#blckflme

Lena's footsteps halt when she sees the  figure  near the doorwell to the  caster tunnels  in the city.   Her head tips to the side as she watches them, slowly starting to walk toward the stranger, her arms crossed over her frame.   She doesn't feel it, any sort of  otherness.   There's no magickal energy surrounding them unlike how it usually would when she's with fellow casters and other creatures.   They're a mortal.   As she gets closer to them, she sees that the figure is a man.   Her brows raise, suspicious and a little annoyed.   She can't exactly go into the doorwell with a mortal watching her.   “   Are you lost or something?   ”   She asks, approaching carefully.   “   Maybe I can help you find your way.   ”   Far, far away from here,   she doesn't say.

the silence lasted for well over a minute as she tried to gather her thoughts together. "which part?" she starts as a nervous smile appears on her face. "the witch part? or the weird curse over my family?" ever since leaving mystic falls she'd done her best to ignore everything that came with magic, including the terrible curse looming over her head. however, anyone trying to stay away from everything supernatural knew that would be an impossible cause. "listen, this doesn't change anything else you know about me. i'm still the same person that i was before tonight."

if i mind? as if!!! now, we're pretty new mutuals, but i've already gotten the pleasure of seeing you write on a few different blogs now and truly you're such a delight!! the enthusiasm for the characters you write definitely shines through and it makes me excited about them, whether i know much about their canon or not. please don't ever hesitate to hit me up to do some more writing or plotting or anything of the sort! can't wait to do more of that with you!!

THE  FESTIVAL  WAS  IN  FULL  SWING  BY  THE  TIME  SHE’D  GIVEN  UP  ON  KEEPING  GLITTER  OFF  HER  SKIN. Lights  draped  like  vines  across  the  old  wrought-iron  balconies  above,  music  from  three  different  bands  bleeding  together  in  a  way  that  somehow  worked.  Camille  stood  near  a  food  stall  with  a  drink  in  one  hand,  her  other  curled  loosely  around  the  strap  of  her  bag.  Her  cheeks  were  flushed  from  the  warmth  and  the  dancing  and  maybe  a  little  from  the  spiked  hibiscus  punch  she’d  agreed  to  try  with  a  raised  eyebrow  and  zero  regret.

The  comment  from  the  stranger  cut  through  the  noise  just  enough  to  reach  her. 

        there's  blood  slowly  staining  the  frayed  edge  of  your  top ,  and  it  might  actually  be  more  distressing  than  the  wound .  you've  already  cut  blood  stains  out  of  the  bottom  once ,  another  go  with  the  scissors  and  dean  might  use  it  as  A  RAG  when  you're  not  looking .

        " spiritually  /  mentally ,  yes .  physically  i've  had  worse . "  literally ,  unlike  a  knife  to  the  back ,  this  won't  kill  you .  the  fact  that  this  monster  nicked  you  at  all  is  frustrating  but  it's  probably  not  infectious ,  nothing  using  your  flannel  as  a  bandage  won't  fix .  " it'll  be  licking  it's  wounds ,  but  that  won't  give  us  long  to  think .  you  investigate  the  supernatural    any  experience  fighting ? "

" I mean... yeah, " nat started, and trailed off, her amorphous concession slipping through the cracks of her nonchalant mask like a thick oil spill dissipating into a vast expanse of moving water.

though the details had been kept under a proverbial lock and key, there was little to no chance that her querier didn't know the vaguest outline of the extent of her losses. they'd all heard the rumors, the whispers; he had to have absorbed, through a mangled grapevine, twenty five years in the making, the rough estimate of the number of people who'd embarked flight two - five two - five, as opposed to the paltry eight that'd eventually made it home.

still, she'd never give up their names, or what'd happened to them ; not to anyone with questions to needle her with, or theories, or some sick sense of curiosity to quench. ( not that those memories hadn't lost their crystal sharp edge over the years. but each of them had their dense, pestilential place in the tired marrow of nat's bones. each of them, in one way or another, would stick with her until her last breath. )

" who hasn't? " she deflected, with a nearly performative gesture: a practically formless, humourless half - laugh. " right? "