City of Ash

Haven't written anything new in a while. Thinking about a piece in reflection of the constant forest fires in my state and the general blase attitude of the denizens of my city. I feel like I'm the only one wearing a particulate respirator outside. Like I'm the only person who sees the smoke.

Roleplaying Entry #5: Esperian Chronicles (my character is a siren)

The leaves rustled gently against their woody constraints, releasing a swing and sigh that reminded Freya of times when she was small enough to balance on her father's shoulders. He would raise her with cautious hands supporting her leg and back as she pulled a limb to pluck a moon peach. Her palms still remembered the sensitive bark in the western woods of Yondra: wrinkled and strained with swirls of wise moss communicating with her in a language that she could only feel and never speak. She recalled what the tree told her that time: "Hey hey! Don't be pulling me like that, it hurts! Get that moon peach and leave me be!" And as though realizing what was spoken was in fact true, the branch retracted from her grasp of its own will and flung her back with moon peach in hand. Her father, startled as he always was with his children, tumbled to the ground with her, breaking her fall on a bed of dry grass. He stilled immediately afterward, grey eyes scanning the child for any signs of injury or emotional distress. But as usual, Freya appeared unharmed and staring blindly up at the tree that had just scolded her; this was the second or third time that such had happened, and she wondered if other people could hear the trees talk.

"Papa," little Freya queried as she relaxed against her father's chest, lightly pressing the skin of the moon peach to her lips.

"Yes honey," he responded, brushing calloused fingers against her right cheek and left arm; his inspection wasn't over just yet.

"Do the trees ever speak to you?"

This brought a moment of pause as Freya's father peered wonderingly at his daughter. After nearly a minute of quietude, he murmured, "No, I don't think that I've ever heard them."

"Oh, I see."

"Hmm, why do you ask?"

"Well, they always speak to me. Most times they're mean."

"Oh, well, would you like me to have a talk with them?"

At his sign of paternal instinct, Freya giggled lightly, taking a small bite of her moon peach. A burst of sugar and honey melon-like flavor--and maybe a hint of star berry--sparked a grin on her face. The dribble of juices down her chin followed a second bite. Freya took her sweet time to answer her father as she enjoyed the bounty of her outing. "No," she finally spoke, "this is worth it." Upon taking a third bite with bite marks made prominent along the surface of the fruit, she offered the rest to her father with a small arm extending toward his chin. Her father wordlessly accepted the offer, a light grin spreading from his lips as he gently plucked the remaining moon peach from his daughter's right hand. As he ingested what remain of the fruit, minus the core, seeds, and stem, he ran his fingers across the left peahen wing extending from her obsidian locks. The wing shivered beneath his touch for a brief moment, before falling into his caress as Freya sighed with what appeared to be a mixture of embarrassment and pleasure.

He smiled all the same, continuing his soft pets as he champed the moon peach's skin. Despite the noisy munching that emitted from his attention to the lingering fruit, Freya managed to be soothed to sleep; of course, it was difficult for her father to tell immediately that she had dozed off since her indigo eyes remained open with hints of animation. But her breathing had slowed and become noticeably more rhythmic like the current of a stream. A dainty snore escaped her rosy lips once, twice, thrice. Yes, she was definitely resting her eyes.

"Heh, didn't know it was time for your nap," yawned Freya's father to himself as he began to feel the effects of drowsiness himself. He yawned once more, revealing his cavernous maw for all to see--trees pondered the depth of his mouth. He tossed the moon peach core into his sack which resided a foot away from him. He thought it useful to keep so that he might remember today, or at least try to cultivate his own moon peach trees. Gradually, his silver eyes fell, just as his hand rested against Freya's hair and peahen wing. Soon, father and daughter lay together on the autumn day, zephyrs gently brushing against them and trees chattering about the intrusive visitors sleeping on their lawn. Freya could hear nary a tree speak nor bemoan its purpose in life for her fingers were far from troublesome bark and twigs; she seemed peaceful, thought her older self, and so young and inexperienced.

And with that observation, Freya awoke from her dream, eyes gazing blankly ahead, unable to see the patch of tall grass swaying in the gust of wind. She absently pushed the sleep from her eyes with the sleeve of her left arm as a greater sense of awareness settled upon her. She recalled travelling for quite a while with the intention of encountering the Kilele for a short visit. She had not seen her tribe and family in almost two years, and while she didn't want to admit it she was beginning to miss the scents, tastes, and touches of home.

Oye, sleepy head! You sleep like the dead!

Freya squeezed her lips together upon hearing the Esper welcome her back to the world of the roused. She brought her hand to her left ear and caressed the shell of the auricle, but not without lightly flicking the earring hanging from it; sometimes Ledisi had a voice like a squawking crow, and that was one quality of Freya's companion that did go unappreciated.

Hey! Don't do that: I get dizzy. You should be kind to your friends.

Freya's lips slowly spread into what appeared to be a mischievous grin as she stilled the earring before lowering her hand. "Well then," she began, "consider the fact that you're right beside my ear next time and I won't have to dole out such harsh treatment." Freya felt Ledisi sigh, as though conceding to the small proposition. This easily pleased Freya as she placed her hands against the tree that had served as her rest spot. With skilled fingers, she led her way upward to stand on her feet; her feathers and peahen wings slid against the aged bark with ticklish effect. Of course, Freya didn't laugh. She tried to block the sensation from her notice as she stood upright, brushing her fingers gingerly down her tunic and backside. It mattered little that she felt the decency to groom herself; she couldn't see her work, even in her most enlightened dreams. She could feel her appearance to some degree, but she knew nothing of her guise in terms of a visual image. And while she had had to deal with the reality of a lifetime of blindness, this left a longing in her that she couldn't fathom.

"Freya," the earring lightly inquired, realizing the funk her charge was about to sink into.

Freya blinked, her optics knowingly shifting towards the left. "Yes," she rejoined with a light curiosity settling into her tone. She wondered if Ledisi felt neglected, then.

"We should probably get going; the Kilele could have already left from these parts, so we should continue if we wish to see the tribe for a quick visit."

"I see."

No further words were needed as Freya bobbed towards the ground like a buoy in the sea, her thick black hairs and feathers fanning over her face as she grabbed her sack. The contents of the bag rustled briefly as she rose and looped the strap over her right shoulder. Good, cause I wouldn't mind sitting in on another birthing ceremony. Heh, they're so much fun. Freya's couldn't help but mold a grin of a amusement at Ledisi's thought. 'You seem to miss home more than me,' Freya guessed as her black boots carried her away from the tree into what felt like a sea of tall grass. Maybe, but I know you've missed the tribe and your family much more than myself. It shouldn't hurt to go back for a while. Tallish prickly grains brushed against Freya's exposed skin in the strangest way. She almost thought they would start chattering away upon touching her, but all she heard was the wind, bird calls, Ledisi prattling in excitement and little else. 'Of course, trees don't talk to me anymore; I've become much too frightening for conversation,' she pondered wryly before focusing more of her attention on Ledisi. -oh I miss your mom's cooking so much. I mean, I've never gotten the chance to test it, but it smells wonderful.

The two remained as such, the more able-bodied woman walking as she listened to her Esper companion talk about all she missed about the Kilele tribe. Deep down, Ledisi understood that she could serve as a vehicle for what Freya refused to say. She didn't mind her role much, but she wondered what would become of their relationship with more signs of trouble. Even now, what appeared to be a sea of rodents swam past Freya's feet and she said nothing of it; maybe she didn't discern their movements, but Ledisi was doubtful of that. Freya knew her surroundings; she knew the taste and smell of danger; maybe she was aware that their destination was not nearly as safe as Ledisi wanted it to be. Truly, the south felt like a stomach suffering from indigestion. They were only experiencing momentary relief from trouble and despair.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Freya yawned softly while passing through what seemed like a labyrinth of tall grass. Her palms rested at her sides, casually gripping the whimsical sward as it swayed against the wind. It had grown unreasonably quiet, minus the wind's breath and Ledisi's talkativeness; strangely, Ledisi soon adapted to the quietude, lessening her speech to three or four words at a time. Birds were scarce or scared silent by a force Freya could not see, though its presence was undeniably palpable; prey and predator ceased their roles in the circle of life, breaking wind in the opposite direction or trekking towards destinations of higher elevation. Freya understood why they decided their current homes were in peril; smoke and traces of dying embers tickled her nostrils in answer, teasing her with death's murmured promises and the destruction of a town. Something had gone array, and the problem more than likely threatened Winoki, a seaside hamlet some distance ahead. It would not be a safe place to enter, but Freya knew of no other locale where the Kilele could be located. It seemed unreasonable to risk her life in a battle where she couldn't secure her own victory, but if it was for Kilele she could act without a second thought; whereas this did not sit well with her well-reasoned notions of past circumstance, she knew of no other course of action.

