club, to some shithole stripper dive Lights. They trailed against the blackness beyond even after spotted, the iridescent feathers caught in an intricate dance of irrevocable grace. Lithe muscles simply moved beyond a normal physique, beauty of a master ballerina twirled with the weightlessness of elegance in aerial flight. Bi-colored locks extended their curls with speed, relaxing at the gentle rallentando of motion to a cascade of spirals. The pause, hang time of complete silent nothingness before a crowded audience began a slow clap to build a heavy thunderous applause was the measure of a performance. Some silent moments were almost ten seconds, collective breath of a thousand souls caught in complete harmony in anticipation she would do something else… synchronized exhale as the lights changed and slippery silks were wound around a toned and tan thigh to release her to the stage floor. Gasp was palpable as she let go twenty feet up and the iridescent purples and green caught the light of the night raven’s wings as they snapped out. Delicate touch down was silent, as was her exit from the stage as the lights completely disappeared to the darkness of a black glow. No encore. None. Not even as the formidable sound of applause outside from the audience bled into the stage wings with pressing echo. It was always give them more, now it was let them buy another ticket. Lucky, Matteo... whoever the hell she reported to these days with chess pieces moving after the club disaster wouldn’t be pleased she left her tuxedo and evening gown fans wanting, but tonight.. truly.. she didn’t give a fuck. She didn't know Matteo well, and wasn't in the mood at the moment to care. Costume mistress was pulling pieces of her scant attire to place back on the racks as she walked, bottle of water in her hand per usual, towel wiping the sheen from her limbs, hair wound into her fist and wrapped into a pile on the top of her head with one of the sashes that was part of the costume covering her breasts. Behind the stage, nobody cared two shits. Everyone had seen almost every inch of her, besides, her hind-side was usually the point of most people’s attention. They weren't just a prop, muscles in her back moving in sync as the shimmering things lowered to dust across the floor like a black cape to keep from hitting shit. Elevator was waiting to take her up to the dressing halls near the top grid of the building. Tiger eyes were quiet, door to her dressing room closed just as silent. Black open back tee shirt was peeled on over an already naked torso, tied at the back of her waist per usual. The bottom of her scant costume was pulled off with a lift of her foot and a snap, laid over the back of her vanity chair as a knock preceded her dresser’s entrance. *npc* Car? “No,” the gorgeously timbred voice whispered. Just before. She’d learned just before stepping on stage. Black lace thong slipped up over hips, followed by low slung jeans. Window was pushed open, the barefoot superstar climbing onto the ledge from four stories up, it was raining- hard. In the dark the droves made the lights of the city fade in and out in waves. Stepping onto the grate of the fire escape, she was soaked within seconds, climbing onto the slick railing with impeccable balance to stand and survey the city in the midst of a thunderstorm… leaning forward to fall into the black. Speed increasing, cloak of shadow snapped open in a razor slice to arc water in every direction and create lift to cut between several buildings. Barefoot, the Meta sluiced through air within the storm, sliding after nearly a half hour on top of an impenetrable high rise. Pushing through glass double doors of a dark studio never locked, the intent artist pulled on boots with a slam of each heel and snap of wet denim over them. Breakaway holsters were snapped on her thighs as she dripped on the marble floor in heavy rivulets. Sheen of tiger’s eye flicked to the light leather jacket on a bar stool. She pulled it on, reaching behind her to buckle it at the base of her spine. Everything worked that way. Hammerfists checked in her pockets. Cell phone went off on the counter. The club. Fuck the club. Again into the rain, the hospital wasn’t far. It was a small one, in shit-storm central of the city. Too much lately, too much. The alley was almost flooded, the run-off rushing down the ramp to the bowels of the building circling a stinking drain. One knock on the door with no window under a flickering light got someone's attention, it opened a crack. He was a waif of a young man, but one she’d rather wished she didn’t know. He welcomed her in from the rain, a nonchalant shiver of feathers shaking the water off in a spray of droplets. She hated the walk. One door, two door, three… the stainless steel had a smell. Not cold or antiseptic, but barren. Devoid. A place where only things that didn’t exist lived before becoming nothing. The small door was opened, long tray pulled out with a smooth tug, moving to demurely fold back the white cloth that had been seeped slightly with red. She didn’t even need to see. She knew. The kid… no longer a kid, nineteen these days had seen so much darkness they were seasoned vets of a shit world. Lips pressed to a thin line, bubbling anger held in with a soft sigh. Bruises had turned to cuts had turned to this. A headliner in a hole-in-the-wall strip club, now on a slab. Someone was dealing these girls like money. Shifting them around to keep under the radar. Using them up until curb appeal was gone, then shipping them off someplace else to count money, then test product, then… this. A production line from stripper pole to death. Not Bakkhos business officially. It was her business. “You know what to do.” The young man nodded at her. He was her “in” to most deaths before they were sent to proper morgues, most likely be fired if anyone ever knew he was her contact. But, he also did the right thing. Handled the “lost” off to morgues with instructions from their “families” for burial. Otherwise, a pauper’s grave in a pine box with a number for a memorial, for nobody. She'd lost this round with the dark underbelly. They all hurt, but this one... hurt more. The Meta knew their names, and their stories, and she knew this one’s last address. She nodded at him once, a wet lock that had escaped the large wrapped bun tucked behind her ear as she left for the same door she’d come through. This was going to be a long, bloody night.
  4. Josef Carroll Boudreaux

