which one of us can tell the biggest lies

@corinnebaileyrp

Take from my palms, for joy, for quiet, a little sun, a little honey, as bees offer their gold to dark hives.

Let my lips, so long foolish with noise, speak truth at last into the hush of your listening.

Let something of the unknown plant grow from these hands. Let a drop of the sun rest on the curve of your tongue.

This is all I have. Not words but the memory of summer pressed into light.

Lawrence had seen her work before, but never quite like this. 

The clearing was half-swallowed by mist, pale hues flecked with gold under a creeping dawn light. Dew drops clung to branches and blades of muted grass. Beth crouched low over something he could not see. Slender fingers moving through the dirt as though coaxing secrets from it. 

He did not announce himself. Did not need to. There was power here. The kind that would not bark commands or rely on bloodshed to leave a mark. Strong enough Lawrence predicted an unceremoniously ejection if his presence were opposed. 

In turn, he stood respectfully still. Coat buttoned, gloved hands tucked behind his back. To the untrained eye, he might have resembled a gentleman observing a garden show. But anyone familiar with Lawrence Lynch would recognize the calculation simmering beneath the calm. A fine-tuned analysis of every gesture the resilient witch made. 

Beth neither spoke nor turned. The only sound made a soft swish of her clothing grazing against earth. Lawrence’s eyes narrowed slightly, adjusting to the way her aura distorted the air. Rippling like heat waves rising off asphalt. Beyond what would register on even the most arcane device in his private collection.  

A twitch in the jaw. Not from envy but something far colder. 

His obsession rose slowly, brushing hands off on the hem of her skirt. There was loam in Beth's hair, a leaf stuck just behind one ear, as though the woods had marked her as theirs and she had not bothered to object. 

Still, no words. A glance over her shoulder, eyes finally meeting his. Something unreadable passed between them. 

Lawrence offered the barest nod. Respect or perhaps surrender. 

The mist thickened behind her as she walked into it, barefoot steps barely leaving a trail. Lawrence didn’t follow. Wouldn’t. 

Not this time. 

— 

When he opened his eyes, the forest was gone. 

In its place emerged the quiet geometry of his bedroom. Clean lines. Neutral tones chosen to avoid distraction. His nostrils, which a moment ago had been filled with moss and earth and woodsmoke, now smelled of nothing at all. 

He lay still for exactly eight seconds. Then he rose, dressed, and departed. 

— 

It took time, but not much, before Lawrence found the dreamscape. A clearing at the edge of his more rural estate. He stepped into noon-drenched grass and crouched where the dream version of Beth had been, touching the ground with gloved fingertips. 

The soil was damp. Cool. Mundane. 

Until it wasn’t. 

His fingers came away stained dark. Not mud nor sap. Blood. Fresh. 

He studied the smear along the glove. Tucked his handkerchief from his coat pocket and wiped clean the surface with unhurried efficiency. There would be tests. DNA and data unraveled. Then, perhaps, he would understand the message. 

It was past midnight. The city below his penthouse windows spread in shadows, broken by scattered headlights and the distant pulse of warning beacons from high-rise cranes. The rest of the world slept or spawned or toiled in bitter labour.

Lawrence sat at his desk, the lighting low and cold, carefully reading the crisp, cream-colored folder laid open before him. The report had arrived by hand earlier in the evening. No traceable metadata. Just fine paper stock and ink that didn’t copy.

The summary was efficient. Subject neutralized. No collateral. Distance: 421 meters. Weapon: custom-modified bolt-action rifle. Ammunition: silver core, jacketed. Confirmed kill: through the thorax, heart obliterated. The body had fallen cleanly onto the rooftop of a decommissioned station. No witnesses, no retrieval needed. The shooter had left the scene before the body cooled.

Lawrence read the last line again. “Contractor reports no deviation from expected behavior.”

He closed the file without expression, then rose from the desk, folder in hand, and crossed to the fireplace. The flames had been stoked recently, Mary had seen to that. He dropped the entire record into the fire without ceremony. The report caught quickly, curling into black at the edges. Lawrence stood a moment longer, watching it turn to soot, ash, and inadmissible as evidence.

Then he returned to the desk and opened a private directory on his laptop. A single video file blinked to life. The footage was silent, distant. Captured by a mounted camera Brian didn’t know existed. Lawrence had placed it there for this purpose alone.

On-screen, the rooftop scene unfolded in black and white. The werewolf, still in mostly human form, loped across the concrete in shadow. A half-second later, the bullet hit. The creature dropped mid-stride, mid-breath, without drama. Dead before it knew it had been hunted.

Brian’s silhouette was visible only briefly. His face unreadable. He dismantled the rifle with practiced grace. Deliberate. Emotionless. No questions had been asked before the assignment. None afterward.

Lawrence let the footage loop once, then again, considering every frame.

It had been a male target. That wasn’t accidental. There was no practical reason, merely curiosity. Lawrence was still mapping the borders of Brian’s compliance. Not every test had teeth. Some merely marked the distance between command and obedience.