Choosing to observe rather than utter what she noticed, she thought it best to at least assure Ledisi of their safety, despite the doubt weighing down her decision. "Ledisi," she spoke with a start, smoothing her dry lips with her tongue, "I won't lead us knowingly into something beyond my control; I just want to see them . . . make sure they're all right."

"Well believe me, I understand," Ledisi twittered and released what sounded like a gulp, "but if Variatian troops are ahead, I want you to turn back without protest."

Freya nodded once, tightening her lips in the process; if the Kilele were in fact in Winoki, she wasn't sure she could simply turn back at the first signs of immediate danger. Kilele was her life, as were her family; their safety was partly her responsibility.

"The Variatian men are monsters that cannot be satisfied," Ledisi reasoned as Freya proved unconvincing. "You won't be able to face them by yourself, even with your enchantments."

"Variatian,” Freya murmured, her voice laced with remembrance. Freya had heard the identity more than once during her travels. She recalled whispered talk of Variat, the kingdom that wielded control over more Espers than most mortals had ever encountered. Ledisi had compelling enough reason to be fearful of Variat's armies; while not attributed with a legacy of military strength, they were known for their brutal misuse of Espers and long-standing occupations. Freya found little joy in realizing that the city of Buchester, which she had recently visited for a replenishment of supplies, had probably succumbed to an appalling fate at their hands. Freya considered herself lucky for avoiding the Variatian companies and their officers, who had probably been a day from invasion upon her departure.

"I know Ledisi, you needn't remind me of their cruelty or of what I'm incapable of doing," Freya huffed as her hands rose, pushing against the grasses beating against her front.

"Freya, even if the Kilele are nearby, I trust they're quick to flee or at least warn the other villages. They should be fine." Now Ledisi seemed unconvincing, as her voice waxed uncertain until the very last word. The earring sighed lightly before another wave of silence overcame the two.

Freya blew hot air in response, dropping the subject entirely as she groped the tallish grass for an exit. She could sense an opening not far from her current position, and decidedly made haste in an attempt to reach it. Her peahen feathers and wings bounced on the air left in her wake and her left earring swung like an unsteady pendulum. Her boots picked up soil and grain as she neared what appeared to be a negative incline leading down to a pond and neighboring pasture. She anticipated that her current speed would lead to an unsavory plummet, so her animated boots gradually decelerated just in time for her head to peak outward from the fallow sward. The tip of her right boot grazed the rock and dry stubbles that led to an even slope before diving diagonally, seemingly without end. She pulled her boot back as she fully unveiled her form from behind the curtain of grass. She brushed her hands down her clothes and the feathers extending from her midriff down to her waist. Gingerly, she plucked a few stray grains loose from her plumage as she peered into a sea of darkness--indicative of the slant of land before her, according to her senses.

'I don't suppose you'd mind gliding down with me, would you Ledisi?' A pale brown hand reached into Freya's bag as she fingered the loose fabric of her blindfold. She pulled the strip of cloth upward and soon placed its base over her cloudy eyes; fastening its ends under her wings at the back of her head, she listened for Ledisi's response. A grim line snaked its way across her lips as Ledisi remained quiet. 'Ledisi?' Another pinch of silence, then finally Ledisi emitted some sound through what appeared to be a frustrated sigh. Of course I don't mind. I'm an earring. What would you have me do, unhook myself? A pause followed as another breath fanned against the side of Freya's neck. Freya listened aptly, feeling that somehow this talk was all too familiar but still a long-time coming; somehow, she felt less sure about what she wanted to do once she arrived in Winoki. I can't move without you; I need you to remain able-bodied so that you can accomplish more than what you have planned for yourself. You are destined for more . . . like it or not . . .

Freya could almost feel Ledisi's grin as though it were a pinch to the skin. She managed a light smirk as her peahen wings extended and flapped once, twice, thrice, forcing air to the ground in an effort to lift her tall frame. 'I understand.' The notion was enough for Ledisi for it spread a heart-felt warmth from Freya's gut to her cheeks. Of course, the young woman didn't outright blush, but she felt comforted by Ledisi's concern for her well-being. The feathers along the middle of her body shifted nigh vertically as her wings guided the wind beneath her, carrying her down the incline. Her boots were roughly fifteen feet from the earth and the gap shortened in the same manner as the immediate path. Halfway through her course in the air--about 45 feet down--Freya noticed a lessening of wind and hotter climate that produced a few drops of sweat along her brow. Her body stiffened in response, her nose searching the air for the signs of fire that she knew were already present. Ledisi too grew alert as she searched the itinerary, checking for any signs of imposing figures or Variatian soldiers. She saw none at present, but thought it fair to give Freya a second warning as they neared the ground below.

Freya, I take issue with your intentions of saving the Kilele, who may not even need rescuing, by putting your life at hazard. The tribe wouldn't want you to make such a decision on their behalf, especially if you wind up dead because of it. Ledisi's words seemed a little frantic, but she maintained a layer of calm as she surveyed the area.

Freya did not remark soon after, but instead approximated the stretch of feet separating her from the ground. The wind was starting to become more of a burden than a boon as she unwillingly lowered a foot toward the ground. 'I know Ledisi . . . understood. I really don't plan on dying anytime soon.' Freya's eyes thinned slightly beneath the blindfold as she breathed in air that didn't taste nearly as healthy as it did a moment ago. She could not deny the truth in Ledisi's word, even if she preferred to ignore them. But ignorance never served her purposes, so she wielded a smidgen more caution as she neared the end of her line of travel.

Roleplaying Entry #4: A giant of a woman and her encounter with a vampire

Soft rays of light filtered through the blinded windows of Bly's hotel room. The strength of the loose threads of sun indicated some morning hour or a little past noon. The alarm clock at Bly's bedside read 8:03 AM, so it was safe to say that Bly had managed to awake at a decent hour for the first time this week. Bly grinned as though congratulating herself for some personal achievement: she had finally managed to beat jet-lag. Wow, I never imagined being awake in the morning could actually feel so liberating. Hot air surpassed her rosy lips in a long yawn as her long arms stretched toward the ceiling. Her chocolate brown eyes travelled from the alarm clock’s bright red digits to a burnt sienna comb laid against the top of a marble dresser. Bly gazed at herself in the vanity mirror attached to the dresser, bringing her arms near her body as her fingertips teased her skin. She pursed her lips once upon examining the skin below her eyes, fingers outlining the scantly wrinkled flesh. There she spotted what appeared to be the beginnings of dark circles--battle wounds, she'd like to think. But as most surface-level wounds are best to do, they heal with time and proper treatment. So she imagined that within a week's time--hopefully less--the markings would be even less apparent, if not completely gone. Hmm, they're a minor concern at best; I should really consider what pieces to play tonight.

Bly inclined her head for a different angle while her fingers gently stretched the skin, testing the level of darkness. A little into her analysis, it became clear that her poking and prodding wasn't going to accomplish anything. So she stopped, closing her eyes as her head leaned towards the back of her chair. Her arms fell to her sides and she eventually forced her body into an appropriate posture. She sighed once, grabbing her comb blindly with her right hand. Slowly, she raked through the sea of darkness, retrieving any wayward strands that didn't quite meld with the current. Her left hand fingered through her hair as she tamed and smoothed her tresses as best she could. Of course she couldn't get rid of the curls, and she was difficult to convince in actually having her hair straightened. Even her manager, Tami, the most wonderful woman in the world by Bly's own admission, could not compel Bly to do something that might go against some deep value. Sure, Bly didn't mind acquiring tattoos every some odd years, but her hair was a completely different story. It was hard to explain her choice and unwavering attitude in the matter; maybe she was just a little bit selective about her appearance. Maybe her hair was just that important.

Who knows or even cares for that matter. Bly shrugged at the itinerary her thoughts were travelling--no need to fret. Her eyes opened to review her work as she laid her comb down on the dresser. Nimble fingers ran through her locks numerous times as she parted her hair into three sections. Gradually, she commenced plaiting her hair into a large braid that would predictably stretch down the center of her back--maybe a little farther. Her bangs remained parted toward the left; so that much was taken care of as she deftly weaved one stream of hair between two others. Soon she was completing the braid as she positioned the ends of her hair over her left shoulder. She allowed an inch or two to remain loose as she clipped her ends between her right index and middle fingers and thumb. She grasped a sea blue ribbon from the surface of the dresser and wrapped it neatly around the end of her plaited hair. Once secure, she dropped her shoulders and allowed her braid to fall toward her back.