    Ghost Ocean

    June 26th, 2019 Greenwood Cemetery, New York 3am The stairs were endless, nameless faces from every side making the trek up the steel fire escape a forbidden path. He wasn't supposed to know it existed. He wasn’t supposed to be there, he couldn’t make that path. He didn’t belong. Snow began to fly, hastening his travel up the stairs, coming to the top of a building that was built in a square, the courtyard below also square. No way in from any side, only a five story drop from his perch into the broken brick center. Windows lined the inside like portholes, nameless faces jeering at him, trapped in the building with no doors, in a square around an empty courtyard. Looking back, the stairs were gone, the wind and snow looming inward… he would jump, or he would be pushed. A powerful swell in his gut fluttered as he jumped, and the billow behind him commanding enough to squash the terror. Silence from the portholes. Feet landed with power in the middle of the emptiness, looking upward at the building that now surrounded him… the portholes of faces reverent to the ethereal wings of light that had billowed a parachute and then tucked once toward him as he turned to cast eyes on the objects that had saved him from death. Gone as he turned, a doorway behind him that hadn’t been there before. Doorless and dark. He stepped through, rows of red velvet seats arching downward toward a stage. A man sat smack center of the seating- pale, sickly, resting in the chair with indifference. The stage was busting with life, café tables full of characters from everywhere, acknowledging him softly as he walked up the steps to the stage. Red curtain closed behind him. He paused, then sat at a table in the center. To his left, a woman tattooing into a shadow, eyes and stringy fronds of several peacock feathers stuck to her right forearm like decorations, twitching as the machine buzzed it’s ink. In front of her, unrecognizable- a burnt face wearing old western movie racist stereotype First Nation clothing, the figure getting up and offering everyone a nip from a whisky canteen. To his right in the corner shadows, stalls… bathroom?… blood on the walls, suits and old men with white hair. Small pieces of red tape in a circle on the black-washed pine stage floor. A man pied-pipering students in a music lesson. His glance away and back was brief… now green tape in different shapes, a woman and new children. Behind as he dared look over his right shoulder, a hallway… dark, nothing… brought back to the curtain in front of him by chatter and excitement; the cast of characters peeking out through a small part in the curtain to the audience. The sickly man in the seat still alone. Whispers of his fate. Would he join their stage party? Small flakes of snow had sprinkled the red velvet seats from the doorway he’d entered. It was spilling in, rivers of drifts creeping closer and closer to the stage... closer to the sickly man catching all their attention. Then he was gone. His fate? Not their stage. The slight part of the curtains closed, and all went back about their business. “You are not supposed to be here.” He looked up with hazel eyes, twinkle of gris-gris on his wrist. A large woman hovered over him in his small café chair, setting down an iridescent pink mother of pearl plate, the four corners decorated with white pearls that were crumbling apart. “Tell her,” a voice was commanding. Brows furled, looking from the woman to a man with white hair now sitting at his table to his right where there had been none before. Tan shirt with tiny white pinstripes and khakis, a thick almost undetectable gray and snow white shock of luxe hair. He placed another plate on top of the woman's broken one. Identical and perfect. “She looks for diamonds. Diamonds to fix it.” Eyes under snow white hair were hollow, never looking into the hazel that now stared at him quizzically. “To put it back together. She doesn’t need to shrine to me. Tell her I’m there, I give her signs.” The man swiped the back of his neck to indicate the tickle he would give whomever he spoke of, whoever was the recipient of the need to know he was there. Black eyes fell to the stack of broken and perfect plates. “I would have given her a better one.” “You are not supposed to be here,” it was the large frizzy gray haired woman again, looking straight into the hazel eyes and then the black hallways everyone was avoiding. He got up, moving in the opposite direction toward the curtains, parting to step back into the audience seating. It was buried, sand dune-like never-ending drifts of snow. Impassible. Jumping in, a tiny path parted as he pushed through at first, then walked…beyond into a sea of white and fierce blizzard. Finally, yellow grass…a road… a twinkle of glass and silence from the howl of wind. Body jerked awake, the twinkle of a bottle as his fingers had unconsciously let go in a buzzed doze pulling him from his often rampant, metaphoric dreams. His nanny said he was a sensitive. He just thought he drank too much. He leaned his head back, the angel above him on the mausoleum steps he’d perched on still swathed in darkness even though the east horizon throbbed with a pale blue light to chase away the depths of black everywhere else. That was fucking good bourbon, bottle was lifted to check the name again. Never heard of it before, and he'd heard of everything. The magus stretched, gris-gris twinkling at his wrist, reaching to rub the other around his neck between his tailored suit shirt and collarbone with his thumb. The jazz, had been someone good. Finally. Bourbon even better. Left sometime after 2am for home. Too drunk to drive. The cemetery was now his friend, it was always the nightcap that kept his sanity intact. Others might see him unusual. The Cajun was far from ordinary, but definitely sane… to most anyway. His dreams though, with the world the way it was could never be wholly believed or dismissed. He couldn’t tell her the message that the "ghost" in his odd dreams wanted her to know, she was also dead, and he knew the man would have "given her a better one". It wasn’t the first time he dreamt of his father, or his father's need to give his mother the best of everything, but it was the first time the dictator had mentioned his mother. They were never in love. Ever. The rich could never be in love, it was marriage of dynasties. Dynasties gave their own the best of everything, because that's what kings and queens of did. Interesting change in his often strange dreams, his father mentioning his mother. The plates recognized as the ones he'd broken as a child. The shrine? His mother had taken his father's things after his death and tried to "fix them", "like he would have wanted". She was lost without him, not because she loved him, but because she was always searching for his love even in his death. The gesture to the back of his neck? He was stumped on that one. Getting up, he shrugged off his jacket and lifted his bottle, tapping the nearest headstone and clinking a few bits of change down near the gate on the mausoleum he’d spent the night sitting and leaning against. 5am maybe? Feet hit the cobbled path as he made his way through the thick cemetery, on his way home. Car was close, and he was sober enough now to make it home.
  5. Kai Alexander Morgan