He watched until the screen dimmed. Hit delete. Then shut the computer, fingers tapping once, twice, against the desk.

The booth still exists.

A miracle, really. So many things vanish. People, rituals, gods. Even cities change their steel bones and the decay grows so fast of late. But the booth where she first became real. It remains. A half-moon curve of worn leather tucked beneath a tungsten light.

Mikhail stands at the threshold of the bar. No shadows touch him. The streetlamp outside has fractured in a pattern that resembles spiderwebs or veins. He takes it as a sign. Inside, the place smells different. Cinnamon where there used to be cardamom, citrus instead of cloves. Mortals bray too loudly, irreverent, unaware that a cathedral once stood here in the space between heartbeats. He should spill the blood of the more sacrilegious and anoint the ground anew.

Should, but won’t.

Instead, he approaches their former domain. It’s empty. She isn’t here. That night is long since turned to ash even if the memory lives on. So bright it has been clawing at his mind, repeating so often Mikhail begins to wonder if he dreamed it into existence.

No. This is real. He knows as he slides into the same spot once occupied, lets his fingers rest on the wood where her sleeve had brushed it. There was a before his sprite had engraved herself into this venue’s story, and now there is the after. A tale only he can parse.

There are two drinks on the table. One of them is not his. The condensation ring left behind is wrong for the climate. It drips ink instead of water.

He knows not to touch it. Not yet.

Mikhail closes his eyes.

She’s there, again.

Beth, with her voice made of throaty sighs and spells, speaking poetry like a priestess, eyes sharp as daggers wrapped in velvet. The way she looked at him then, as though the witch saw a story unspooling behind his teeth and wanted to swallow it whole.

She thought him strange. He called her divine.

He opens his eyes. The glass is gone. The mark remains.

Nothing permanent. Only ephemera.

But even paper can cut.

Mikhail rises, one hand pressed flat to the tabletop as if the surface meets him in prayer.

The bar continues around him, unaware. But the booth breathes. It remembers.

And as he steps into the night again, he leaves behind a folded scrap of parchment. A version of a kvitel, inscribed with remembrance, tucked into the crevices of worn leather like a prayer slipped between stone in Jerusalem.

 The city was a cacophony of noise and motion. Sirens in the distance, conversations spilling from half-open doors. A truck engine rumbling as it turned too sharply down the narrow street and the screeching horn of the taxi it missed. They loved their horns around here. Rafe stood tucked into the shadows beside a delivery van, collar turned up against the wind, shoulders hunched more from the need to blend in than the cold.

It had been months since he’d been this close to a skyline. Longer still since he'd willingly stepped into such an orbit. Give him the woods and the mountains. Yet the cabin he’d moved to, another in a long line of temporary hideouts, had no more soul than the concrete jungle.

Or perhaps he was comparing it too often to lost ghosts. The kitchen was functional but not the one where Cory used to hum while baking. There was no hairline crack in the bathroom door from the time Tabby lost her temper and unnatural strength flared before she could control it.

Rafe shook his head. He shouldn’t be so sentimental, and he definitely shouldn’t be here. Every instinct told him so. He’d been trained to listen to that voice. Move when it whispered danger. Fight to the death when it screamed. But this time… it murmured a different warning. Not to his life, but to something far more fragile.

Just a quick recon. That’s what he told himself. There’d been chatter on the underground channels. Someone related to the kids’ program had died. Messily. If it was Tabby, she needed help. If it wasn’t... that mattered too.

But instead of going directly to the crime scene, Rafe had let himself drift here. A different kind of pull, a different sentimental indulgence. It was natural for a bakery to have glass windows that offered no protection. He wished they were tinted for her safety, and against his temptation.

Sarah… no, Corinne now…. moved behind the counter with that same easy grace he remembered. All warmth and quiet confidence. Still so beautiful it ached. Still whole, somehow. Standing strong after everything that tried to break her.

Rafe swallowed hard.  Damn how he wanted to walk through that door. To see her look up and smile. Have those dark eyes widen, the rest of her run from behind the counter, throw her arms around him like nothing had changed. Let him hold her tight and banish the emptiness that had wrapped itself around his bones.

But he couldn’t.

Eric crouched beside the diminishing stack of unpacked boxes in Jay’s new apartment, turning the closest one toward him.

Knives – the non-kitchen ones.

He stared at the label for a moment, thumb resting on the edge of the box cutter. The writing was Jay’s compared to Beth’s, black sharpie instead of purple glitter. A slight frayed to the edges of the letters suggesting this had been sealed up towards the end, when hands were growing weary of cataloguing.

A natural curiosity made Eric want to slice it open. A woman’s knives however… that felt a little intimate.

He turned instead to the next box in the hallway. The sharpie read: “Clothing / spare stuff.” Safer. He could handle clothes.

The tape split clean under the blade. A few folded tees, some jeans, that hoodie she always wore when she was working late. He reached in without much thought until something heavier caught at his fingers.

His old college motorcycle jacket.

