WHAT'S A PRISON, IF NOT A HOME? THERE'S NEVER AN ESCAPE
( drew starkey / 30 / he/him ) how can someone fuck up so bad, and still be this desired? ROWAN ALISTAIR MARSHALL HAWTHORNE has mastered the art of being THE HEIR -- everyone hates him, but most still want him. is there a difference between a SOCIALITE and HEIR, and a HUNTER? What is an animal, and what is not? And does he not count as one?Â
real gold does not make feelings less real, it only dulls them out. emotions are still emotions, even if trapped in a box, shaken, and tossed. -- tw torture, violence, abuse, drugs and alcohol addiction
Even if the marble floors are polished and freshly cleaned, meeting them face first isn't the greatest experience he's ever had. Rowan's head is spinning, his thoughts running wild -- there's too many at once. I shouldn't have done this. I've gone too far.
"You need to stop with your fucking parties. You're ruining our reputation, and that's not living up to our expectations. Do you want to fuck things up, just like your brother?" His brother. Rowan's eye starts to twitch every time he's mentioned. The eldest, the most perfect, ruined within seconds -- the family disappointment, the black sheep. And suddenly all the attention switched from him, onto Rowan. He remembers the exact moment, just like he remembers the moment his father crashed one of his countless parties, and pushed him to the floor so hard he saw stars. Man up -- or so he's been telling himself.
"We caught him down in the cellar. Giving her water, and bread, and whatever else he gets his fingers on. He bribed the guards, Rowan." His mother's shaking voice, acting as if basic humanity was a war crime -- as if love in itself was one. "Where are the guards?", he briefly remembered asking, and his father shook his head. "Taken care of." "And Wren?" "Gone."
Rip the bandaid right off. Many words had followed, instructions, speeches, meetings. Rowan often found himself laying on various soft pieces of furniture, drunk out of his mind, drawing lines from the stomach of hot blondes, and brunettes. More power, also means more money. It means driving his Dad's Porsche around town every night, the girl changing weekly. He knows Wren's not gone. He sees him once -- in a grocery store, late at night. They catch each other, their worlds momentarily crashing into each other -- Rowan, secretly out with a guy, Wren, out with the witch he loves. Rowan doesn't say anything, doesn't speak. Wren tries to find words, panicking, and Rowan just shakes his head no -- "I've got it.", is the only thing Rowan says, over and over again.
But has he really got it? Every hour he spends in the ranger park feels like treading water. Hunt after hunt is what his parents go on -- run after run is what his life consists out of.
But there's one thing he'll never be able to escape of -- his name. And that is his most prominent problem.
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Maia didn't care about things like property lines, the land was older than she was and older than anyone on this planet. So she went where she wanted to just to explore the area. Maia loved being in new places because she loved exploring every inch of it. Thinking that only once she knew each place like the back of her hand could she feel like home. And frankly she never fully stayed in one place long enough to ever catch the feeling fully and it felt like a big part of her was missing.
She was deep in the woods when she ran across someone, knife in his mouth while he's bent down. Maia stopped a bit away, tilting her head in curiosity why someone else would be this far out this late at night. Her curiosity only piqued more when he spoke up to her. "Oh I'm sorry! I must have gotten turned around. I was following the path and then it got dark and I started freaking out." She said innocently even though none of that was the truth.
"You started freaking out, huh?" The woman didn't look very freaked out when she first appeared. "There are hella signs put up while our gate and fence are being worked on." It has been quite unfortunate for a few innocent souls that had dared to cross the borders, or had they even been innocent? His family hadn't asked. It had been the police, or different options, that he didn't want to elaborate amidst this situation. Slowly, he raises himself up from the ground. The blood has stopped pooling down his leg, but his camouflage pants are tinted dark red, anyway. The knife moves back into his hand and he twists it, before holding it behind his back, still suspicious of her true intentions.
"So, do you need any help being guarded back out there? Or do you have a car parked somewhere? A place nearby?" There's one question that he's burning to ask, "What are you doing out here this late and alone, anyway? The forest gets dangerous at night." Something is off, and Rowan wonders if he got himself into a situation he really shouldn't have gotten himself in after what went down at the masked ball. "Guess you were pretty fine on your own, huh?"
