open to: everyone | @ashwickstarters
location: outskirts of town, pope’s dookie lil trailer
Twelve strikes from the clock on the wall, and Pope knew that he had to pull every blind closed. A rattle marked the completion of every moment, a ticking conducted by him as dark engulfed the trailer. The blinds smacked the window sill, the curtains screeched against their rusted rods, and the towel he shoved under the crack of each door was tucked away with a clank against the metal barriers.
Pope had been taught that once the midnight came, right and wrong battled. Good and bad had the chance to fight and decide who would take over the witching hour and he was to be weary. The moon beckoned the worst of creatures— and according to Orla Callaway, and quite possible Pope himself— and he’d hide in the dark from it. The shadows, however, never lasted long. Once he fell asleep, as he always did no matter how hard he tried not to, hues returned behind his eyes. Twisted tales whether he liked it or not still reached him, and Pope always woke up outside of the trailer without a clue as to when he climbed out.
There was a rustling outside, and Pope stopped in his routine. There was a tug on every hair on his body, heart the only movement as it raced in his chest. Was he late? There was no way. He started at the first click, and he was done before the cuckoo’s song was done. He could make it to the back of the trailer and under another veil into the dark in just a few steps. Never had he heard a single sound, not even after Orla moved out. It was only now that she was gone that things seemed out of place, even if he didn’t want to admit.
Instead of submitting to the stillness of the trailer, Pope reached into a drawer and pulled free a flare buried between trinkets for emergencies. The door protested against his push, and he hurled himself into the night.
“What’s out there?” His voice was steady, cutting through the air farther than he thought it would. Pope knew better than to ask who. “Come out!”
wealthy ceo and entrepreneur by day, monster by night. as much as charlotte yam is regaled within her inner circles as an embodiment of grace and elegance, the fact is that the only life she truly remembers is one as a predator. and like any proper predator, she stalks around her prey through thick branches, blurry mists, pitch darkness ─ everything that would put the victim at disadvantage against her polished vampire senses. in other words, when thinking of night stalkers creeping in bushes, the image of a chanel perfumed businesswoman in velvet two-pieces is probably not the first one to show up in the dictionary.
experience has taught charlotte that oftentimes these alleged deserted places aren’t quite as empty as she would like to. annoyingly often, a hero rises or some dumb curious soul who has no idea what turning the other way and minding their business means. this disrupts her hunting, and in turn makes her even more vexed than she typically is. such is the time now, when the agitation of a deer hopping around her surroundings seems to have alerted some fool hellbent on challenging the mysteries of the night. her eyes roll, first thinking about how she should grab that stupid deer and throw it on a plate. secondly, she thinks about how she should do the same with him. though, of course, she doesn’t know who ─ or what ─ he is as of now, which leaves her with her next step: assessing the situation.
“ what is out there? i’m offended. ” she speaks in a deadpan voice, having flashed behind him, at a safe distance of a few feet. that flare looked annoying and it would’ve gotten in her eyes. “ scared of wolves, stranger? one would argue it might be safer to stay indoors. ” there was a time when charlotte would play the role of the scared damsel that would strike when people were most vulnerable, but age has both made her stronger and more impatient.
