the wailing woman

It was open mic at the Earl of Camden and, with much pressuring from his roommates, Oz decided to sign up. That had been before Xander had killed Sabine’s link, a human, to keep them all safe. Oz didn’t want to go anymore, but he had been in the house with Xander for a couple days straight and Xander insisted he leave the house. Peyton promised to stay with him and his friend probably needed a break from him anyway. Oz had practically been smothering him since he got back to the house that night. Smothering. Bad choice of words.

All the stress about Sabine and what had happened felt like it should have been over, but it wasn’t. It always felt like it would melt away once the threat was gone, that they’d be given time to breathe, but always seemed to take a worse toll each time. The stress from everything else and his thoughts being elsewhere made it easier for the stage jitters to be ignored as he got up on stage, acoustic guitar in hand. He sat on the stool in front of the mic and spotlight and strummed a chord before starting without speaking. 

Oz began strumming, his fingers luckily doing the work without his mind focusing on them. Muscle memory was a hell of a thing in music. He played the first few chords before he started singing. Vocals had never been Oz’s strong suit, although he sang a lot of back up in Dingoes. He just never felt like his voice was strong enough to carry a tune alone. But that night, Oz was filled with emotion and needed to say something, even if it was only the words someone else had written. 

He started the chorus to Blackbird by the Beatles. Oz funneled everything he was feeling, confusion, frustration, sadness, concern, empathy and hopelessness into the words, the verses, the notes. He felt it all being pulled from him like a thread, unravelling an entire garment with just one tug. Slowly, Oz felt more and more at peace, until his last strum. The song had taken it all from him and he felt empty, which was more pleasant than anything he had felt in days, possibly months. He knew it would come flooding back to him when he returned home, but for now, he was free. 

Oz…. Oz? Oz Oz Oz. The name sounded so familiar yet Taylor couldn’t quite put her finger on where she knew the guy from. As he made his way onto the stage with his acoustic guitar, she almost shouted out, “Aha!” when she remembered where she knew him from, but with the silence that had fell upon the room, she bit her lip gently and kept quiet. Oz from the internet! They had chatted about a week ago online about music and instruments and whatnot, and he had been the one to recommend the Earl of Camden. She had finally decided to check out the place, and had planned on maybe just having a drink here then doing a pub crawl, but now that she knew someone here (well, sort of knew), maybe she’d stick around a little longer. She loved meeting other musicians, and from what she could tell from their brief conversation online, Oz seemed like a chill guy that she could see herself hanging out with.

The first chords to “Blackbird” by the Beatles cut through the lingering silence like a knife, and when he started to sing, Taylor could feel the emotion in not only his face, but in his voice. There was something so raw about the performance that she felt like he was telling so much more with the lyrics and music, and in that moment she felt a sort of sadness washing over her. Standing in front of her on stage was a man that has clearly been through a lot in his life, and he was making it apparent as he laid his heart out for everyone at the Earl to see. Glancing around at the faces of the people in the crowd, she could see that they too were mesmerized by Oz’s stage presence. Smiling to herself, Taylor turned around to grab a drink at the bar, finding a few empty barstools towards the middle where she could still have a good view of the stage. Taking a seat she ordered a whiskey on the rocks, gesturing to the bartender that she wanted to keep her tab open as he poured her some of the top shelf liquor into a round glass with a few cubes of ice.

Taking the drink from the bartender, she took her first sip, savoring the taste of the malt liquor, allowing it to swirl around her tongue before swallowing. It had been a while since she’d had good quality whiskey, and this was exceptional. Turning in her seat to face the stage, she saw that Oz had just set his guitar down, and she joined in the applause of the crowd around her, careful not to spill her drink. He disappeared off the stage and to her surprise, appeared again to her right, taking the seat next to her as some guy told him to take a shot. Leaning back into the bar, Taylor bobbed her head to the music as the next person had already taken the stage, their fingers flying over piano keys. She waited a moment for Oz to take his shot before she said anything, a genuine smile on her lips.

There are countless other dimensions in existence filled with anything that the imagination can dream up. From endless expanses of sand to a dimension inhabited by nothing but shrimp, it should come as no surprise that there is a dimension dedicated to the sinfully delightful pastime of gambling. With an assortment of dimensional traveling demons as well as various others who might be lucky enough to come along for the ride, K’otai is known for being the demonic place to go for anyone who really knows how to enjoy themselves. While it’s always a killer time, often literally, there is one special occasion that comes every century where the stakes and entertainment are truly beyond comparison. 