"Ok," she uttered to herself, knowing that no one else inhabited her single-bed hotel room. Rastel was not with her at the time, and she expected him, and her manager, to arrive within a day or two (if not sooner). Her furry companion's absence was felt due to the lack of sound, save Bly's motion and breathing. (Maybe she should crack a window once she returned.) "This Amazon would like to leave this room and get some business done--breakfast being a particular that cannot be ignored."

She rose from her chair, though not without looping the strap of her navy blue purse along her right arm. It contained all things of immediate importance: her room key, wallet, cell phone, and a few unmentionables, among other things. She pulled down her equally blue blouse, aiding its fall to the start of her capri pants. With a final glance in the mirror, she smiled at herself, pleased with her current guise and general well-being. Her feet carried her to the oak-wood entrance of her room, where her sandals rested comfortably at the base of the door. Bly slipped her feet into said sandals, and stepped back, opening the door in the same beat. She exited her room, closing the door behind her as she viewed the interior of the hallway. Her room--324--was located on the the third floor of the Sheridon hotel, so a little trip was required to reach the first level of the hotel. While her room was quite comely by 5-star standards, the most luxurious rooms were located on the upper tiers. Unfortunately, Bly was loath to house herself in such rich settings: the additional space and amenities required another fee (on top of the generous donation she proffered the hotel for letting her stay therein). She had to be careful if she wanted to earn a profit.

She stepped towards the right, gazing amusingly at a few paintings that lined the pearl-licked walls. She wasn't an art expert or even an art major, but she assumed that most of the artwork was much older than the hotel itself. The scenes were interesting, albeit a bit idyllic and unrealistic: a woman having a party with royalty; a man riding a horse with whom Bly assumed was his lady; a young boy and an equally young playing violins with the boy as the girl's teacher; and more recently, a cast of actors and actresses and their audience (separated by a more obvious fourth-wall, on top of what the painting already established). In this day and age, Bly could not imagine herself dressed so ornately and being waited on by a crowd of people; it just didn't work that way in her reality. Besides, the thought was rather embarrassing, though she didn't mind large groups and enthused fans. As much as she was a talented pianist and cherished person, she simply didn't deserve that level of importance: it was a waste of time. She wasn't trying to save the world or offer false hopes for world peace; she simply wanted to live and be happy with her existence. She was doing a relatively good job of that thus far, minus the occasional bumps in the road. Simply, she was happy right now.

Maybe I won't be tomorrow, or even the day after, but right now joy is the mood of the day.

In the midst of her observations, Bly didn't realize that she stood right before the elevator doors. Blinking from her distracted haze, she pressed the downward-pointing button and watched it glow brightly. Then she waited for the inevitable ding that would emit from the metal structure quite periodically. Anytime now . . . In the meantime, she wet her somewhat dry lips, digging into her purse for chap stick. (Maybe her inspection in the mirror hadn't been very thorough.) Once she found the desired item, she smeared a good layer of lip balm over her mouth. She returned the capsule to her purse as she watched the numbers hovering above the elevator. Apparently, the car was heading upward; presently, it was travelling from the first floor to the second. Bly anticipated a long rise before she would be allowed to descend floors. Not much I can do about that . . . She smacked her lips for flavor and smoothness; she'd selected the cherry flavored lip balm--SPF 15. She was definitely good to go.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

2 . . . ding . . . 3 . . . ding . . . What wonders waiting for an elevator car could do for one's patience. Time seemed so irrelevant at this point. Bly just wanted to go downstairs and test the breakfast buffet. Thankfully, before her foot could start tapping to an angry tune the elevator chimed, announcing the car's arrival. The metal doors slid open, and a young couple with locked arms walked past Bly and into the transport. It didn't matter that they made their entrance before she did; Bly was surprised she hadn't heard them coming. She arched a single brow in their direction as she entered the elevator car. They seemed much into themselves, so Bly eventually led her eyes elsewhere. While she spotted others therein, none appeared too distinct as she became settled. She kept quiet for the most part, later noticing a woman decked in a beige work-suit and matching heels. Bly peered into her face, having to crane her neck a bit in order to meet the woman's stature. Golden eyes, short blue locks caressing the corners of her visage, and lips gaped in what Bly would term "surprise": she was definitely pretty, very well dressed, and apparently disturbed. Bly offered a simper, meaning no harm by the seemingly unneeded attention. She half-turned as the elevator doors closed, wrapping a hand around her purse.

Her stomach lurched somewhat forward as the car began to move. As one would predict, the attendants would travel upward before heading to the first floor. A little bit of a wait--no big deal.

The suited woman glanced at the back of Bly's head, a light of discernment shinning within her eyes. While she'd barely had a moment to catch Bly's face, she immediately recognized those brown eyes and the tattoo slithering across the base of her neck. Closing her lips, she prepared to break the silence.

"Amazon," the woman queried as a ding resounded within the cubed area.

Bly turned in the woman's direction, curious as to how she knew the stage name.

"You know me," Bly answered in a questioning tone.

The elevator door opened to let out the couple from before--maybe they shared a room on this floor. Four persons rushed onto the car just in time for the elevator to rise to the fifth level of the hotel.

"Wow, I suppose I do; I never imagined that you would travel abroad, especially to London, England." The young woman paused, a blithe smile spreading from her lips as she held out her hand and the two shook in greeting.

"Heh, well, I thought I'd try out the global community; also, I have family here so I'm killing two birds with one stone."

"Wonderful."

"Yeah, it's nice . . . what's your name, if you don't mind my asking?" Bly felt a little guilty not knowing anything about a potential fan.

"Oh, that's right; excuse my lack of manners, my name is Chioma." Red mixed with soft skin to sculpt a lovely blush that roused the blood in Chioma's cheek. Bly found the display rather amusing, though maintained a reasonable distance during the display of embarrassment.

"Well, Mrs. Chioma, this Amazon is very pleased to meet you."

"Likewise, Amazon."

"So, did you come all this way to see me perform, or are you leaving a poor cuckold at home to wallow in his loneliness?"

Chioma giggled at the mild barb, covering her mouth with her right hand. "Neither, to be honest," she admitted, clearing her throat with a cough as she unveiled her mouth, "I'm actually here on business with a group of fellow US expatriates."

"Interesting, so you're an expat; well, I don't want to keep you from your money or sense of freedom, but if you really do have time tonight . . . stay here for dinner and a show."

"You'll be performing?"

"Yes."

"Original compositions?"

"I'm uncertain at present . . . maybe."

"I see . . . I'll see what I can do, if I return in time."

"All right."

And like that, their little chat ended with Chioma offering Bly her business card. In exchange, Bly gave her blue-haired "fan" an autographed CD--her second release to date.

Upon reaching the first floor, the elevator doors laid agape at the expected ding. Bly's sandals carried her out onto a floor as glossed as a refined pearl. Of course she had already seen the main lobby in all its shine and glamour, but her eyes brooked no resistance to another look-see. She waved to Chioma as the businesswoman exited from the hotel's double doors. The business card was deposited into a purse pocket as Bly sashayed from the spit-shined foyer into the neighboring dining area. As she drew near, it became obvious that breakfast was almost always a joyous occasion at the Sheridon hotel. Rife with chatter and the ting of plates and utensils, the atmosphere was starting to make Bly's stomach a little grouchy. Heh, might as well go to be seated before I starve. She approached a podium, where stood a hostess and an accompanying waitress in matching burgundy threads. Their name-tags read "Ashton" and "Adela," respectively. Of the two, Ashton was the first to answer Bly as her eyes marked a sign of wanting--badly.

"Miss, welcome to the Sheridon hotel's breakfast buffet," spoke Ashton, who elbowed the waitress into summoning a menu, "Do you have a seating preference?"

"Not in particular," Bly rejoined with a polite smile, "I'll leave that decision up to you."

"Very well . . . Adela, will be your waitress for today."

"Please follow me, Miss," requested the young waitress as she led Bly through a stream of corners and open space amongst the clothed tables.

Bly followed without another word spoken, eyeing numerous guests along the way. Perhaps she did not fit in with the lot of this crowd in her "stretch" clothes; it was evident that some diners were very well-off whereas others were just enjoying a day away from life's toil. She wondered if there was another person who knew her as Amazon, other than a few of the hotel staff and Chioma. The guests were generally blameless if they hadn't heard about the pianist yet; as mentioned in her talk with Chioma, she didn't have much of a fan-base outside of the US since she had never ventured too far from home before. Truly, this sort of exposure was somewhat new to her only because she hadn't established a continuing reputation on the European continent. But I'll have time for that in the near future; I'll need to stretch my legs here first.

