[identity profile] lslaw.livejournal.com
Sgt. Arthur Decker, Hertfordshire Constabulary. Died 28/09/08 in the line of duty, posthumously decorated for bravery.

Dr Solomon Crane. Died 27/09/08, GSW.

Andrew Peter Smith. Died 28/09/08, traumatic exsanguination.

Mr James Peach, civil servant. Died 28/09/08, suspected foul play.

Dr Julius van Helsing. Died 29/09/08, suicide by hanging. Police noted a scent of lavender in the room where he was found. He was believed to have murdered his housemate, Jayne Brookes, by strangulation.

Dr Janos Caligari, TV personality. Died 29/09/08, found in his home, bound and tortured by parties unknown.

Dominic St John Ragwick, NFA. Died 05/03/08, strangulation, 31/07/08, GSW, 21/08/08, RTA, 18/09/08, suicide, 29/09/08, drowning.

Sean Karellin, MI6 Analyst. Died 29/09/08, circumstances unreleased.

Unknown homeless man. Died 30/09/08, hit and run.


Haywalk, Wretched. Created 31/10/08.
[identity profile] yoda-ic.livejournal.com

It made him angry. The choler rose within him, part of him, enflaming his rage. The change in humors brought back memories of Winters - Winters made him like this; it was his fault he felt such rage, such agony.

The girl - she looked like Brae a bit - was knocked to the ground. Her friend - almost like Capricorn to his eyes - backed away slowly.

Rocker breathed deeply of the petrol fumes - the smell made him feel at home almost; he'd grown used to the smells of the open road. It was comforting, it felt right. He was travelling, always moving - such scents were a constant in his life.

The bullys - teenage thugs - disregarded him with a sneer. They didn't see a threat in his wiry frame - the clothes he wore put him beneath their notice except as an object of scorn. They'd come for him next, but they were busy now. Disquiet hadn't taken them yet.

Brae would want him to help. But Capricorn wouldn't want him to hurt them. She'd hated him for killing Winters, for finding an end to that pain. But she wasn't here - she didn't want to be his friend any more.

He ripped the hose from the petrol pump, letting the fuel spill out onto the floor. Tossing the leaking hose at the boys, he shrugged off his coat, letting it fall across Elaine's seat. Unholy strength pumped through his arms, but his was his sparking hands that drew their attention. Saturnine sparks surrounded his hands, arcing up his arms. The acrid smell of ozone surrounding him.

They blinked, unbelieving, and charged him, hating him, wanting to kill him, Disquiet in full force. He discharged the Torment-charged lightning gathering round his fists into them, the overwhelming charge stunning them, knocking them senseless to the petrol-soaked forecourt.

Stray sparks crackle round them, the ghost of his lightning - a brief pause before the air swells and the forecourt is ablaze, the leaking pump releasing more fuel for the fire. The girls run, frantic, and panicked staff yell for the pump to be switched off.

Rocker swings his leg over the bike again, Elaine's tyres screeching away from the flaming statio, as scared of the flames as those girls.

He doesn't look behind him, the orange glow highlighting his silhouette. He's returned to the road, seeking his place, his role, a harmony with the world.
[identity profile] lslaw.livejournal.com
Steel bends, stone breaks, clearing the way to the hole in the ground where the people crouch, up to their waists in water.

Punch scurries in and starts to help them out; Clay reaches down to take them from her. They are profuse in their thanks, although already the fear is in their eyes as the see the weight I'm bearing on my shoulders.

Once everyone is clear, I set my load - what's left of a wall - down. Already there are people running towards us; soldiers with guns.

This is the fourth time we've done this, or something like it, and I think it has to be the last. Too many soldiers now; too many humans and too many weapons, and I won't let Punch and Clay get hurt. Watching them, working with them, I haven't stopped missing Brae, but I've found something to fill the absence I feel each time I remember how far away she is.

Brae is in Egypt with Simcity. Rocker is in Scotland with the mountains.

I look over at Clay and Punch and tell them we have to go; the soldiers are almost here.

I'm the big brother now; I have to look after them.

And that's when I realise.

It's time to grow up.
[identity profile] akonken.livejournal.com
(Again, a combination of two requests: truth, strange, family, fury, beauty [given twice].)