A bemused crease appeared in Eric’s brow as he turned it over in his grip. The leather was softer than he remembered, broken in first by years of wear and then one very determined thief. The collar was creased the way it always got when Jay folded it over with that precise flick. A faint trace of cologne lingered. His, but barely. Mostly it just smelled like her now. Like wind and warmth and New York’s roads.

He hadn’t even realized it was missing.

Footsteps approached, slow and steady. He glanced up just as Jayden appeared in the doorway, carrying two coffee cups and no trace of guilt on her face.

“Thought I lost that,” Eric murmured, holding the jacket up like evidence.

“You didn’t.” She handed him a cup. “I just packed it early.”

He rose with a chuckle, taking a sip of rejuvenating caffeine and staring at her over the rim. Christ, Jayden was beautiful like this. Hair dishevelled; shirt tugged half off one shoulder. The sensation of this being a dream hadn’t quite passed, that this was no longer a long-distance relationship, and Eric basked in her presence.

That didn’t stop a sprinkling of good-natured ribbing. “Any other surprises in these boxes?”

Jayden smirked. “Have I warned you yet about my pet alligator? He and Jenna are best friends.”

Eric huffed a soft laugh. “Right. I’ll let the dog know she’s being replaced.”

“She’ll cope. He’s housebroken.”

“Unlike you.”

Jay padded closer, brushing her shoulder against his as she nursed her coffee. For a moment, they stood in the middle of the chaos. Boxes stacked high. Tape crumpled underfoot. The place didn’t exactly look like a home yet.

Name: Lawrence Lynch

Age: Early 40s

Sexuality: Ambivalent

Relationship status: Battling for power with @brooklynislandgirl and occasional employer of @therealgamble.

Profession: Business Magnate

Key Features (according to a third-party personality assessment):

Meticulous. Every move he makes is deliberate, every action weighed against potential outcomes.

Unflinching. Morality is a flexible concept in his world, and he does what is necessary without hesitation.

Name: Rafael Rojas Soto

Age: Lates 30s/Early 40s

Sexuality: Straight

Relationship status: It’s Complicated with Cory @corinnebaileyrp

Profession: Recluse

Key Features (according to a third-party personality assessment):

Resolute. He’s not one to make empty promises, and when he decides to protect someone, he does so with unwavering determination.

Wary. He keeps people at arm’s length, always calculating risk, always expecting betrayal or danger.

Name: Mikhail Alkavich

Age: Unknown, appears in his early 30s

Sexuality: Redundant due to his Kindred nature

Relationship status: Besotted with his sprite Beth @brooklynislandgirl

Profession: Primogen of Clan Malkavian

Key Features (according to a third-party personality assessment):

Charismatic. He has an allure that draws people in, whether they trust him or not.

Detached. He observes more than he engages, keeping himself at a remove.

Name: Eric Myers

Age: Early 30s

Sexuality: Straight

Relationship status: Dating Jay @morgansmornings

Profession: Construction Foreman

Key Features (according to a third-party personality assessment):

Dependable. A rock-solid presence, he always comes through.

Thrill-seeking. He craves excitement, whether it’s on a bike, in a ring, or pushing limits.

Name: Hannah Miller

Age: 18-19

Sexuality: Bisexual

Relationship status: Dating Noah @multi-mused

Profession: College student

Key Features (according to a third-party personality assessment):

Driven. She relentlessly pursues her goals, refusing to settle for less.

Analytical. Always thinking things through, she dissects problems with precision.

Name: Jonah “Vane” Vanelli

Age: Early 30s

Sexuality: Straight

Relationship status: Recently married to Aspen @multi-mused

Profession: MC Member

Key Features (according to a third-party personality assessment):

Loyal. His devotion to those he loves is unwavering, no matter the cost.

Commanding. He naturally takes charge, his presence demanding attention.

Thread responses will hopefully be coming also.

@brooklynislandgirl

The silvered light of a waning moon pooling like liquid silver across the floor. Tick tock, a silent clock, counting down to Yule. Beth rests amid rumpled sheets that are valleys and hills, protections he builds against lurking shadows. He steals her sleep as much as they, that is true, yet Mikhail leaves her with less dark rimmed eyes and less blood and more strength to rise when the silver is gold and is time to be festive with the living.

Day. Night. Life. Death. The divide between them, where his sprite lives in both and while the city sparkles with lights that pretend to fold wintery existences into one, traditions mixed and mashed until edges are blurred, he must be gone. Gone before they eat the kutya and throw a spoonful at the ceiling… No, that is not what they do here.

Yet Mischa does leave a small token. Only a folded parchment on her bedside table. Its edges worn, the ink a deep, deliberate script. Words meant to speak when he can not, between the eating and drinking and merriment under the pale gleam of a Noel filled sky.

Love at the lips was touch As sweet as I could bear; And once that seemed too much; I lived on air That crossed me from sweet things, The flow of—was it musk From hidden grapevine springs Downhill at dusk? I had the swirl and ache From sprays of honeysuckle That when they’re gathered shake Dew on the knuckle.