A battle to the death between 24 various contenders. Four species in teams of six are sent into the dimension. The arena is a desert island with some forest coverage further away from the shoreline; dangerous demon species (and the occasional helpful one) prowl both the land and sea, picking off the contenders one by one if they don’t get to it themselves. The prize is survival, and the cost is far worse than death: the three opposing teams not only lose their lives, but the K’otain hosts provide extra incentive by completely annihilating the dimensions where the losing teams come from. Individuals are not provided with any food, or weapons; all they have are the things that were on them when they were sent to K’otai, and a communication device.

About the communicator: The communication device allows only the six individuals on the same team to talk to each other either vocally or through text. The game show host is able to listen in and air voice recordings on Channel K’otai for home-viewers, and may occasionally use it to reach everyone at once. During the course of this POTW, the blogs of the following people will be functioning as their communicators. While everyone is obviously welcome to like the posts and make OOC comments, it is only the other five people on the team who are able to “see” the actual posts and respond/act accordingly. 

The lucky contenders:

Freya Kerry

Tess Groves

Rhiannon MacDonagh

Valerie Prichard 

James Galloway

Mallory Mears

Opponent teams:

Brachen demons

Varell

Snake-Eaters

Demons that could be encountered:

Ap-Luachra

Formicabrute

Illuberis Fern

Mitsukurifera

Puca

Siren

Terevi Mite

Vishiruda 

Hydra (A smaller one is said to inhabit a cove on the island)

“Um… Coffee is fine. Black.”

That much, he could do. “We have that in common, then. I come from a tea-drinking family and work environment. My other job, not this one,” he added quickly, setting the coffee-maker to fill a new batch. It was easier, to fill the air with small talk, distract oneself with the mundane. They couldn’t keep going, but for the moment, he simply needed to build her trust. He needed her to feel safe, and judging from her body language and mannerisms, few people had made her feel that, recently. It was likely that she hadn’t allowed them to. Something had awakened within her. Something frightening. Something dark, at least to the untrained and nervous eye. “You’re lucky Cordelia’s not in today. At least, for the coffee. If we’re judging this meeting based on social skills, you’re probably unlucky, actually.”

Wesley flashed Taylor a self-deprecating smile as he handed her the fresh mug of coffee. Holding his own as he reclaimed the position behind his desk. Angel’s desk. Did it matter, truly? Considering that damned vampire’s current state of mind, perhaps Taylor wasn’t as socially unfortunate as he’d first thought. Fred or Oz or Faith would likely be better, but at least he wasn’t dead last. How fortunate for her. “I’m guessing you understand exactly what it is we do, here?” he asked after a moment, eyes lowering to study his cup as he took the first mouthful. The mundane was a thing of the last, now, both in this conversation, and probably in Taylor’s life. “We investigate the supernatural. Maintain secrecy, protect those who need our protection, educate those who require education.” Probably better not to mention the parts about killing demons and vampires just yet. Wouldn’t want to spook the girl, especially if that was what she thought she was. Given how quickly she’d wanted to run out that door, throwing in the ‘well we only kill the dangerous ones’ afterthought wasn’t going to do much good.

But now that she was here, and even though the atmosphere was welcoming and Wesley was kind, Taylor still had a sinking feeling that she shouldn’t have come. She was obviously scared; I mean who wouldn’t be? She felt like she was about to plunge into the world of the unknown, and that is what frightened her more than anything. Once again, it was Wesley’s words that pulled her from her sort of daydream, just some small talk to fill the awkward silence that threatened to come about if he didn’t keep talking.

“You’re lucky Cordelia’s not in today. At least, for the coffee. If we’re judging this meeting based on social skills, you’re probably unlucky, actually.”

At that, Taylor could not help but smile at his little jab towards his fellow coworker, and with his endearing tone, she could tell that he was also fond of this Cordelia person. He had her cup of coffee in his hand and before he sat down in the large spinny chair across the desk from her, he extended his arm to give her the cup. She nodded before taking the cup, replying with a jesting smirk, “Thanks. And I’m not too picky when it comes to coffee. I’m sure I’ve had worse than Cordelia’s. As long as there’s caffeine involved, count me in.”