You can see that she's upset, although there is no fury, no passion - a strange lack in a Galatean. She simply sits on the floor with her knees tucked up to her chin, staring at her feet. She looks forlorn, resigned - a perfect picture of these emotions. You could paint her like this and people would find her beauty more poignant than usual. Her heartbreak softens her.

Her throngmates - her family, if such a thing exists for these creatures - speak in the kitchen, but you can hear them. You can see that she can hear them too, but still she stares at the ground, unmoving and unmoved.

She has made her decision. You aren't sure which is the truth: is she simply unwilling to accept change, or is her throngmate somehow replaced?

Time will tell.
[identity profile] lslaw.livejournal.com
The deluge hammered at the castle, turning the stones slick. With an effort, the creator hauled the creation into place and lashed it down with chains. The cables were fixed to the electrodes and above it the storm raged; everything was ready.

The creator hung the tag around the creation's neck; a sort of joke, if not a terribly good one. It would carry a piece of the creator's spark, the old mind overwritten like a palimpsest. Simple, stupid even, but it would smell like the creator, drawing the pursuers off the trail.

As the storm gathered closer, the creator walked away from the creation. That was when the Pandoran attacked; a bestial quadruped, drooling venom, it breasted the castle wall at a run and sprang, carrying the creator over the precipice, a scream of furious defiance echoing into the night.

Lightning struck; a cold white serpent, writhing down the conductors and into the creation's liver. The body arched and twisted, bursting free of its chains in its birth spasms.
[identity profile] lslaw.livejournal.com
The caern was, they said, a marker; it showed where the Seer had done... something. They didn't know quite what he - or she - had come here to achieve, but they were pretty sure he - or she - had done it. They were also pretty certain that it was important that it had been done here.

So they gathered around it and poured their fire - the hot fire and the cold, black liquid flame - out over it and... nothing happened. It was only when they let the fire well up inside that they felt... something. It was a kind of exhaustion, mixed with exhilaration; like winning a race and being ready to run on.

Haywalk didn't know much about pilgrimage or caerns or the hot and cold flames, but he knew that feeling well enough. This caern might mean something, and studying it long enough might resolve something for those with the mind to understand it, but for Haywalk, the feeling was enough.

He strode swiftly down from the mountain with a spring in his step.
[identity profile] lslaw.livejournal.com
Over time the child grows...

Haywalk looked up from the book and lifted a hand in front of his face. He was keenly aware of his own body and he knew that it wasn't growing.

He put down the book and opened another.

This is the classroom, where we learn...

Haywalk looked around. He wasn't in a classroom, but was he learning?

Another book.

This is the playground, where we play...

Haywalk smiled. Now he was on more solid ground. He knew how to play, and if he could do that, perhaps he could learn and grow, and that was how he'd become a person.

He closed his eyes; reached out with his mind; found Punch.

He smiled.
[identity profile] lslaw.livejournal.com
He was strong, the brick broke easily beneath his bare fingers, but strength was not enough. He had offered protection to his family, but there was no safety to be found beneath his arm.

In his care, Punch had been burned.

In his care, Clay had been hurt.

In his care, Rocker had almost lost himself in rage.

In his care, Joseph had died.

A final stroke of his hand and the mark was completed. Something lasting, indelible, struck into the fabric of the building where Joseph was born.

As he leaped down from the building he felt the fire in his belly thicken and bubble up into his chest in a slow, black trickle.

And he knew he was older.
[identity profile] autumn-skald.livejournal.com
((OOC - This is snippets from conversations during the game at the National. It was just some nice RP so I thought I would share it. It is a bit emo, but then so is Marathon atm. Fenchurch and Work in Progress hopefully used alright, the comments were along the lines of what I remember from the game...))

Heart Sticks )
[identity profile] yoda-ic.livejournal.com
Rocker's been looking for a while, he's spent days on the road. His coat has a thin layer of damp dust clinging to its surfaces. A pink bandanna keeps his hair from his face as the bike roars, speeding along dangerously fast.

And yet, it's not rage that mars his face. The gloom has lifted from his features, and one might even dare to say that there was a smile creeping slowly onto his face. The air felt marvellously free, as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

The anger that had rules Rocker's life for as long as he could remember was lifting and he was looking for his throng-mate, for Brae, for her help in finding out what his new path should be. Behind him was tin, before him copper - but the road was malleable and could twist any number of ways without breaking. He hoped Brae would help him find the right way - she knows much more about these things than he does.


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