Starter for @hawth0rnes
Where: The streets
With: Rowan Hawthorne
Having been out later in the evening, which he enjoyed, seeing as not a whole lot of people were around. However, he had not been having the most delightful of eventing walks, tripping over something earlier and scuffing his elbow on a sidewalk as he was making his way home. He had never even seen what it was to begin with. Though he imagined he had kicked the thing out of view when it tripped him. Chalking down as simply being a rock or a stick. It really didn't matter. Lifting his arm up, he observed the scuffed piece of skin on his right elbow, âThat's going to leave a bruise.â Tutting lightly, he dropped his arm and shook it out, ignoring the pain as he sharply turned and then slammed into someone, tumbling back from them and landing on the ground, gasping lightly as he did.
Wincing a little bit he looked up, scrunching his face a bit, âMy bad-â He paused, blinking, staring up at Rowan, âHopefully I didn't hurt you with my body, I really need to watch where I'm going-â He then said, a smile forming over his lips, before suddenly pushing himself back up, popping back up, standing like it was nothing at all, he brushed himself off quickly. Then, reaching his right hand up, he absently, lightly, scratched at the side of his face. Harlow then pointed past the other, before starting to walk around Rowan. He glanced back a moment, saying, âHave a good night.â
Weird. Everything about the over was weird. He'd caught Rowan's attention before, so he had to admit. There was two different ways in which people could catch his attention, and it was either because they were smoking hot, or suspicious. Rowan figured Harlow was a mix, but more the latter. "What's going on with you?" His fingers wrap around the other's arm, stopping him in motion, "You look like you need a drink, mate, because what the hell was that." The dirty blonde nods in the direction of one of his favorite bars, shrugs and waves his wallet, which he just drew from his pocket. "Come on, drinks on me. I've seen you around before and always wanted to know your deal, so now's your chance."
As Rowan hates to think sometimes, he's the Hawthorne known to spend the most money on randoms on the street, may it be pretty people or true friends. Truly, he barely notices any influx in his bank accounts. His family makes the money right back. "One drink won't hurt you any more than that fall did."
The bump in has barely startled him, but his jaw twitches slightly, "Get drunk. Then you've got an excuse for not watching where you're going, man."
she's freaking the fuck out. it's written all over her face. tears in her widened eyes, downturned lips, and a whole lot of fidgeting... she can't help it. her brother used to tease her that she could never play poker. she always wore her heart on her sleeve and val's words from earlier are echoing in her mind. how valentine thinks that marlowe perceives her problems as worse than everyone else's and that she was all but begging for attention for it.
her hand freezes in an attempt to wipe her eyes when he whips around at the suggestion of the hospital. the rant about the averys, she understood, though she really didn't understand how a two family feud was still alive and well outside of a shakespearean play. in the next instant his hand is on hers. âyou can't tell me no hospitals and then say all of that blood is yours. christ, rowan! what if you need stitches? â despite her defiant words, she falls in step with him. he's sure to assuage her doubts anyway. he's pissed, but stoic in all of this and she's not sure she's happy about all of the strings she's currently unraveling.
when he mentions looking out for werewolves her heart skips a beat. the way he looks, the lights flashing off in the party and bright lightning strikes revealing multiple bodies and several others covered in blood? it wasn't a serial killer's wet dream or somebody that took the idea of a murder mystery party too far. rowan's saying monsters are real and her head is already spinning too much for the gravity of that to really settle in as she tries to keep up with his much longer strides in her heels, blue eyes now flashing into the alleyways they pass through. â you think a werewolf killed her?? i - i didn't see anything. it was so dark... and there was so much blood when i could see i -- â well, now she feels like an idiot for how she reacted. guess she's not a final girl in a horror movie.
the roar behind them echoing through the streets from the museum has her heart racing. as she whips her head to look behind them, her heel nearly catches in an uneven part of the sidewalk and she launches forward and nearly trips. after steading herself with her best attempt to not grab onto rowan because of his injury she still hasn't really lay her eyes on, she curses under her breath and mutters that she's fine. when he apologizes, they're already nearing her apartment and she's feeling both relieved and worried about it's proximity to the museum. â you don't need to apologize. let's just -- get inside and we can see how underwhelming my first aid kit really is. â she's compartmentalizing and repressing at the moment because this is already too overwhelming without letting herself sit and think about monsters being real for too long.
