» my feet are still sore, my back is on the fringes

[timewreck.livejournal.com]

Who: Kiden and Wanda
What: Morning's always awkward, this time for different reasons.
Where: Meson de Rouj
When: Morning after this
Warnings: EXTREME MOTHERING? /guitar solo

Waking up to an empty room the next day isn't something strange to Kiden who comes from a world that runs past the descriptor and smack dab into the area of no return. She assumes Laura has gone to stroll the city as she is wont to do and just shrugs off the weird feeling of being alone for the one that comes with waking up in a house full of people she doesn't know.

Padding downstairs barefoot and still in the too-big borrowed pajamas, she has all the intention of heading to the kitchen to figure out where the washer and dryer are and find her clothes. Her attention, however, is caught by the living room she didn't get much of a chance to explore last night. Kiden makes a quick turn and pokes around at the bookshelf, full of things she's never read before (not that she was much of a reader to begin with), then going for the pictures of people she's never seen before, and finally makes a stop at the fireplace where she bends down and sticks her head in, not because she suddenly has a death wish, but she always wondered what one looked like on the inside.

Hopefully, there is no Santa in Baedal who decides to come a month early.

I made wine from the lilac tree, put my heart in its recipe

[neverbreaks.livejournal.com]

Who: Jules and you
What: Booze! Feelings! Drowning sorrows is classy.
Where: A bar! You can pick what kind of bar if there's something in particular that'd be more ic for your dudes and ladies; Jules is familiarising herself with the city via the wonders of alcohol.
When: Givdi, Veerdi and Sukkadi (Thursday-Saturday) afternoons right through to the little hours. Just let me know~*~*~
Notes: :9 let us make cr and deliciousness! We can just go from any point of their drinking together, too - just do whatever tickles your fancy, really.
Warnings: Feelings, dark thoughts, etc. Possibly language. Possibly some violence, if a bar fight were to break out? Anything crops up, I'll edit it in.

It's been a long week. A long month, two months, however many hours and days and other little bunches of times have all clocked up to however long things have been utterly miserable for. And ever since she got here, Jules has been going on with her masks and her smiles, until this week things started to teeter and fall apart like a rusted-out engine.

She could work with car problems, though. This she didn't know how to work with, and she stares at the bottom of her glass as she swirls the deep red wine around it, accusing, as if it's meant to be telling her something and very thoroughly letting her down.

"I need another drink."

scorpions, frogs and teamwork: a true story

[fuckin_thirsty]

Who: Deacon Frost and Remy Lebeau
What: Because there's no 'I' in 'team'.
Where: Eliandre's temple in Griss Twist.
When: Two days after this.

They don't lock the doors, here, after dark. One of those places that understands its clientele and the needs of Baedal's citizenry. The dead don't have to worship death, necessarily, but they should at least feel at home.

Wooden doors engraved with justice scales are tested and pushed open by white hands. Inside, the light is kept with fire and electrical lamps that hang from bare rafters, and the space is wide, stone and wood, and there's the scent of dust and preserved hunting trophies - the heads of boars, deer, and even one dusty looking lion with glass eyes mount the walls. Wide windows, set with glass in defiance of the old world sensibilities, show in the nightlife city light, the artificial ambiance beamed off a cloudy sky in ghosting light pollution as opposed to genuine moonshine.

But that's alright too.

It's well after sunset, by now, and Deacon possibly seems out of place in expensively cut and fitted clothes, too much a businessman to be considered a hunter welcomed in this environment, or so appearances would have it seem. He doesn't light a cigarette, but he does absently toy with a silver lighter in jacket pocket as he roams in further, shiny shoes obtrusively sounding against the hard floor.