#narrativefinale

a glance cast over his shoulder as he shakes his wintercoat off his shoulders and straight into the arms of a poor butler, disgruntled at the fast-melting snow taking the carpet and his own clothes by storm. "oh no, you are not. but that does not mean we are not both in trouble." there's a hint of humour there; something about this reminds him of sneaking late into the mess hall at oxford, dinner started at seven, and dinner started with grace. ordinarily it would have been recited by the dean himself, an elderly gentleman whose greatest earnestness in his catholicism always had him recite it with his eyes closed. retrospectively, he wondered sometimes if he did that on purpose, so that he would not have to reprimand the handful of students somehow managing to be late every night.

Send 🗡 to hold a blade to my muse's throat for their reaction! @narrativefinale asked: 🗡 // Cove Slidell - Imagine, if you will, Cove making it back to Earth, but the wrong time period. That's all!

A breath was sucked in between fox-like teeth as the cold bite of metal was pressed right to that hum under Alastor’s skin, the sign that he was alive. The pulse of everything he had ever worked for. He couldn’t help the laugh that followed after. One might think that it sounded nervous, but it wasn’t. It was amused, giddy, and perhaps a bit bitter. It was just so ironic that this was how it might end — one hunter killed by another, with him dead amongst the bodies in his own stomping grounds.

“Well hello there,” he chirped, stepping back against his attacker just to see what he was working with, to get a bit of distance from the knife, and perhaps to wind himself into the other’s head just a little bit. Contact created familiarity, and he assumed he had a very short window to create that and endear himself. If he played his cards right then he could get to his own knife and flay the gentleman behind him instead, though, he was quite sturdy. Not an opponent Alastor would have picked. Not at all.

“You know I’m just no good at this. Being the victim that is. Good work sneaking up on me with how wet the ground is, by the way, quite impressive. Now… was there something you needed, dear? My mama is expecting me for dinner in a bit, and I do hate to disappoint her by showing up late.”

"so you'd rather be here than see me? i see how it is." arms crossed, hands hid in his sleeves, he peels away from the shadow and enters a sliver of light, a ghostly face appearing in the tiny window into the other's cell.

sure, he may be in prison, but that's a choice made like any other, in kesabel's eyes. firstly, if he wanted to be in prison he should have planned it around a different time than the full moon. and what was he thinking sending that dullard to deliver a message? as if that were an excuse. an apology. nevermind that the last time they saw each other it was he who stood jedetta up on his offer to bring him along. he gets to make these choices. he doesn't care about anything, on principle. the other, being the good-natured fool he is, should care, and plan accordingly.

The blood coming out of the wound is sluggish and so deeply red it looks more like blood that's set and dried for a long while as opposed to something coming freshly out of a human being. That's an unfortunate product of not being a human being, of course. Your blood, evidently, betrays you for what you are. The problem is that the blood doesn't seem to want to stop, even if it's slowed down to a crawl, it's still seeping out of the wound despite the pressure held on it. Elias has his eyes squeezed shut, he's shaking like a leaf, both hands covering his pale face as he tries to block out the pain. Tries to block out anything and everything that's happened over the past few hours to end him up in this position here. He's not thin. He's full on gaunt, his hip bones and ribs the most prominent thing about his features. He breathes in heavy, shaking sighs, and his heartbeat is so slow it's almost undetectable. "i'm sorry," he mumbles, "for all this. um... trouble."

He's got the bleeding man on his couch; something that looked about as ragtag as the apartment it sat in and didn't mind another stain or two. He's got that shirt lifted up and sterile gauze pressed against the nasty gash underneath it, already worried about the absolute STATE the stranger is in aside from the wound itself. How long has it been since this guy ate anything? One hand traces over those ribs, very briefly, before he lifts up the gauze to check on the blood flow again.

Yeah, the color is a little off. It seems... dead almost. At first he figures it's just a product of the dim light in his little makeshift clinic, but he's seen blood under those yellowish lights too many times to be fooled for long. He's immediately reminded of a zombie; someone who has no real use for blood, and just carries it around after death because the fluid has nowhere else to go.

But no: when he wraps a hand around one of those thin wrists (much gentler than the one trying in vain to stop the flow of blood) he still feels a heartbeat. Tired and weak like everything else on the body shivering underneath him, but thudding slowly along just the same. Did zombies have heartbeats? No, he didn't think so. Not in most popular media anyway.

The little apology just makes his heart ache. What the fuck happened to this sorry looking scarecrow?

"Oh for fuck's sakes, don't be sorry. Trouble's my middle name. My other name is Worth, an' that's what ya can call me. But more importantly--" He let that blood flow freely for a couple moments (it was slow enough anyway) so he could grasp both of the stranger's hands in his own and gently urge them away from that pale face. If the man hadn't noticed that Worth was a cat before, he would now, but hopefully that would only help to signal that he was safe; Around someone who is, at least peripherally, part of the supernatural community. And maybe that would lead to the man eventually revealing what the hell HE was, because... humans don't bleed like that. Probably.

But no matter what he was, the important part would still be the same. "This shit is gonna be like th' great molasses flood of Boston if I don't stitch ya up soon; slow but deadly. It's gonna hurt, but yer gonna be okay. Awright?"

"You certainly do. You're quite impressive."

Victor doesn't know what compelled him to see the show that night. He doesn't typically do things like this, much preferring to stay home and work on his projects over anything else. But now he understands why. It's Percy. Again. His beloved darling. How strange it is, to see him as a dancer. He always knew that he did ballet, but never got to witness it himself. Now that he has, Victor is utterly enamored once again, but is that a surprise? He's enamored with Percy no matter how or when he finds him.

He rests his chin in his hand and smiles, tilting his head a little. "Are you performing tomorrow?" He doesn't mean to sound so eager, but it's been decades by now. Victor didn't think he'd get to see Percy again at this rate. It takes everything he has to not reach out and simply take his hand. Do you see me? Do you know me? Do you remember at all?

He already knows the answer, but these things always take time.

Dennis lowers his head to the mess down the front of his scrubs. He was sure that the had gotten past that part of his life. His first few weeks in the emergency department had been full of spills and messes. They'd even made inside jokes about having to stock extra scrubs in his size. It had been a joke until he'd slowly stopped having so many messes. It became an occasional thing rather than something that was granted.

the boy stares at the individual called lazarus. his copper eyes go quizzical, offended. “ you’d best not insult my intelligence. ” his adolescent voice bears daggers. “ if you’re a private person, just tell me so. ” fair compromise, august wagers. an indignant noise whistles between his teeth.