"Then i'll stitch myself up." His head is overflowing with emotions. Beneath rage and adrenaline, a minimal hint of fear starts rising inside of his chest. "It is nothing too bad. I think I have gotten stabbed, once or twice. It'll be alright, the knives didn't get too deep." it becomes clear that he is entirely used to this -- getting severely injured, running and patching himself right back up, no hospitals involved. Even clearer is that Rowan doesn't seem the slightest bit frightened about the violence and the pure brutality of the event. Almost like it is his day to day.
"No, I think it was a vampire." There's no reason to not be blatantly honest, but Rowan does hold her hand when he says it. "I hate to give it to them, but Werewolves are usually more in control of themselves, and if they are not, they bark like maniacs. Growl, and shit. This person didn't. They were quiet, sleek. Calm. Which I also hate to admit, but they were experienced. Likely some old motherfucker that went through a rage fit." Rowan realizes that it's likely all too much. That he's likely revealing some things that she's never heard about. Her words bring a smile to his lips, and when they scramble up the stairs in the dark and finally make it into the apartment, Rowan has calmed down. "I'm sorry for how fast this went down. I wish I would have taken more time saying the things I had to say."
Now, in the light, the damage is clear. A light stab in the shoulder, nothing dangerous, and a cut along his stomach, that he's lucky is not deeper. His shoulder is not oozing blood anymore, but the stomach wound is, and Rowan figures it needs some pressure and cleaning before being bandaged up. "I've got an emergency stitching packet and health kit in my blazer.", he admits. "Precautions I have to take. Marlowe, there's something I need to tell you." Rowan rubs the back of his neck, takes a deep breath, "But you can't tell anyone else. You can talk to Val about it, but no family members, no friends, no colleagues, no strangers. Okay?"
( @blacksheepfms
-- The Hawthorne Estate
late, in the evening )
The forest is quiet. The backyard of the Hawthornes stretches into their very own private part of it, full of dark trees, rivers and caves. Chairs and couches a spread on the porch, all around their large pool. His parents are out of town, most of the employees are inside, and Rowan is sprawled onto one of the couches, beer in one hand, sunglasses in his face and shirt unbuttoned, covering almost nothing of his chest. His swimming shorts are black and dried by now his eyes are focused on Nat. There's no music playing, just the sound of a nearby river running and the pool splashing slightly. Rowan's friends have already left, it's just him and Nat by now.
"So when we going on our next hunt?" In his state, Rowan likely shouldn't be back to hunting. His body is still bruised all over, his broken ribs barely healed, the slashes and wounds not even entirely closes up, the scars still fresh. But he misses it, desperately, the rush, the anger. "We should go on one together again. It's been a minute."
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( @blacksheepfms
-- the forest
late, in the middle of the night )
Pain ricochets through Rowan's right leg. His knife is tight between his teeth while he laces up his shoe again. Two hunts gone unsuccessful in one night. During his training phase, that meant terrible, gruesome tasks and training for the next few days. Rowan had grown older, fifteen years to be exact, and yet he still had those days where he felt like punishment would be logical for how much he was failing. But his senses don't disappoint him, and only seconds later he stands face to face with someone he has seen around before, but does not know the name of. Maia.
The knife in between his teeth does not tell much of a story. It's a usual hunting knife, paired with clothes that would be good for animal hunting, anyway. Rowan furrows his eyebrows, raises his body from the forest ground and straightens his back before slowly taking the knife out of his mouth. "Hey.", he greets the stranger, "Got lost in the woods? These are private grounds."
( @littlexhawthorne
-- hawthorne manor
late, in the evening )
If his head were a bowl of glass, it would be shattered into a thousand pieces now. Pain echoed through every single centimeter of his body, and it had done so for the last few days. The masked ball had been a nightmare. The days after had been a nightmare. The only small, blinking light under his constant blanket of darkness had been Marlowe. A girl who he should stop thinking about as soon as possible, but he couldn't. She just wouldn't leave his head, and Rowan had never hated anything as much before. Her face was torturing him, and while his heart urged him to let it feel good, to voluntarily think of her, his mind was trying to shut it all out.