"Here we are," Adela announced, waving her arm towards the table with a towel-wrapped set of utensils and a single glassed tulip placed on top of its surface.

It was surprisingly simple, yet appropriate, given the majestic detail and splashes of color given to the table cloth.

"Thank you, Adela," Bly voiced, a kind twinkle in her eyes as she seated herself, laying her purse down beneath the table.

"No problem, eh, you'll be needing this." Adela extracted the menu from her grasp and handed it to Bly, who was quick to survey its contents. Adela simpered as she waited, feeling the weight of exhaustion from an early-morning shift.

Bly glanced at the waitress from the corner of her eye, noting the sag behind Adela's light green optics. I guess I'll try to hurry this up . . . make it easier for the both of us.

"Ok," Bly spoke with a start, licking her glossed lips as she paused just a moment, "I would like a fruit salad filled with raspberries, blueberries, strawberries, lychee, apples, and a light sprinkling of plantains."

"Ok, anything else?" Adela was quick to scribe down the constituents of Bly's forthcoming meal, seeming a little more zestful than before.

"Hmm . . ." A rubbing thumb against the side of her chin meant that Bly was having a little trouble coming to a conclusion.

"I suppose I could have a glass of plain soy milk with my breakfast; additionally, I would like oatmeal coated in a thin layer of honey, wheat bread toast, scrambled eggs, two zucchini muffins, and a slice of spinach cheddar quiche."

After listing off her breakfast items, Bly grinned with a hint of accomplishment as she handed her menu to Adela.

"So, will that be all," the waitress inquired, writing up the last item before gazing at a rather pleased-looking Bly.

"Yes, and I thank you for your patience, Miss Adela."

"Not a problem; I should return shortly with your meal." Adela bowed solemnly, her lavender hair fanning over her face. She stepped away without another word and left Bly to her musing and idle amusement with the other diners.

Bly nodded lightly, eyes scanning the table as she unwrapped her eating utensils from what was to be her breakfast napkin. Immediately, she placed the fork, spoon, and knife in what she felt to be their appropriate positions, though she could not be sure due to utter lack of table etiquette. Sure, being polite and having common sense at the dinner table came easy to her, but she certainly didn't know what else there was to acknowledge in that regard.

"This may be right," she said to herself, as she folded the top edge of her napkin into the collar of her blouse, allowing the white length of the cloth to cover her front to about her navel. Once finished with the minor task, her eyes traveled the premises in interest.

Now, while not much could thrill her at this point, she felt that most people were a curiosity in and of themselves. At one corner, she spotted a sheet of crimson curtain, more than likely concealing the stage where she would later play piano. This brought a small grin to her face as her eyes sought another subject. To her left, she spotted a garrulous table, featuring a brunette woman, a man whom Bly assumed was her husband and about five children champing food and chatting at the same time. Now that looked like a very happy table to be seated before, even if one was not likely to be appointed the center of attention. Heh, but it's nice . . . family meals I guess. When she looked toward the right, something, or rather someone, bearing a comely yet somewhat eerie guise caught her eyes. His skin was nearly as pallid as the moon, but quite beautiful, and perhaps blemish-free--at least from this distance. It was hard to zero-in on his gaze, which appeared buried beneath concentration on an array of breakfast foods and lustrous black bangs.

Bly blinked slowly, lowering her head a smidgen as her lips gaped in some wonderment. Something about him struck her as maybe a little familiar, though she had trouble pin-pointing what it was about him that she should be aware of. I've seen a face like his before . . . maybe not entirely the same, but akin to something I've encountered . . . His mere presence seemed to beckon some recent memory, but nothing rose to the forefront of her mind.

In the time that she stared at the faraway stranger, thoughts concerning food, the peal of diners eating and conversing amongst themselves, and her meeting with the stage manager nearly dispersed. But her daze only lasted until she realized how rude the act of staring was, being reminded of a slight miss with Chioma a little earlier. Oye, this is ridiculous . . . even if he hasn't registered to my gaze, I shouldn't just outright stare at him. A sigh fluttered from Bly's lips as she raised her head and directed her eyes towards her hands, quiescent against her lap. Common sense, come on . . . you go through the proper channels to get to know someone, even one as captivating as him. One quick glance, and she determined that a quick hello, and maybe an apology, was in order.

Her stomach growled in pain. But after breakfast.

The tulip was beginning to look quite edible right now.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bly's eyes whispered death and devour to the tulip, whose survival would largely be attributed to Adela's forthcoming return. Eventually, said waitress ambled toward Bly's table balancing a tray of food atop her hands. Strangely, her suit was tag-less, indicating that she had for some reason changed her outfit or misplaced her label. Her eyes were instantly weary this time, though Bly seemed too distracted to notice even at the whiff of sustenance. Adela met Bly's gaze, a brow rising narrowly at the woman's concentration on the flower. Perhaps Bly thought that one tulip was inadequate; Adela really didn't know--nor did she care--and it wasn't her job to provide floral arrangements for hotel guests.

"Miss, I hope I haven't kept you waiting for too long," Adela articulated, a cautious smile sprouting from her smooth lips. She gently set the tray down, making sure all foodstuffs were left undisturbed and in mint condition. Slowly she retraced her steps, pausing only to hear of Bly's approval; Adela seemed ready to relinquish her present duties and speed up the day.

"No . . . no," Bly managed, her eyes rising to a sight that brought color and energy to her dull mood.

"Oh, oh wow," exclaimed the Amazon as her optics roved a landscape of breakfast excellence. All requested items stood before her in a grand and entertaining arrangement. The fruit salad resembled a tilt-a-whirl ride: at the center rested slices of plantains sprinkled with berries, and near the edges of the bowl lychee-apple "cars" sat dangerously close to oblivion. The purlieu of the salad dish contained two medium-sized zucchini muffins; a plate of fluffed scrambled eggs; a pie-slice of spinach cheddar quiche; two pieces of wheat toast; golden brown oatmeal in a flower-print bowl; and lastly, a glass of plain soy milk lounging against the northwest corner of the tray.

Bly released an ecstatic grin, focusing her bright brown eyes on Adela, who watched the Amazon's reaction with relief. Now the waitress could leave and tend to another table; she was nearing the end of the day, and signs of satisfaction only made the terminal much closer.

"I'm glad that the food is to your liking, Miss," the waitress stated, bowing once again for good measure, "Please enjoy your breakfast and the rest of your stay at the Sheridon hotel."

"Heh, I'm certain that I will; thank you for your services."

"You're very welcome, Miss."

Adela nodded once, tiredness more than apparent in her gaze; she strode toward a couple seated six tables down for the next part of her shift. Bly hoped that the waitress would have a break sometime soon. A power nap could do wonders for productivity, even if just for a bit of time.

But that is her role to play in this large establishment; my good wishes can only do so much . . . maybe nothing at all.

Another glance towards her breakfast feast, Adela became little more than a memory in Bly's mind. She clapped her hands together and slid them apart as her right hand plucked a mixture of berries from the tilt-a-whirl. She dropped the fruit into her waiting mouth, champing on the tender skin and freeing seeds and colored streams for her taste buds to sample. Instantly, her eyes squinted from the burst of sugar; what a tang in the mouth that was. She inhaled once, swallowed, and then let out a breath in the same moment. Her other samplings required less tightening of the eyes, and for that she was grateful. Usually the first burst was the most troubling when she consumed sweet things. Some foods she couldn't tolerate at all. Honey and fruit were about all that she could handle.

Well, at least the worst is over . . . now there's just smooth sailing.

Bly prepared to combine a plantain with a slice of toast when the male stranger from before spoke, facing her with unmoving eyes. She froze like a deer caught in the headlights. Had he known of her stare? Did he simply ignore the infringement of peace? How had he been aware when he wouldn't even look at her? Her mind fumbled for an answer to her queries, but none appeared. Brown eyes moved from the tray to the young man's dark cloak which shielded his body from her vision. She blinked, her optics lifting to a pair of apple red orbs, unfocused and unknowing of her attention. Bly's look revealed utter confusion. As she listened to him speak, addressing her earlier examination, she wondered how he could know of her location without looking at her.

How? That is . . . unless he's . . .

And then it clicked with another perusal of his red eyes. They never moved, apparently. A minor haze coated their enigmatic depths. His pupils reacted to the lighting of the dining area, which was normal regardless of sight impairment. By now, the symptoms were much too obvious and Bly was surprised she hadn't noticed before. The young man was blind; he couldn't see her. And yet he knew where she was.