    At What Cost?

    Attention was on his surroundings, listening quietly to the rather excited upstart realtor that was no doubt trying in earnest to put the world back together, or at least render it to a lull normalcy. The Were had other plans for this building, smiling softly at her with the casual quirk to the left side of his lips that made her eyes twinkle at him. The compact, neatly dressed, bubbly young woman pressed multiple numbers on a keypad, the door to the lower level releasing with a rather loud click. She illuminated the steps downward, explaining there were private security elevators that once were used to enter the vaults below. It smelled like metal, a strong and penetrating scent that quivered a muscle in his cheek. The thought process was the last one he would ever consider, or would have ever considered until now. There was never any question he had to remove himself from the general population every moon. It was different now, the world complicated. Mrs. Kolcheck. Mack. There were times he could not leave. He could still function during the day, but it was a struggle. It had occurred to him that forced socialization during days he normally just allowed himself to rest in solitude could pick away at his level of control. He would just have to learn to keep himself stable. Nodding to her lengthy explanations, pointing out each vault that were once used for safety deposit boxes and incredibly rare artifacts as well as the two main lock-ups, she was trying really hard to sell him the place. He let her, the decision was already made. He’d looked at banks, other museums and even libraries. Libraries simply did not have the security to maintain a full throttle Were in kill mode. Even their highly secured special collections areas didn’t have the wall capacity. Banks didn’t have the open space he wanted. This one however, a small museum gallery that specialized in the showing, storage and sale of rare jewelry and gems… it was perfect. The main floor above could be transformed into his studio for his classes, an entire office area in the back with a private entrance for his practice. The lower level was his, even had the capacity to entertain several Weres at a time. Take out the boxes and there were five metal rooms that could withstand an explosion. She flipped through her small notepad and punched the keypad for the largest in the corner, struggling to swing the several foot thick circular door open. Smile was easy as his hands slid from his creased khaki pockets and helped her, then stepped inside. This was what it had come to, air pulled into his lungs at the empty coffin of steel. Imprisoning himself. There were precautions to be had. The Vanguard wasn’t stupid. Vaults were a prime place for a Were to hide in plain sight. It would take work to shut off the lower levels and only allow access to himself. [kai]Who has access to these panels?[/kai] warm voice hummed in his chest, the comforting quality one that hid the horrible thing he was. *npc* “Whoever purchases the property. They can be changed to suit.” He nodded thoughtfully, hands sliding back in the pockets of his suit pants as he turned and nodded to her, [kai]I’ll take it.[/kai]


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