Rowan had his face buried in Valentine's pillow, taking in the overpowering smell of perfume and freshly washed bedsheets, while simultaneously listening to Valentine talk about the outfit she was figuring out for the dinner with their parents. Those parents that barely spoke to him ever since the masked bill, given the state he appeared at their house after. Demolished by two vampires within a very short amount of time. Embarrassing, especially for a Hawthorne. "Wear that Chanel bag Dad got you last week.", he muttered into the pillow, "Looks nice with the rest of the fit." That he hadn't seen, but hey, what could go wrong, given the bag was white. "You done yet?"
she hadn't realized she was screaming until umi had grounded her. it had all happened so fast. the lights going out and losing rowan in the ensuing shuffle. someone had bumped into her and sent her flying across the tile and landing in something sticky. a substance she would have assumed to be champagne if it weren't so warm. the camera light of someone's cellphone will leave her with the haunting image of abby brewer's pale face and unblinking eyes above a torso covered in blood for months to come, she's sure. guess she'll never be joining her for that pilates class after all.
her new friend barely has gotten her off the floor and calmed her down before rowan's hand is gripped around her arm. her eyes land on the glint of the knife in his other hand, but the offer to get her the hell out of this place is music to his ears. so, she silently goes along at first, keeping pace with him as they are rushing down the stairs. â i-it's not my blood. i'm fine. i promise. it's abby's... and she's fucking dead rowan. she's dead. â
when they're outside, the moonlight's better at providing light to illuminate him. rowan hawthorne his suit now stained in blood and a feral look in his eyes she doesn't recognize... she's hardly ever seen him angry. but she trusts him, a hell of a lot more than she would trust anyone else in the carnage they have just left behind.
a shaky hand wipes at the tears staining her cheeks, likely spreading some of her former regular customer's blood across her cheek. there's no time for her emotions and thousand questions until they're out of the streets of westray at such a late hour. â could have used a warning that i would need to bring a knife to your fancy party. â the half-hearted rush of air that has to constitute as a chuckle in this moment sounds pathetic even to her own ears and does little to lighten her own mood as she had hoped.
â we aren't far from the cafe. we can go there. -- how much of that blood is yours? shit. maybe we can catch a cab to lakeview? â
"It's not my fucking party." Rowan does not want to be rough with her. He really does not want to be. But blood is pouring from a big gush in his arm and his chest is burning with anger. "This has to be the Avery's fault. It just has to be. God, how I hate these stupid fuckers." When Marlowe mentions Lakeview, Rowan whips around, "No hospitals, no cabs, no strangers. We're going to your apartment, our manor is too far away. Listen, Marlowe. I know this is a lot, but I will explain it once we're safe."
His hand wraps around hers and he intertwines their fingers. "All of it.", Rowan admits, "All of it is mine. I could barely see a fucking thing." Rowan draws her in the direction, "We need to watch out for Werewolves, yeah? You see a wolf, you bolt. I will fight them. No discussions, yeah? Just fucking run." He pauses, then. "You do know about... fuck it, yeah. You see an animal of all sorts, you just run. I'll take care of it." His fingers tighten around hers and he draws her with him, his heart beating faster than it should. "Did you see who did it? Your friend, who killed her. Did you see their face?"
Rowan knows he's a mess. He consumed too much champagne for his own good, the loss of blood is dizzying him and so is the adrenaline rush that has barely started subsiding. A roar echoes back from the museum and Rowan speeds up, draws Marlowe with him faster, pushing through his pain and his anxiety. "I'm sorry.", he says at some point, "This is a fucking mess. You shouldn't have found out like this. You shouldn't even know who I am."
( @peaceworn
-- lunar eclipse massacre
late, in the night )
"Marlowe." Rowan's hand grasps her arm in the dark when the slowly returning moonlight allows a glimpse onto her dress. He recognizes her immediately. His knife is drawn, there is blood on him that is not his, and in the weak light, Rowan does not look human any longer. He looks like a true, feral hunter. "We need to leave now. I have no fucking idea what's going on. Fuck." There's no chance he could drive. Too much champagne. So he just drags her in the direction of the safest part of the city, far from the Moonstone Museum.