But I never called to him . . .

By now, the darkly clad man had turned to his meal having finished his commentary. His final words:

"Enjoy your breakfast madam.”

It was difficult to eat while his presence was much too puzzling. Moreover, he seemed to excuse her stare as something of an educational nature rather than mere intrusion. He didn't wish to rob her of the privilege to see what she wished--a privilege he lacked, it seemed.

"Will do, Sir," she rejoined in a quiet tone, trying the plantain and holding the slice of toast at bay.

It was wrong to think that she pitied him in any manner. Certainly his condition was his lot in life, and not something inherently terrible. It was beyond his control, as were other disorders affecting relatively able-bodied folk. He was quite capable from what she saw: he didn't need eyes to locate her. He likely possessed more secrets and repertoire than she cared to guess. Still, she didn't pity him. Rather, his words led her to another line of thought.

"Sir," she called to him, her eyes centering on his pale face, "In this instance, it causes you no vexation if I stare at you?"

She paused a moment, her eyes flitting from his face to her hands, still holding the half-eaten slice of plantain and toast. She lowered the items to the salad bowl as she concentrated on his visage once more.

"I’m of two minds. On one hand, I am personally embarrassed on my own behalf because this is something that I try my best to avoid."

An image of the Amazon's father reprimanding a much younger Bly came to mind; it was incorrect given the context of her present circumstances. He never taught her this particular lesson--Tami beat some sense into her.

"Undoubtedly your physical appearance is quite a draw. But I feel as though I’ve objectified you, and it would have been best for me to say something first, even if you did know that I was gaping at you."

Chioma's potential embarrassment came to mind at this, though that particular situation was slightly nuanced. Chioma had recognized a pianist, though that had probably been her second observation on top of seeing a much taller woman stare her in the face. While not being of the same exact nature, the two situations seemed purposeful in thought and memory.

"But on the other hand, if you really aren’t bothered by my stare, then I should have nothing to worry about. It’s never my place to tell someone how he should feel . . . maybe I am just exploring and experiencing the unknown, but both actions usually require an exchange of some sort."

Having made her chief sentiments known, Bly felt a little bolder in her position, though she couldn't tell whether the man listened to her or not. A light smile graced her features as she calmly cleared her throat, leaning forward a bit, though the gesture may have been unnecessary.

"I thank you for breaking the silence with such aplomb; I know I've said a lot, possibly a little too much, but I appreciate your words."

Perhaps an apology was unneeded.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Little forethought had ever determined Bly's comfort in sharing a piece of her mind. She tended not to over-think her choices or words as a result. Bly freed whatever words floated to the surface so long as they suited the occasion. In this instance, she could not predict the response thereafter but hoped the young man would humor her a bit. She desired a verbal exchange--a gateway to other realms of conversation. She wanted for her thoughtful and somewhat aimless words to break the ice further. This beautiful stranger had certainly surprised her more than once this morning. There was much more to be sought in Bly acquainting herself with the gentleman, especially if he expressed some interest in her.

Maybe I shouldn't have babbled on like that. I haven't had much nourishment, so I couldn't guarantee good pacing or a clearly made point.

Strangely, a positive rejoinder did not seem possible until Bly witnessed the flow of words herself. How flattered she was that he liked her attention, though she considered a stare a simple act of wanting. She felt somewhat calmer, her smile more naturally level with the emotion of her eyes. Maybe there was more to share with him; she'd like to think that there were few barriers to getting to know the young man better.

“I see,” she voiced with a start, lowering her eyes as her finger silenced the itch of a brow, "Then I'm glad to have let slip this behavioral precept, as it has connected two people from different tables."

Even with his words of appreciation, Bly expected him to remain confined to his table. She still had a breakfast meal to attend to, and he was readying a croissant for consumption. This was a beginning, a first step to acquaintanceship. She thought he would desire an abrupt end to consider his food, as breakfast was a most important meal. But nimbly he rose from his chair with another intention. His steps were precise and calculated, careful with regard to his capabilities. Bly wondered how his blindness had affected his manner of walking. Browns eyes detected the movement of his lips, mouthing units of travel as he crossed the carpet floor.

Treading as though he measures the steps . . . most likely with practice and remembrance.

He soon stood before her, his tall figure dwarfing her height. His body cast a shadow against Bly's face, encouraging the widening of her eyes. Her gaze rose higher just to engulf the structure of his face--she never imagined that he would be this close so soon. His request was no less exciting, though reason convinced Bly that his sight would be different. Really, how could he stare at her without seeing eyes?

“To stare," the Amazon maundered as hands neared the skin of her face, "But how would you . . . oh."

Now two things occurred to Bly within a matter of seconds: firstly, in another context this could be deemed a violation of space; secondly, the young man had knowledge of her real name without her making mention of it. She was utterly perplexed, wondering what more he knew. What were his sources of Intel? Her eyebrows rose two inches too high. She attempted to divert the direction of his hands as she started to lean back. But once his fingertips touched the layer of skin she could move no longer. The chill stopped her, as did the gentle pressure he applied to his observance. Slowly, she realized what his eyes could not convey his hands made up for. His fingers were quite meticulous, roving the corners, hills, and depressions of her face. Starting from the curvature of her lips and trailing fingers to the chin, his touch produced a twitch to her jaw and the contracting of muscle. It wasn't that she was uncomfortable or resistant--far from it actually. He just felt so icy, and that coupled with the wan hue of his flesh made her wonder if he was anemic. Of course, that conclusion appeared less likely given his semblance of health and wellness. With his broad shoulders, well-defined cheekbones and prominent nose, she couldn't fathom the condition of his skin. (Perhaps he had handled a cold beverage before reaching her.) That much would remain a mystery for now; she couldn't focus heavily on unknowns as he spoiled her with attention.

A fire swelled within her cheeks providing a counterweight to the coldness of his fingers. He seemed almost tempted to pinch her face but instead continued upward, lowering the height of her eyebrows in soft strokes. She blinked softly as his hands paused, his mouth working to form some expression of appreciation. She stared into his face, visibly blushing though she believed the reaction went underneath the radar. His hands reminded her of children who marveled at her appearance, only to finger her skin and hair. In memory, Tami's twin daughters would usually feel the plumpness of Bly's lips and cheeks when she held them tightly in her arms. Sure, they often tugged her dark curls and poked an eye or two, causing Bly to promptly set them down, but the gesture was endearing.

What this man had displayed was a mixture of necessity, desire, and tenderness. Bly didn't know how quite to feel about his motion, though her body welcomed it gladly. She could not judge his "stare" on the same scale as visual stares she had received before. His was different. It colored his interest in a more genuine light, and for that she believed that she was really starting to fancy this fellow. His fingers didn't scream an excuse to touch her; the young man actually wanted to "see" her.

Maybe this is all going to my head a little too much.

His hands wandered from her face, tracing the air until he found her right hand. Bly pressed her lips together once she discovered his cold yet gentle grip. Her eyes lit up briefly as his mouth tickled the back of her hand, proffering a gesture that she seldom received from anyone outside of male family members. It was quite venerable in nature and so scarce an act that she assumed it a dead element of chivalry. Though clearly, chivalry as a whole was not extinct, and in this moment his name was Abraxas.

"Abraxas," Bly enunciated in a careful tone, powering the motor of her lips to speak the name again.

It was like scripture etched into the bark of a centenarian oak: while one may not ascribe distinct meaning to its text, its permanence left the impression of importance and history. Somehow, she knew historical record lay behind the name, though this was her first encounter with a man named Abraxas. Truly, the appellation suited one such as him; neither Abraxas nor his name were viewed all too negatively, though Bly knew there was still much to comprehend.

Abraxas was undeniably a person of interest, a figure of charm and personality, though a tad enigmatic. He left Bly wanting to hear more with each word he uttered.

Unfortunately, as his grasp slackened until her right hand was free, Bly knew he intended to leave. His time was up as he likely noticed Bly's mostly uneaten breakfast. He claimed himself a glutton of Bly's time; Bly wished he would stay longer. She would only refuse to eat in his presence until abstinence became ridiculous. Perhaps waiting in general was the object of ridicule. Either way, it was best he leave for now.

Before long, Abraxas bid Bly adieu, thanking her for allowing him his "visual" liberties. This brought a hand to Bly's right cheek, which had retained its heat.

"You're . . . you're very welcome," Bly nearly whispered as she watched Abraxas retrace his steps and take his seat before his remaining victual, "Another time, then." Her hand fell to her lap after a small caress and pinch of said cheek.

