About Kevin/Markus (for _crimsonearth)

[akonken.livejournal.com]

He’s not aware of it (nor would I have him be; he’d harrumph and get flustered and awkward in front of the whole court, and we couldn’t have that), but I’m really rather fond of Father Callaghan.

Oh, I mock him for spending court time fiddling with maps, or his old-fashioned notions, but the truth is I admire his cleverness. His impatience with youthful Kindred makes me smile.

He’s a pointed contrast to Markus, who is always light-hearted and joyous, coming out with outrageously stupid remarks – and yet, who speaks several languages (although not as many as I, of course) and is generous to his friends.

Markus drives me to distraction with the moronic things he says sometimes, but I have a hard time not smiling at the same time. Part of me will always love him (which is true of all my former Domitors, making things exceedingly difficult at times), and part of me may always hate him. That part is very hate-filled, and projects that hate onto a large number of people, including myself.

I digress. But there you have it: my thoughts on the two most powerful members of my Domain, by Charlotte Foster, Unaligned Gangrel Harpy, of indeterminate age.

[Lost] Heartless' Ruminations on Grief

[dr-silverrose.livejournal.com]

Just a short Lost piece-- Requiem piece coming soon.

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I hate the cold (for elizathemekhet)

[akonken.livejournal.com]

I hate the cold.

I’m not alone! 75% of the people in this country hate the cold. They hate the heat, too. They hate the snow, they hate the rain, they hate when it’s too dry, they hate the long days because the sun’s up so early and the long nights because it’s dark when they leave work.

I love that. I don’t know why, but the fact that the majority of the people around me complain so much makes me like them more. We’re a grumpy bunch, the Brits.

Ok, technically I’m not British. I was born in Washington (well, Virginia, I think; I don’t remember, and I’m not going to go look it up just for this musing), but I’ve lived here for…6 years? Not including the time I was in what people here call “Arcadia” (and I call “the middle of a f*cking desert”), of course. Before that it was Russia, and before that Italy, and...before that it’s too long ago to remember.

I’ll never say “You think London’s cold? You should try Moscow” because really, that’s lame. It’s different kinds of cold anyway.

But I’m practically British. I hate the weather most of the time. I did my GCSEs. (I was going to do my A levels, but, you know, kidnapped.) I can hold my own in a conversation about football or the X-Factor if I need to.

This is where I belong. Here with the blustering wind, the rain, and the forecasts for snow. I could have moved 20 hours away (by car, by train, or by plane) instead of 20 miles away, but I didn’t.

This is my home. Even with the cold.

[Requiem] Itzel's Morning

[dr-silverrose.livejournal.com]

And now a small bit about Itzel, my very fluffy Dracul. ^_^
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Joshua's thoughts on leaving the Ministry

[nocturnalhippy.livejournal.com]

As requested by Akonken:

Capital letters are very important. As an eminent author once pointed out it makes the difference between talking about the end of life and the tall thin fellow with the shadowed face and the antiquated agricultural implement. The man in the mirror was still a stranger, like some half-forgotten holiday romance, familiar yet distant, another time and another place. He traced the lines of his mouth and found the stitches there, nothing much had changed it seemed, he was somewhat lesser somewhat more. No more a Scarecrow but always a patchwork man, an imitation of the real thing.

Little victories that was it, a chance to turn away from the path, to run amongst the wolves and for one brief moment to be free before tumbling down to the ground below. It was a fine fiction for a time, to think he had chosen this life for himself, enjoyed it even, but to do so would be to submit to accept the role thrust upon him. No more. Now he was his own person again, with all the horrors that entailed.

A mask would never serve for a face, no matter how finely crafted. It was a shell at best, a thing to be outgrown and discarded, but what then? Must he wait until the next convenient cage was found? He flexed his hand, felt the fingers twitch and the tiny whirr of gears. Had it been worth it? All the pain, all the soul searching that had lead him so far.
More than rag and bone, more than symbols and straw he was a construct of memory, a being of blood, sweat and tears. Joshua smiled his crooked smile he was, in his own twisted way, a self made man.