"Are you okay?", he asks as they rush down the stairs in the dark, his hand still wrapped around her arm in a firm grip, "Are you hurt in any way? God, whoever did this will die, Marlowe. I swear. I will kill him with my very own hands if you are injured in the slightest." There's no need to look out for Val. She knows how to take care of herself. Knows how to defend herself properly, no matter how strong the beast may be. Marlowe, though. Not yet.
"Fuck." Realisation dooms, the slight fair that she might be repelled by seeing his true face. His true form, "Listen, I can explain."
( @faeriddled
-- The Lunar Eclipse Masked Ball
late, in the evening )
Champagne is flowing so fast that Rowan can barely say no before a fresh glass is poured for him. He tried. He really did try to stay sober tonight, but everything that is happening around him has brought him to fail. The weird conversations. Everyone behaving strangely. If he does not believe in one thing, then it is true magic -- but the full moon is making him think that maybe, it is really there.
His head starts hurting more and more and soon enough Rowan stops watching where he's going, until he bumps into a stranger, and almost spills champagne all over himself. "Shit.", Rowan starts cursing as the sticky liquid drips all over his hand, and he graciously saves his suit from getting all wet, too. "Watch where you're going, man.", he blurts out, "You almost got me all messed up, dude."
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( @peaceworn
-- The Lunar Eclipse Masked Ball
late, in the evening )
Camera lights are flashing, and Rowan knows they know it's him. Of course they do. He's one of the people that come the closest to being a celebrity in town, and he's a young, rich bachelor, who, for once in his life, appears with a woman in his arms. There have been occasions where some cute girls mingled with him during parties, but it's not like he brought them there. It's not like tonight -- with Marlowe. A silver flower is tucked into the pocket of his suit, matching her dress. A dress in which she looks gorgeous on.
His steady hand is wrapped around her waist until they reach the stairs, and then he holds it out for her to take, leading her upwards. He cannot deny it: His heart skips a little beat, watching her walk. "You look beautiful.", Rowan murmurs softly once they're inside, "I'm glad you came with me." As glad as he could be, expecting anger from his sister, and questions from many others, "Would you like something to drink?"
The chandeliers drip crystal tears across marble floors, their shimmer catching in the delicate threads of Valentineâs dress, a baroque dream in golden toile, sculpted to her body like the whisper of an ancient curse. Her gloved hands, embellished and expressive, flutter once at her sides as she sweeps through the museumâs grand atrium, her mask glinting with jeweled menace beneath the curve of her auburn curls.
The gala is decadent: murmured secrets, violins trembling through oil-slick air, and gowns that rustle like costly sins. Her entrance is a performance, of course. Every step curated, every glance barbed. Until-
Her gaze lands on them.
Rowan, polished in tailored perfection and a mask that conceals nothing from her. And beside him: Marlowe. In moonlit silver and too much proximity. Her best friend. Her brother. Together.
The flute in her hand doesnât waver, but her jaw sets.
Of course, he didnât tell her. Naturally, he presumed he could just⌠waltz in like that.
That deceitful son of a witch!
Valentine slices through the crowd like a blade ripping satin. Her pumps echo too sharply in her ears as she intercepts Rowan mid-conversation, lips parted in a smile that doesnât reach her eyes.
âMay I borrow my darling dear brother for a moment?â She mewls, not waiting for a response before curling her digits into his sleeve and dragging him toward an empty corridor lined with Roman busts and poor decisions.
Once theyâre out of earshot, the mask of poise drops just enough to bare a sliver of fang. Her voice is still soft. Thatâs the danger of it. âYou brought her?â Valentine hisses, eyes glittering through her mask. âNo heads-up. No warning. No goddamn common courtesy?â
She doesnât want to hurt Marlowe. Doesnât even blame her, not really. But Rowan? Rowan knows better. Or he should.
"I just brought her." Rowan saw the anger in Valentine's eyes the second she approached them, and while he tried to run off, he did not manage in time. Now Marlowe was left alone with all the hungry sharks, in the middle of a crowd full of creatures he would rather not leave her alone with. "She's just my company for the evening. Not more. I did not want to show up alone. She's wearing a mask, and they don't know her. They won't know who she is tomorrow." At least hopefully, they will not. Rowan will try to be sure of that.