Her eyes watched him briefly as he messily smeared condiments on a croissant. There were no visible changes in mood or signs of complaint; he just did what he could it seemed. His disposition was quite admirable and practical. Really, there was no point in fussing over what one couldn't control. He could still feed himself--that mattered most.

Bly eventually faced her tray of food, sighing as she closed her eyes and tried to wish away her crimson cheeks. Her glossed lips molded a grin when all her concentration accomplished was making the redness more noticeable. Hopefully food would calm her down . . . take her mind off of things. Slowly, her eyes opened to the remnants of toast and plantain laid atop the tilt-a-whirl salad. Her stomach annunciated its ire once more after being neglected yet again. She couldn't blame the organ: no man or woman should come between Bly's stomach and its edibles. Her hands rubbed her gut abruptly, only to spring forward and grab a muffin and spoon. Chomping on the vegetable muffin she sampled spoonfuls of oatmeal that had cooled considerably. Of course, temperature was of no concern. Bly needed to eat something lest she faint from malnourishment later in the day.

And surely no pianist deserved to starve, especially not Bly.

Roleplaying Entry #3: The Walking Dead

All was quiet as the sun began to rise, casting its dire glow upon the streets of Winchester. Wrecked cars smoked with dying embers, calling to memory the chaos that ensued in the wake of the apocalypse. Reanimated corpses seemed to rouse from slumber, stretching their sinewy limbs toward the sky. Zombies; walkers; biters; runners. Mya didn't care about the labels anymore. They were a pest, a nuisance, a boogeyman brought to life. They scared the living daylights out of her. Mya wondered if perhaps humanity was being punished. Scientists had warned the public about the rise of superbugs, rapid changes in climate and the resurgence of diseases nearly vanquished in the western world. Perhaps all this had been a cocktail for mother nature's vengeance. "Well, she picked a fine time to make a fuss," Mya muttered under her breath, shaking as she crawled behind collision debris, scouting the area for zombies. Most appeared to be calm and sluggish, finding nothing mouth-watering to chase. Mya was one of the unfortunate few still left in town.

As far as she knew her mother and stepfather were both dead. She had last seen them driving northward to find her cousins who were stranded. They left her to man the fort and keep herself from starving and becoming infected. Home offered a reliable supply of canned goods and freshwater. Mya's stepfather had even left her a few tablets to prevent dehydration. She regretted not accompanying them, though she had little to offer in the way of skill. "Probably would have gotten them killed, as useless as I am," she moped while slowly standing up, dusting off her jeans. With her heart racing she jaunted toward a nearby wooden shack. She pressed her back against its frame as she peaked around the corner. Her destination stood some distance away: a lone gas station out in the middle of the desert. It was closer to home than the big chain stores which were desolate and empty.

She had been a patron of the little pit stop though she hardly spent a dime. The prices were generally marked up to attract unknowing tourists desperate for fuel. It was not uncommon for customers to shell out twelve, fifteen or even twenty dollars for food and drink. Considering the stiff competition from giants such as BP and Shell the gas station owners did what they could to survive the market. Things had changed, however. Money had lost most of its appeal. Weeks into the disaster most shop owners either slashed their prices or provided donations to weary survivors. Money wouldn't get them very far unless one could afford to live in a safe haven. Mya ran her fingers over her head feeling short hairs starting to bulb. "Hope they got some razors left; could use some lotion while I'm at it." She gripped the straps of her backpack as she made a dash for the gas station. She was growing anxious out in the desert heart, feeling insecure and unsafe out in the open.

A zombie nearly caught her off guard, its weak body sprawled out on the desert sand. Its mouth came close to nipping her ankle but she managed to leap across it. Mya stumbled a bit, almost falling to her hands and knees as she clumsily hit one of the gas pumps. She was shaking again, partly from fear and exhaustion. She wiped her brow, trying to catch her breath. Her trimmers didn't stop. "Man, I hope they have beef jerky or something," she heaved, leaning her hand against the front door of the station mart. She fumbled with the handle, shakily pulling the door open and letting herself in. Almost immediately she was overcome by the smell of rotten food and piss. She plugged her nose to ward off the noxious scent. Her shoes were already wet from the putrid water staining the floor. "Shit, that's nasty," Mya exclaimed as she scraped her feet against a piece of cardboard. She slowly made her way down one of the small aisles trying to avoid wet surfaces like the plague. She grimaced the further she walked, finding shelves knocked over and food spoiling on the ground.

She cautiously approached the cash register, pausing once she heard groans and nails scratching against wood. She noticed a door behind the counter with a placard forbidding customer entry. A small handwritten note jittered with movement as the door was pushed with a feeble force. The note read, "Danger, do not open." Mya heeded its message and warily stood at the counter. A small shrine had been erected in honor of a dead loved one. Ashes from burnt incenses dirtied the counter top dusting over a few small offerings. Mya stared at several slim jim sticks, some cans of food and a bouquet of dead flowers. Her tummy grumbled as she hungrily eyed the goods. Her hand reached out to grab all that she could carry but she hesitated upon seeing a picture of a family at the center of the shrine. Her lips flattened into a small line as she took just one slim jim and a can of beans, leaving the remains untouched.

She looked away as though embarrassed and sauntered toward one of the nearby walls. She tore the wrapping from her slim jim and began devouring it, nearly drooling once it hit her tongue. Her eyes scanned the shelves and brightened once she found a package of Bic razors and some jars of vaseline. "Thank goodness." Mya grinned as she began stashing her loot into her backpack. The dankness of the gas station seemed to bother her less and less.

Roleplaying Entry #2: Serial killer admiring the scenery

It was midday when the Riverside county police department received a call regarding a man and woman found dead in a local park. A very distraught father had the misfortune of walking his children to the playground that morning only to bear witness to the macabre scene and the hectic screams of his kids. He first made a call for his partner to retrieve the children before dialing the authorities. With great unease he described the location and condition of the bodies, staying until the police arrived for further questioning. A crowd gathered as police officers rolled yellow caution tape around the perimeter of the park. People were in shock and awe of the violence now inhabiting what was thought to be a safe and quiet environment. Toni stood among the crowd feigning an equal measure of trauma on her features. She had come riding on her dark green bike, earbuds dangling around her neck. Her hooded jacket rustled with motion as a current of wind chilled her skin. She felt bursting with excitement and arousal, observing her audience to see how they received her latest work in progress.

The models she chose were a couple, a man and a woman she had spotted walking late at night across an overpass. She had followed them to a public restroom, killing them individually while they were both isolated in their separate restrooms. She dragged the bodies to the park bringing with her a knife and suturing equipment. She stripped the bodies of their clothes and belongings and sliced through the skin, removing their hearts and intestines. She bound their arms together and sewed a line of intestines from atrium to atrium, connecting their plump and bleeding hearts. The remains of the intestines were strung up around the playground like ribbons on a Christmas tree. Admittedly she didn't know what to do with them at the time and hoped their presence did not hinder the metaphor she was trying to construct. She almost grinned in recollection, wondering if someone might see her creation as she had intended.

Love as a physical bond, and to a smaller degree, love as a spiritual bond. Like the red string of fate that ties one person to a kindred spirit. Like an embrace that draws two lovers together while in the throes of passion. One could see the concern and misery etched into the features of the man and woman, as though they had been forced to watch each other die helplessly. Toni had chosen them for this express purpose, to symbolize the corporal endearment of two people in love. Her breath quickened as her eyes swept the area, acknowledging the many grief-stricken faces that could not fathom what they were seeing. She immediately became aware of a youth standing at her left side, his eyes studying the corpses as they were photographed and sampled for evidence. Her pupils dilated in the presence of a new stimulus. She cleared her throat to gain his attention, her face bearing the same gloomy facade as before. "Terrible, isn't it?" She cupped her hands around her lips, blowing a puff of warm arm into her palms. She smiled meekly at the stranger, taking in his dark attire and tall presence. "I've heard of various murders in the county but this is probably the first one I've seen so close to home."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Toni's brow arched in question at his statement: she was a little impressed with David's ability to contextualize seemingly isolated events. "I see," she hummed pleasantly as she leisurely kicked up a clump of dirt. She cupped her chin in her right hand, gesturing for him to continue with a wave of her left. "So, you think the person responsible for this crime has done something similar in the past?" She smiled sheepishly, rubbing the back of her head as she straightened out her back. Her eyes appraised his form curiously as he listed off several homicides, some of which she had executed herself. She wasn't sure if she should feel flattered or threatened by his seeming interest in serial killings. "Yeah, I'm aware of some of those cases," she confessed with a touch of bashfulness in her tone.

