#thread 3

There's an appeal in letting oneself disappear, isn't there?

It's with that thought that you don a mask and cross over that portal, leaving your name behind. A novelist may refer to what you're doing as trading one mask for another -- you yourself would struggle to disagree. It's all the same smoke and mirrors in the end.

Your footsteps are loud on the floor. You are not the first to cross over - and you are privately quite grateful for that. You are neither social nor asocial, only cordial, and so when you stumble into someone you of course offer an apology.

And a hand up. You've really gotten lost in your thoughts, haven't you? This is unlike you to be so careless. 

@loveevangelist ;

Fate was a curious thing.

It was unpredictable. A force that came and went as it pleased. It was difficult, it was simple, it was complex - it was a concept made up of endless possibilities.

And it was, to someone like Niamh, a constant source of confusion. Fate was not something that could be tracked, not easily. You could plan for fate to intervene, but the form it took was nigh impossible to determine. Sometimes, it even defied logic all together.

So when Niamh catches a glimpse of someone, a someone far too familiar for her comfort, it's not during a dangerous bout on a battlefield. It's not from the corner of dark alleyway, nor in the depths of a dark, ominous forest.

[text] Right. The raffle. Well, that's alright. Let me know when you're done packing and I'll come fetch you.

[text] You're not allergic to dogs are you?

@lone-wolfben​

This could not possibly be right.  He’s heard mention of The Institute from the Jewells before but this… maybe wasn’t so far off.  Their personalities would have made a lot more sense if they indulged in what these rules were talking about.  All they talked about was the good times they’d had here, specifically how it was a sanctuary for supernaturals.  That bit still felt a little new to him, only being around himself and witches for however many years, but he fit the bill.  Broke and super, in need.  Seeing a passerby that looked at the least, a little approachable, he did so, tugging at his new leather jewelry.

“Excuse me, I need to find the headmaster immediately,” he growled, continuing to yank on the collar wrapped around his throat - it’s like it was getting tighter by the minute.  “Clearly there’s been some sort of mistake, here.  This can’t possibly be…”  He trailed off as he saw other passerbys, some with collars, realizing that a good half of the people were in skimpy bathing suits.  “What in god’s name is this place…”

Cherry stopped as the young man came up to her, wide eyed at being approached suddenly before she relaxed more, seeing the collar around his neck. However her look turned sympathetic, the more he spoke, the obvious contrary approach. Not unlike her own. With much less tears when she first arrived, though. Now she knew what everyone who tried to comfort her was fighting again, the obvious obligation and helplessness. And she was not good at comforting others, though not for lack of trying.

“I’m sorry, hun...” Cherry gave a small shrug, adjusting her grip on her shoulder back awkwardly. She wore a bright yellow bikini with white stars, her long blonde hair pulled up in a messy bun scattered by the beach breeze.

[ cont from here with @lilylynch​ ]

“Well, why ever not?” 

Quentin was avoiding Whitespire.

Marina wasn’t thrilled that the place he had raved about (to her displeasure) was now a place he actively tried not to go to, but thankfully Julia understood. Why would he keep going somewhere he obviously wasn’t welcome in? His mind drifted toward Eliot, with those smirks and knowing looks as if there was a secret between the two of them that he was yet to figure out. He wanted to see Eliot again, wanted to learn about the man who seemed determined not to be read, but if Alice and Margo didn’t want him there, then did Quentin really have a choice? Eliot was the founder of Whitespire, built it up with his own hands and witty mind, but it was clear to Quentin that, beyond the first floor, Alice and Margo held the reigns of the place.

So he stayed away.

Whitespire was so comfortable, though, and after about a week and a half of not going back he could feel the tiredness seeping back into him. Marina’s safe house wasn’t lively like the speakeasy was, nor did it have an abundance of people he wanted to know better. Everyone he was willing to associate with was already a friend of his, or at the very least a closer acquaintance: Josh, Kady, Julia, and unfortunately Marina. He’d watched one night when, after his refusal, Josh was sent to play infiltrator instead, then Kady, then even Julia, with short-term success each time. Julia had even said to him that the place was a dream, and that only seemed to add insult to injury, since he’d gotten up a moment later to go for a walk.

Much like that day, Quentin was walking now toward one of the better coffee shops in New York City. The little shops could be found just about anywhere, but Quentin swore the coffee here tasted different from the rest, as if almost by magic. The bell tinged when he opened the door, and after exchanging a smile and pleasantries with the cashier, he had his coffee in hand. Finally. He glanced around the shop--surprisingly empty for a Friday--and saw two unclaimed leather armchairs, making a beeline for one before it could be taken and curling up with his drink and a book. How many times had he read the fourth Fillory book? He had no idea, but it never got old. All he cared about was his coffee, book, and the pen he was going to make annotations with along the page margins.

Focused as he was, it was no wonder that he didn’t notice anyone approach him until the seat at his side was taken, startling him from a particularly lengthy paragraph. There in the chair sat Eliot Waugh himself, and Quentin couldn’t breath. “Eliot,” he managed. “Um. Hi.”