"It's not like it's a date or something. She's your friend. I don't fuck your friends." Which, to be honest, is a lie. There was this girl called Lena? Or Lina? Or Marlene? a few years ago, and then a Stella, or Star, or whatever other name with S she could have had. But Marlowe is a different friend. She's not as posh, or as fancy as the other girls. She's so beautifully normal. Thing is, his father would rather marry him off to the richest man his age in town, than to a girl not worth a million at least.
"It's just one night, okay? We regularly do stuff together alone. I've known her for as long as you know her, remember?" Rowan rolls his eyes, "Can you chill out? We're adults, kay?"
He had been a little skeptical about showing up in town. Going back to the place where he used to live, growing up, and seeing how much things had changed. He had been in town for about six months now, keeping a low profile. The only comments in passing were about how he looked like his uncle. Sebastian watched the crowd. So far, he had managed to get by without much suspicion, and tonight as he was fully masked, no one seemed to really mind.
The only thing holding him back, the dull ache in his head. It felt like something was pressing against his skull. If he didnât know better, he would have guessed that death was coming for him again. In pursuit of trying to find answers, he took another look around. The mask was blocking out most of the light, but his heightened vision helped that.
He rubbed a gloved hand along his arm as he walked, trying to sense who was a supernatural, who was a human, or a hunter. He wished he knew better. Six months, Sebastian had gotten a pretty good idea of the town. Sitting back, observing, moving through town as a journalist. He nodded to the man next to him at the bar, ordering himself a whiskey, neat. "Evening," he drawled.
In a way, Rowan knew from the moment Sebastian sat down next to him at the bar. The aged mannerisms, the way to greet a person, the lack of recognization. Sebastian looking a little too much like his uncle. The Averys aversion against harming those that were innocent. Rowan figured that he could use his disguise to cause trouble -- trouble that his family was not keen on, and the Averys surely weren't, either. "Evening. What do I owe the late pleasure to?" Roughed up fingers traced the lines carved into the glass cup while he sat up straighter in his chair.
His company went astray for a moment, and that allows him to plot something up within seconds -- the new vampire clan in town has been causing havoc, and Rowan would like to return some chaos right back into their lap. "You're 'new' in town?", he asked, "You know, they might believe that, but I won't." Rowan took a sip of his own drink, "Once you've been here, you can't get the town out of you, can you. You grew up here." The liquor burns down his throat, but he enjoys the sensation. He may have promised countless of people to stay sober for the night, but who is he to keep a promise. "Right, Sebastian Avery?"
one thing she's grateful for since her return to westray is the hawthorne siblings. save for a small period where valentine was justifiably upset with her for returning to town without a word, it was almost like the three year ill-fated gap in their communication had never happened. any excuse to pretend that she hadn't plunged headfirst into a toxic situation is more than fine with her. the text earlier from rowan was met with excitement. she had many fond memories with him from their younger years. he may have never made her feel inferior without a powerful family name or abundance of wealth, but she found herself a lot more nervous getting ready for this than she did picking her outfit out for her dinner date with val the other night. maybe she'd had a bit of a best friend's brother crush growing up. could anyone really blame her?
so the sixty minutes had turned into sixty-two after two dress changes and careful attention to her under eye coverup. the soon to be fading sunlight glistens off the glass door to her apartment building, announcing her arrival. nothing ritzy or glamorous as what can be found in west view, but marlowe thinks she's done well for herself considering the financial ruin her blip in seattle left her in. nevertheless, the car of a hawthorne sticks out on her rather nondescript street. she's met with a bit of a cool breeze which makes her second guess the decision to not at least grab a cardigan on her way out the door for the spaghetti strapped dark jade silk dress she ultimately decided on.
an apologetic smile graces her soft berry lips as she approaches rowan leaning against his car. â sorry rowan! i hope you haven't been waiting too long. do i get to know where we're going for this fancy dinner yet? â
The moment Rowan catches sight of her being confronted with the fresh breeze, he lets his jacket slip of his shoulders, and places it around hers instead. His empty hand opens the door, the other hand secure on her lower back. "Nah. I haven't been. Come on in." Rowan waits until she's sitting, then he closes the door, walks around the car and sits down behind the wheel.