"My mom is a crime scene investigator . . . she talks about work, a lot." She smiled warmly to herself, reminiscing on some of the discussions she had with her mother regarding her work for the county. She and her mother seemed to be on opposite ends of the spectrum; it was a bizarre game of cat and mouse, where the conclusion might render an otherwise happy family a chaotic and tragic mess. Toni had to stay at least twelve yards ahead of everyone else, lest she be found out and her work remain unfinished. Her life depended on her craft: she preferred to end the lives of others in lieu of bleeding herself dry in a bathtub.

She rubbed small circles into her sleeves, monitoring the bodies as they were stored in black rubber bags. She almost didn't hear David's introduction as he extended his hand into her line of vision. Her eyes blinked rapidly as her silent reflections dissipated from her mind. She focused her eyes on him and gingerly grasped his hand, pursing her lips in mild amusement. "David," she murmured softly, "that's a nice name." She shook his hand with a harmless grip, releasing it after a brief moment of contact. "The name's Toni," she remarked easily. Her tongue brushed over her lips as she gawked at him, drawn in by his inviting gaze. "So," she started, her arms folding beneath her bosom, "you live around here?"

Roleplaying Entry #1: Taboo Charming Aunt

My first entry for this blog. I intend to post some writings such as poems and short stories. But I would also like to store a couple of my attempts at roleplaying. They will seem a bit disconnected because I won't submit the writing of my partners, just myself.

So the first one involves a woman named Carla who is about to engage in an incestuous, and potentially abusive, relationship with her nephew. So triggering warning! This one is unfinished and I doubt that I will ever complete it. There may be some weird text and background colors and hyperlinks. I will try to remove them as I copy and paste. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Carla found herself in a dark and dimly lit hotel reception oom, music blasting as party guests danced the night away. The space had been reserved for the wedding after party, the wedding itself already a faint joyous memory one could relive in photographs and video recording. She was a mix of emotions: happy for her sister and her new husband; excited to see family and friends gathered in the celebration of new beginnings; and, unfortunately, dreading the prospect of picking up an unsuspecting fellow like an opportunistic divorcee. Of course she was an opportunistic divorcee and she had been down this road more than once before. But she felt rather bitter about it in light of her sister's new found joy. Not that anyone cared but she felt a bit like a vulture, although she did very little scavenging herself at these sort of events. She dazzled men effortlessly sporting shoulder length curls, a curvaceous form and large brown eyes.

Purples and greens were often her shadows of choice, providing her irises with an almost fire-like glow. Some of her paramours likened her to Beyonce, Marilyn Monroe, and even Liz Taylor, women having an art for wearing their sex and passion like a glove. Carla felt she had no such talent but who was she to deny a compliment. She liked sex and romance. She liked her single life. But she wondered if she would remarry, now approaching her forties and with no nuptials in sight. She pressed her knees together while seated at the bar, straightening the skirt of her blue bodycon dress. She rose her palm to request another mixed drink from the bartender. Long Islands were her usual poison but she indicated to the barkeep that she would like to be surprised. She laid a twenty dollar bill on the bartop, catching the bartender's eye with a smile. He grinned while gifting her with a sunset hued beverage.

She rose the glass to her rose painted lips, tasting a hint of peach on her tongue. She grinned coyly to the bartender and nodded her approval. "And what do you call this?" He smiled handsomely wiping the counter down with a wet towel. "Haven't got a name, it's my own specialty," he quipped with a waggle of his brow. Carla hummed to herself in amusement while taking another sip. "I see, well I rather enjoy it--peach drinks are a weakness of mine." Carla chuckled to herself, maintaining eye contact with the barkeep. He looked like he was about to say something more just as another patron waved him down. He nodded toward the person but seemed reluctant to part with Carla. "I thought as much," he surmised briefly. "But just hold that thought," he said suggesting a promise to engage her at a later time. He winked as he walked off to the side. "Ok," Carla replied as she turned her attention toward the people on the dance floor. In the distance she could see her nephew and what seemed to be a group of friends gathered around a table. They appeared to be chugging down drinks, perhaps to gather the nerve to dance like idiots.

She felt a little concerned, not sure if he would get in trouble considering his age. "Guess they didn't consider pre-gaming before arriving, not with the prospect of free alcohol." Suddenly she felt rather familial. She stood up from her seat and made her way over to his table. She took her glass with her not wanting to throw caution to the wind just yet. She would humor the bartender at a later time. There was always time for that. "Hey nephew," she called out to him. "You and your boys seem to be going at it a little hard, don't you think? Why not cherish the buzz a little; trust me, your liver will thank you." She giggled to herself betraying the fact that she was a little tipsy. But she was a legal adult, she could handle herself. Her nephew on the other hand seemed a little out of his league. "You're dressed too handsomely to be looking shit-faced at your mom's wedding." She motioned to brush down his tuxedo with her hand, seeing the fabric was starting to wrinkle.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Well someone has to be an adult," she replied jokingly. "And you're not getting far with that sort of flattery, however, I do appreciate the compliment." She smiled prettily and took a seat next to him, figuring she should spend some time with the kiddies. Of course not long after taking a seat it appeared the booth was soon deserted, save her and her nephew, Jacob. With just two of them at the booth Carla became a little more aware of Jacob's gaze. She thought it somewhat unlike him to admire her so publicly. Perhaps it was the drink's persuasion. Of course it wasn't strange for a nephew to call his aunt beautiful, she just found the gesture a tad uncharacteristic. She looked at him warmly feeling quite happy for him and his new father. The two were very handsome men. She considered her sister lucky to have them both. It suddenly dawned on her that he had casually placed a hand on her leg, asking about her drink. She gaped at him openly, raising a brow in question. Now he seemed to be getting fresh with her. "Well, it's peach flavored; it doesn't have an official name according to the bartender."

She took a shallow sip of her drink, catching a whiff of his whiskey. She set her glass down and gave him an incredulous look. "How much whiskey have you had tonight?" she queried, pinching his hand with her fingertips. She whistled in awe of his strong taste. "Jacob, you really need to be careful . . . you're drinking enough to self-medicate." She pursed her lips together and stared at her manicured nails for a moment. "Are you feeling upset about something?" Carla knew from experience how comforting alcohol could be. It had the added bonus of making some experiences even better, though in moderation. She scanned the room briefly, spotting her sister and her husband at the center of the dance floor, basking in the afterglow of wedded bliss. They seemed rather happy while their kid seemed like he didn't want to be there. Carla offered the remains of her glass to Jacob, sighing exasperatedly. "It's not as strong as whiskey, but I would rather you had something a little lighter on your stomach. I don't want you to get sick."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"That's too much," she pointed out with a playful grin, accepting the glass to prevent him from imbibing even more. She braced herself as she tossed back a quarter of the drink, crinkling her nose as it stung the back of her throat. "God," she barked in surprise, "I really don't know how you can handle this." She almost didn't hear him when he described his step father as a lecherous man. She was briefly distracted from his hand continuing to fondle her leg. She giggled to herself, the whiskey beginning to compound on her state of drunkenness. She drank more of the whiskey and pondered what he had told her. "So, my sister knows nothing about his arrests?" she questioned sardonically wondering how her husband's permanent record did not once come into question. She felt comforted in the thought that he did not pose an immediate danger to her sister. But infidelity was not something she wanted Rebecca to experience; it had been the breaking point of her own marriage. "I guess Rebecca and I are somewhat unlucky in that respect," Carla grumbled while humorously bumping her shoulder against her nephew.

She looked quite apologetic when he reminded her of his allergy, touching a hand to her chest in earnest. "No need to thank me, Jacob, I nearly killed you." As she took another swig of whiskey she felt his hand skirt along her inner leg. She nearly spat out her drink in surprise. With a dazed look in her eyes she stilled his hand by placing a palm over his. Her vision beginning to blur she gawked at his chest, not sure if she could maintain an eye-level gaze without looking unbalanced. She felt alarmed that he had ruffled her feathers so to speak. She could feel her heart beat picking up, her breaths coming out in whiskey scented pants. She swallowed a gulp, thinking it best to end whatever this was before he started to impact her further. "Jacob, dear, I don't think you're aware of yourself . . . perhaps you should retire for the night." She realized with a growing sense of dread that this exchange was beginning to excite her. She had yet to lift his hand which was perilously close to the hem of her garter. "I may actually need to leave myself, seems I left your mother's wedding gift in my room," she admitted with a sheepish grin.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She didn't expect him to continue teasing her leg but he did so in spite of the weight of her palm. She tried to pull her arm away, wanting to relinquish his hold on her. His grip was firm and in her condition she only succeeded in drawing herself closer to his frame. She stared at him in wonder, knowing it would be a bad idea if he accompanied her to her room. But in the back of her mind she hand the faintest curiosity as to what might transpire behind closed doors. "I-I should be fine, J-J-Jacob," she stuttered with slurred speech, now becoming increasingly more aware of his proximity and his intent. "You can stay if you want, I was only worried about you. But I definitely need to go." She simpered in his presence, but her smile slowly faded into an agape expression as he leaned in and pressed his lips to her neck. Her breath quickened in horror and excitement as his lips trailed up to her ear.

