They had almost not been invited– the Dahl name was not one of history, nor of grand significance in a city with hot breath and a heart that ached: but the twins had twisted every connection that they had around their greedy fingers until their palms were full, and two shiny invitations had arrived under the door. Kels wasted little time in finding a dress, something black– something stately. These things were important, and to misstep here was to be thrown backwards in their desperate grasp for relevance and progress. She was nervous, it was a thrum in the pit of her belly, but the drink in her hand helped: something crimson and slanted against the side of the glass that she held. "All things considered," Kels voiced, tipping her head to one side to let flaxen hair tumble down her neck. "It is a very pretty party." What was unspoken hung between her and the being that materialized beside her. It was bound to become something beastly soon.
"I fear I caught sight of a gothic giraffe heading out a bit earlier. I think she said something about looking for someone small, dark that looked a bit like a gothic," he gestured idly, picking a word at random- whilst wincing as it came out. "Hedgehog." Mateo's head canted, he offered a smile to smooth his stumble. "Want a drink? You might as well post up here. She'll make her way back around this way, and then you won't be chasing her like a tail."
those desires that were starved, stunted, thrust into a dark closet—
what happened to them?
name: kelsey "kels" dahl
age: twenty-six
gender identity: trans woman
pronouns: she/her
birthday: june 13th, 1997
star sign: gemini.
species: witch ( air & illusory magic )
occupation: fine artist / occasional curation work
place of birth: norwich, vermont
height: 5'10
Their heir was born first. a beautiful golden haired boy: Jameson Dickinson. He shrieked, the world knew that he would hold it in his tiny, clenched fist. The second born, just a few moments after passed into the world silent, holding the vastness of the universe in those impossibly blue eyes, uttering not a sound from a puckered, rubied mouth. It was Christopher that they called them, casting the name of a forgotten relative upon a child destined to be the spare.
Vermont was a place steeped in deep magic, it clung to the conifers and fell thick in the winters. The twins grew weedy and tall, tripping over their limbs and their golden hair– they looked alike, but acted completely their own. The youngest took to witching almost immediately, with a breeze caressing the hanging mobile above their playpens to make the tiny figures dance and dart in the air; but the oldest held not even a spark in his stormy gaze.
It was a condition that didn't improve with age. They learned to speak, to walk and to run. They learned who they were, and how their surname meant something akin to power in such a town as theirs. They learned of deep happiness, and of the differences between each of their thrumming hearts. Christopher was a name shed quickly, like that of a chrysalis when a butterfly was just unfurling her wings to dry. Kelsey suited her more, the youngest decided, announcing to their family that Kels would be the name they could call her, should they like.
It became apparent that they would not like such a thing, feeling Kels' found identity and euphoria for it was another strike of shame for the Dickinson family, who saw their children: one without magic, and the other brimming with it in a way that they found to be incorrect, and felt shame. Each night within the walls of their home felt akin to being trapped in a metal box, sent to tumble below deep depths.
They were born too bright to drown. It was a long plan that they hatched, whispered in the air that Kels wrapped around their home, slipping secrets and ideas into Jamie's ear. They stole away, taking their fortunes and but leaving behind their old names, seeking out the only place that the young twins knew that someone was still able to reinvent themselves. New York has become their sprawling playground. They chose a new name for themselves, plucking one from a hat that felt interesting, and brand new.
Kels Dahl walked tall, her chin lifted and she flitted in a world full of pigments and beauty. Art schools in the city were happy for their money and cared little for where it came from, and despite a lack of talent: her charisma and the sweetness of magic that clung to every piece earned her accolades within the community, opening doors and opportunities to the young artist who clambered into society with claws out. The two of them were hungry, always.
Dark magic unspooled from Kels when necessary, serving a purpose: filling a need. There would be no returning to their old lives, as the creatures that they had once been were phantoms, shadows in a home that she was sure hardly dared to utter their names. In New York, she is slippery, but clever, eager to find footing in a way that would make the Dickinson legacy look infantile next to her progress. With the way that she is, so eager to dispose of those around her when they fail to serve their purpose: she only loves and lives for one beating heart in New York. Her twin flame, Jamie Dahl.
for: @neverfalling / daphne burke
location: grimm family home
He could feel her presence in the next room— his magic seeped through the house, ebbing into each fissure in the walls, every pit in the floorboards. Annoyance, like the flicked tail of a cat grown furious for being told off, filtered back from the parlour and Saint smiled. She knew he was there as well. He stepped inside the room, ducking beneath the doorframe that had always been too short for the Grimm boys, greeting Daphne with the silencing of his magic. “Now don’t get any ideas,” the fire witch warned, knowing all too well that she had a tendency to douse him in water— “This shirt is silk.” A teapot sat in the table and it benefitted from the touch of his fingertips to the side of the ceramic, the contents grown cold began to steam again before he poured two cups. “I was looking for Zephyr,” he voiced, as there was little reason for him to step into the Grimm home these days. “What brings you over?”