"You look pretty." A brief compliment, which had never been rare for him. He'd say nice things in between insults on the way to school -- sometimes mixed up. You look pretty, nerd. Like the dress, weirdo. Nowadays, he'd settled for compliments. Ones that could actually sound nice, that would not make him feel nervous about the way he'd be perceived as a potential softie. Some teenage boys he had been surrounded by back then had been a lot -- evil, violent, and mean. Unlike them, Rowan had outgrown that phase.
"There's a new restaurant in town, and they offer ice cream covered in hardened and crunchy caramel as a desert. I thought you would maybe like that." Rowan shrugs softly, "And they have a pasta on the menu I'd like to try. With mushrooms, ham, and veggies." When they stop at a red light, Rowan winks at her, "Dinner's on me, of course. You can order as much as you'd like. They have some rare wines you might like to try."
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The disgrace of their older brother snapped her reality as if a corset string. Suddenly, her glittery chaos was under scrutiny, and she despised being told to behave. But tonight, she and Rowan were expected to slip into something elegant and perform for the masses. Oh, joy
"Rowan, what color is your sui-"
The door creaks open with the slow elegance of someone whoâs used to being feared for arriving late. The soft click of heels, sinister little metronomes against the marble, pauses just past the threshold.
Valentine, perfectly composed in a silk robe the color of sin, lets her dark gaze sweep across the room as if sheâs sizing up a crime scene. "It smells like a pitstop bathroom in here."
She leans one shoulder against the doorframe, expression unreadable save for the cruel little arch of one brow. Her nose wrinkles ever so slightly. âYou look like a Picasso painting that got into a bar fight.â A pause, then a bright, theatrical smile. âAnd lost.â
Yet, though her words are acidic, a glimmer of concern flashes in her depths. "What on earth have you gotten yourself into?" Sure, Valentine could party like a 80s pornstar, but she also knew when to collect herself for a presentation.
"Hurry up, we need to get you cleaned up. And swiftly, we haven't much time to spare."
"Valentine." As much as Rowan hates to admit it, this moment is embarrassing him in the worst way possible. His darkest secret is dangerously close to being revealed to the person that matters to him the most -- his sister. "I'm not wearing a suit." A perfectly normal statement, were he referring to wearing something entirely else. Instead, he was still wearing barely anything. "Can you fix it?", another brief sentence, this time accompanied by his fingers pointing at his eye, bruised and slightly swollen. "With like, that fluid make-up stuff."
A few beats pass as he tries to steady himself, "I think I'm addicted." He does not specify to what, at first. In his eyes, it is quite clear. The mix of alcohol and coke he usually ingests are nothing but drugs tied to wealth, and often old money. Rowan hates all of it, and sometimes even wishes there had been no money at all. "I just don't know how to stop. How to be sober anymore. I simply don't want to be, you get me? Every time I am, I am just confronted with arguments, and my faults, and... whatever else they want to throw at me." They, as in their perfectly pristine parents.
Myles was on his night watch, keeping an eye on the forest, making sure there was no trouble happening or trouble lurking around. He moved slowly, observing the figure in the shadows. He typically knew the walk or movement, even the scent of most supernaturals. Humans, however, were more difficult to gauge. They were harder to keep up with, always changing. But he could tell this one was human just by the bow and arrow he was holding.
What he sees doesnât quite match what he smells, however. Still, he moved slowly until the humanâs voice rang in his ears. He raised an eyebrow and slowly moved out from behind the shadows he had been waiting in. He decided to wait a little more before speaking up. âJust walking. Taking a stroll,â he stepped forward and looked the younger man up and down. âYou looking for someone? Or something?â
"Nah, man, I'm just hanging out. Taking a break from that party." Not that he had ever attended that party. Most of the attendees were quite a bit younger than he was, but that meant nothing. He had younger siblings, and tons of younger cousins. Lots of excuses. And then there's the chance to lie, anyway. He had one knife left -- and if even he could smell the faint hint of blood nearby, then the other man, were he to be a supernatural, surely could too. Rowan had a few chances -- pray he was a human, and bolt. Attack him first, so that he would not loose.
"Taking a stroll in the middle of the night, huh?", Rowan raises his eyebrows, his hand resting in his pocket, fingers wrapped around the knife -- silver. Not quite as strong as metal, but deadly to werewolves. "My family's grounds start in a few hundred meters. If I were you I'd make sure not to walk too far."