He teased her regarding her drunkenness but she could barely process his words. Her cheeks were flushed with heat and she rubbed her thighs together, not exactly understanding the way her body was reacting. Jacob was her nephew. She had known him since he was a baby and now he was a bright and handsome young man. She couldn't fathom why he would be doing this to her. She tried once again to disengage herself from him as she became aware of his mouth and tongue at her ear lobe. "I really need to go," she panicked, clumsily removing herself from her seat. She nearly knocked over the half-forgotten glasses on the table. She paused scanning the room, hoping they had not drawn any unnecessary attention to their booth. Certainly no one could hear them over the loud music and the room was too dark to identify either of them clearly. They could easily be perceived as perfect strangers. But Carla was all too aware of their relatedness. Her body seemed to betray her, however. She wanted to escape, to deal with her increasingly indecent thoughts in private. She motioned to leave through the throng of dancers, no longer looking her nephew in the eye for fear of what he might see.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Carla's vision became less clear as disco lights and gyrating bodies began to blend into a kaleidoscope of shapes and colors. Her breath quickened as she brought a hand to her head, blinking rapidly to dispel her muddled vision. Jacob helped steady her by placing his hands at her sides. She almost appreciated the gesture inspite of his opportunistic behavior. She pressed her back against his shoulder for balance, conceding that the trek to her room would be arduous without help. She really had no choice in whether he stayed with her or not: he would not accept her refusal. His wicked phrasing urged her to quicken her step as an agonizing heat colored her face. She wished she could ignore the meaning behind his obscene statement. She wanted to believe that he was just toying with her, falling prey to the whims of his drink. How could he possibly see her as anything other than a loving aunt? Why did his present demeanor seem to betray her relation to him? "Jacob, please, don't say that," she implored weakly, "you're just drunk, you don't know what you're saying."

Perhaps it was easier to blame the alcohol instead of holding him accountable. Already he had groped her beneath a table and left a trail of kisses down her neck. She shouldn't encourage his performance, yet she seemed strangely unable to order him to stop in no uncertain terms. She squinted her eyes at the blaring lights of the hallway outside the reception room. She shielded her eyes with her hands while Jacob led them toward a nearby elevator. The elevator faced the reception entrance from just across the hall. With Jacob's assistance Carla managed to remain on her feet without a single misstep. Upon arriving at the elevator she lowered one hand to press the fifth floor button. Haphazardly she pushed more than one as her hand slid across the number dial. "Great," she muttered beneath her breath. She sighed in embarrassment, shrugging her shoulders as she turned to speak with her nephew. She felt a tad insecure facing him so she settled for staring at a wobbling view of his lips. She seemed to gawk at his mouth with her lips pressed together; her eyes averted to his gaze instead but that did nothing to improve her speechlessness.

The affection in his eyes was a little unnerving. Why did he have to look at her like this? Like he was infatuated with her . . . "Oh, oh my," she gasped, suddenly realizing what his true intent may have been. The opening of the elevator door provided her an opportunity to turn away from him as she stepped inside, his body following closely behind hers. She faced the back of the elevator, its metal wall reflecting a cloudy likeness of Carla and Jacob, with his hands still pressed at her hips. She suddenly felt very naked in his embrace. She lowered her head and folded her arms around her bosom.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Carla's breathing normalized as the elevator car began its ascent. It wouldn't be long before she entered her secure and private hotel suite. She worried that Jacob might wish to join her for the sole pleasure of driving her further into madness. He seemed to be doing a good job of it thus far. She was too weak and intoxicated to physically resist him so there was nothing preventing him from barging into her room. She gave him a sideways glance before lowering her eyes to her trembling arms. There was still time to plan an escape, a distraction, just something to place distance between him and herself. "Jacob, please just listen to me," she pleaded in a quiet voice, her jaw taut with tension. Unfortunately before she could finish her statement the elevator came to an abrupt halt, driving her forcefully off balance. She lurched forward, nearly faceplanting into the back wall of the carrier. Dazed and confused she shot her nephew a withering look from the corner of her eyes. Her pupils dilated in horror at what she saw--Jacob's fist slammed against the emergency pushbutton. He was preventing the car from reaching its destination.

Her body shuddered under his weight as he flattened her against the wall. His lips grazed her skin in a tantalizingly slow manner, summoning a pained moan from her lips. She panted fearfully as the confined space of the elevator car magnified his presence. He seemed to occupy the air in her lungs, the sweat of her brow and even the fabric of her dress and undergarments. In her mind he was becoming more and more like a beast that wished to devour her whole. If she could even hope to reason with him she would need to offer him something, make him feel as though he was already the victor. His hands stroked the fabric covering her hips, kneading her flesh tenderly but in an unpracticed manner. Maybe this was his first time doing something of this nature. Under that assumption perhaps she could bargain with him; she needed an opportunity to call for help using the emergency phone. She arched her neck higher as he came within an inch of kissing her mouth.

She peered directly into his eyes, her hands massaging his chest as she slowly drew them up the length of his shoulders. One hand needled through his hair while the other caressed the back of his neck. With great trepidation she pressed her lips to the corner of his mouth. Warm breaths wafted over his lips as she contemplated her next words carefully. "Jacob, it's hard for me to relax in such a cramped space," she murmured in a soft and hushed tone. "It's uncomfortable, my legs are tired." She cautiously drew one of her legs between his thighs, her head laid against the wall of the elevator. Her eyes fell timidly to the collar of his tuxedo as she did not wish to see his expression as she stroked his crotch with her thigh. "Maybe I can help you to relax . . . you've been spoiling me all night." She giggled weakly, a tiny smile spreading across her face. She swept her palm around the corner of his ear, her fingers tracing the networks of cartilage. "Is there some way I can help you relax?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Carla's eyes widened in astonishment as her nephew enveloped her lips in a feverish kiss. She felt deprived of air, her fingers desperately clawing into his shoulders. This was not the outcome she had been expecting. She mentally reprimanded herself for attempting to bargain with Jacob for her release. Although he saw through her scheme he seemed to offer her one small victory by permitting the elevator car to ascend to the fifth floor. The elevator managed to stop twice in route to its destination. Each time no one stood on the outside waiting to be transported to the another floor. Each time the metal doors closed Carla had even less hope of getting away. She had no space to maneuver around Jacob. He eliminated the remaining distance between their bodies when he kissed her, drawing his chest toward her bosom with his legs straddling her right thigh. She pressed her palms against his chest, attempting to push him away as she squirmed beneath him. She kept her lips closed to deny him her compliance. Mistakenly she took one moment of respite to take in precious breaths of air. This allowed his tongue entry as it beat against the roof of her mouth, his breath pervading the hollow nook of her throat.

Perhaps it was because she was drunk, but suddenly she felt sharply aware of his wanton desires. His breath tasted like sex, summoning fervent moans from the back of her throat. Her voice was swallowed by his mouth as he grazed her lips hungrily. She was beginning to lose focus and energy, her protests becoming minor pushes and shoves. She took a sharp intake of breath as she felt his hand crawl beneath her dress. She tried to yank his arm away but the effort was futile. She reflexively gnawed on his lower lip, her breasts craning over the top of his chest as he fondled her genitals. Each stroke of his fingers was magnified thanks to the alcohol in her system. She captured his arm in a feeble grip as she felt a growing warmth at the base of her torso. She felt mildly embarrassed that he was beginning to unravel her in such a public location. Carla didn't realize they had arrived to the fifth floor until the elevator doors opened rather abruptly. A young woman wearing unicorn print pajamas stood out front, her foot hammering the ground in an impatient manner.

Her eyebrows rose in confusion at the shameless display before her eyes. Carla acknowledged the woman with a bashful expression, her eyes unfocused and clouded over with lust. She could do nothing to untangle herself from her nephew and appeared reluctant to do so. "Okay," the woman muttered in disbelief, "I"ll just take the stairs then." She lifted her arms in exasperation and turned immediately to her right. She shook her head in annoyance, realizing she had wasted her precious time only to be rewarded with such an outlandish scene. Carla's eyes followed her until she was no longer in view.