She was starting to ramble, which was a habit of hers when she was nervous. She knew that the filler small talk couldn’t last forever, and that she would eventually have to spill. It’s not like she was being held for interrogation or something; she had brought this upon herself. If it wasn’t for Wesley getting down to business, Taylor had to admit that she probably would have never gotten to the point.

“I’m guessing you understand exactly what it is we do, here?”

How would, “I heard you deal with weird shit” sound in a casual conversation? Pursing her lips gently, she offered Wesley a sort of unsure nod but still didn’t say anything, allowing him to press on.

“We investigate the supernatural. Maintain secrecy, protect those who need our protection, educate those who require education.”

Bingo. Supernatural. Like the TV show that everyone kept going on about, except she had never gotten into it herself.

"You strike me as a mix of the last two," he said with a sad smile. "I’ve seen it before… Probably too many times, but you aren’t alone, Taylor. You don’t have to be. What’s wrong?"

What’s wrong? Everything was wrong. She was broke. She had dropped everything she had to move to a country on the other side of the world. She was running out of clothes to wear. Oh, and she was responsible for killing a bunch of people at the show that was supposed to change her life, but no big deal. It sure as hell changed her life but not in the way she had intended it to. But, she figured that the man in front of her wasn’t too interested in hearing her bitch and moan about her financial issues and lack of a wardrobe, so she took a deep breath before beginning to retell the story of the Rockwood night for the first time ever.

She began with how big the show was supposed to be. She told him about how it started off fanfuckingtastic, then she hesitated a moment before telling him about the man in the blue shirt. And then for the big finale, she ended it with the wailing part, in which she tried to describe it to him and imitate it in a less eardrum shattering way. (“It was sorta like a, ‘eeeeeaaahHHHHhHh… hhhh….ah’ but more, you know, shrill and stuff.”) After she finished with seeing the man in the blue shirt get hit by a car outside of the Rockwood, Taylor grew quiet and stared down at her hands again before peeking up at Wesley through the curtain of her hair that had fallen in front of her face, her voice meek and shaky.

“Hi. Er, I mean, hello. I—I’m Taylor. Um…”

Wesley straightened. Female, twenty-something, scared half to death but… not a present danger of the immediate, big and growling sort. Something more distant, a threat that was always there and yet not always there. Confusion. The look of a person who was lost. It was incredible how easily those instincts came back to him, in spite of how bloody long it had been since he properly worked the front desk. “Please, come in.” He probably didn’t have much of a comforting look about him, three nights’ worth of lost sleep under his eyes, facial hair growth not entirely neat and orderly, as it once might have been, stacks of books on Grim Reapers surrounding him… He put on his best non-threatening guise and gestured for her to take a seat. He recalled a time when that hadn’t taken an effort, when he had been friendly and gentle and kind without ever having to try. Had it been necessary, for strength to equal hardness? Apparently, his acting hadn’t been good enough.

Blinking nervously, she shook her head before pasting a smile on her face, turning around to walk right back out the door. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come here.”

The doorknob was almost in her grasp when the rugged man’s voice pulled her out of her trance and stopped her in her tracks.

"Wait."

Her hand was still outstretched towards the knob, lingering in the air as she contemplated whether or not to cooperate, or to ignore the man completely and just walk out, forgetting any of this ever happened.

“Please, come in. There’s no need to be alarmed or frightened. Whatever’s troubling you… Odds are we’ve dealt with worse. You don’t have to go through it alone. That’s why we’re here.”

She gradually lowered her hand to her side, swallowing the lump that had formed in her throat, turning slowly to face him, her gaze averted on the floor in front of her. His words were convincing and she found herself welcoming them, a sort of relief washing over her momentarily before she realized that she was actually doing this. Her palms were starting to sweat and she was pretty sure that her face was probably beet red, judging by how hot it felt.

“Why don’t we start with something easy, Taylor? I’m Wesley. Do you prefer coffee, or tea?”

Somehow she managed to find the courage to meet Wesley’s eyes and when she finally did, she felt slightly better already. His eyes were kind and gentle and although his demeanor was weathered like he had been through so much, she could tell that there was genuineness about him. She’d always been good at reading people, and from the few minutes that she had been inside Angel Investigations, she felt like this man was trustworthy. Wandering hesitantly towards one of the chairs in front of him, Taylor settled into the one directly in the middle of the front desk, folding her hands together in her lap.

“Um... Coffee is fine. Black.” She allowed a shy smile to grace her lips before remembering her manners and adding quickly, “Thanks.”

Skye