#ephram

Ephram the phosphor as the heir of blood

Im not good at sneakers

Ultimately, the thing reminded Bobby of one of those vaudeville skits that one of her old foster brothers had been strangely obsessed with. Where at the end of it, they loop a cane around the performer's waist and comically drag them back behind the curtain and show’s over folks. Except this was just someone’s very long arm and Bobby was pretty sure she fought a good deal more than a vaudeville performer would. She snarled and bit, feeling every bit of the wolf she was supposed to be now until she was knocked out.

Later, when Bobby came to, she had the idle thought that this would be the perfect place to tag a 4-foot ass without getting caught. The backroom she assumed she had been locked in was disgusting. The white brick walls had been dirtied after years of being exposed to the elements, even the signs - some of them advertisements for candy, others seemed more like OSHA reminders for any employees of what this building used to be, they were barely readable. The floors were covered in various debris that Bobby was just laying on, with no protection. They didn’t even bother putting her in a chair. They did give her a candle though, set up in the corner of the room. What sweethearts.

After taking in her surroundings for a moment, she sprang up, first trying the door - locked as she thought - then moving to where the only windows in this room were. They were high up, but reachable and narrow, but Bobby bet if she really tried she could fit through. All she would need is a boost. Her eyes narrowed at the door once more. Bobby’s first thought is this was the werewolf that originally bit her, he had tracked her down and was coming for her, but if that was the case why didn’t he just kill her? Another groan left Bobby’s chest as she rolled her eyes in the back of her head. This song and dance better not be for another villain monologue.

There was some light pouring through the crack of the door and Bobby slammed her palm against the barrier once, then twice, then over and over again as she shouted. “Hey! Kill me or bring me a chair, but I’m not sitting my ass on this floor again!” More pounding with her fists, until someone pounded back, once and with a ordered shout telling her to sit down.

“Shut the fuck up man.” Another voice, a little more distant came from behind the door. “We can’t do this until-” the voice became more muffled like he turned away.

“She’s loud as balls!” she heard the louder voice shout, the one that initially ordered her. “She’s gonna attract attention.”

“You’re the loud one. Shut your trap and we can take care of her in no time. She’s fresh.”

Realizing they weren’t going to bring her a chair or even speak to her, Bobby moved back to the windows, desperately trying to scramble up the wall to at least get a view outside.

It was mid-morning, and Will, feeling extremely out of place, found himself at the Soapberry Sheriff's Department. Needless to say, this wasn't a position he found himself in very often. 

Strange creatures in the wood, mysterious sprites and spirits, even hostile hikers, all things the ranger was felt quite capable of handling himself. But asking for help from Soapberry's finest? That was a bit out of his depth. Past interactions, though brief, had been positive, but he still preferred to settle things on his own terms whenever he could.

"'Scuse me, Sheriff Pettaline?" he knocked on the door frame, announcing his presence. "Hope you don't mind, but I could use a bit of help." Will scritched at his beard, pausing as he figured out how best to phrase things. 

"Listen, this might sound a bit strange, but uh. There's been an ongoing issue with vandalism down at the ranger's station, and I know who's been doing it." Regrettably, there wouldn't have been anything on record, Will having neglected filing any kind of report or paperwork.

“Think you could give me a hand?”

It was a Friday night at the pub and Miguel didn’t think much of it except that it was a little more crowded and load than usual. He didn’t mind, he was just there to sip a whisky before walking home. While working at the clinic was busy, it wasn’t as emotionally draining as working at the hospital – it just meant that Miguel hadn’t had time to buy alcohol for home. Ah well, at home he couldn’t get that authentic pub atmosphere.

Except… as the uproar turned up a few decibels, Miguel started to wish the pub had a little less atmosphere. He watched as a werewolf and a vampire’s argument turned into snarls and snaps and then a regular old brawl – but with both ends healing fast. Well, he wasn’t going to get involved.

At least that was his first reaction. Until more people joined on either side of the fight and then there was a flash of fire and a nymph with orange-red hair laughed joyfully as things heated up.

“NO! OUTSIDE!” The bartender yelled. And Miguel groaned. It sounded like damage was being done, not only to bones, but the smell of burning hair made Miguel a little sick. He hoped there wouldn’t be too much to heal. He followed the bustle as the combatants were pushed out onto the street.

It was hard to run everyone through his mental triage system when there were still people fighting, but as individuals broke off from the mob and fell to the sidewalk or the street, Miguel healed anything big. First taking the wounds onto his body, usually accompanied by a silent wince, and healing them away.

@ephrampettaline