He’d made the effort to have the trinket wrapped— the wolf carved of black stone had been embedded with a charm: something of childlike simplicity but it would please his brother regardless. A simple touch to the object brought a flicker of warm feeling to the intended, a hallmark of Saint’s own ability to toy with emotions. For most, he inflicted the worst of the spectrum of aches and heartpains, but this gift was for Dakota, who rounded the corner to find his older half brother splayed languidly over an armchair. “Took you long enough, I thought I’d have to find a blanket to settle in for a nap for how long I’ve waited.” He tipped his chin towards the parcel on the table. “I brought you something.”
“I’ll take this as well,” Saint noted aloud, skimming his fingertip along the top of the counter— near enough to a particularly sinister looking gilded vase that Saf would know which one it was that had piqued his interest. It was always the things that required gloves to package up: the ones whose histories boasted a line up of horror to mirror his own. He’d already selected a few artifacts and curiosities today, but his smile curved like that of a pleased feline when he saw an onyx carving of a wolf. No magical aura emitted from it, but he liked the expression in the face. “And that.” He turned to Safiye, “Anything else and you’ll have to slap my wrist for being greedy.” The witch was in a rare mood: being that he was delighted. “Should we start a tab, I’d say we’re friends enough now that you know I’m good for it.”
for: @cceruleans / devin pike
location: bushwick, warehouse party
She shouldn’t have been there— but one thing ( drink ) had lead to another, and Arielle felt as though a gentle breeze could have sent her anywhere. Tonight it had taken her to Bushwick, but it just as easily could have send her twirling off to Pittsburgh. It was snowing outside, she could tell by the way that the cold clung to the cheeks of those who stomped in, with their wind burned cheeks and snowy boots that left wet trails on the asphalt. It was an impractical event for the wintertime, and thick puffer jackets were strewn over forearms or abandoned on tables. The witch could feel the cold that hung in the air, pushing people closer together, making them huddle in while they talked, or drawing them to the thick of things to dance the chill away. Her friends had long abandoned her, splitting off one by one as they had found more interesting avenues for the evening at each bar along the way, leaving her now to zip up her jacket and make her way for the door. Ari had barely curved her fingers around the handle when someone reached around her to yank it open, gesturing for her to go through. “That’s very polite,” she remarked, cutting her gaze up through dark lashes before grinning wider at Devin’s features. “Hey, I know you.”
“Okay, okay, okay.” Ari paused, her mile-a-minute speech halting as she reached for her best friend’s shoulders, planting her palms there as anchors. “I’m just saying that if we don’t go out tonight, we’ll have wasted the first Saturday of a new year by not taking advantage of the freshest and most immaculate energy that the universe has to give us.” She canted her head, letting her curls fall to one side of her neck. “Do you want to be responsible for the karmic imbalance that ignoring these cosmic signs will bring upon us? Because I won’t.” The witch grinned, the expression hinging brightly. “I’ve got new boots I need to wear.”
for: @qvietinfvrno /zephyr grimm
location: grimm family home
It was a wicked thing— to look upon one’s own flesh and wish them every ill intent. Saint simmered over his coffee cup ( inky, furious ) while verdant eyes skimmed over to his half brother, perched over a similar mug of his own. There existed a flicker of cruel satisfaction in the witch; to know that of the gods of the Grimm family, only one of them was truly made in His image. It was a fleeting thought, after all, it had been Saint’s own funeral home that had buried Vincent Sr. He had hardly any reason to be in the Grimm home anymore, but he enjoyed haunting it, leaving soot and scowls in his wake. He was the reflection of their father’s sins, his half mother’s greatest source of fury. “Did you need another sugar cube?” He remarked idly, looking over at Zephyr’s cup. This was one of their strangest traditions, to play house in a home that neither of them resided in anymore, feigning politeness for the sake of ghosts. “You’re hardly sweet enough.”
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