well, shit.

deacon freeman. witch. thirty-five. regenerative healing factor go on then, pick a color.

[timid-amira-deactivated20160807]

When realization dawned on her Amira couldn’t help but feel embarrassment. The guy next to her probably thought she was a moron. Great first impression. The last thing she needed to do was make a fool of herself. “I didn’t know what exactly you were referring to. That’s all.”

As he gestured his hand towards the town Amira wondered how she would answer him . What on earth could she possibly say to a man who compared this town to.. a prostitute? Taking a deep breath she looked back at him. “I-i think this town is nice. I am not sure why you are comparing it to p-prostitution.” Amira couldn’t help but feel a bit irritated at his comment. “I am not that young. I am twenty years old.”

[getdeacon-blog]

He flashes his teeth in a grin, pearly whites clamped round his cigarette before he draws it free once more only to flick it off to the side “What? Too early fer ya’?” he presses, not entirely seeking an answer but more so aiming to fill the silence with something--the fact that it was his favorite sort of something (read:his own voice) was just a bonus “Hey, I get it; I’m not much o’ a mornin’ guy myself.”

Really, he was usually asleep at this time. The town’s cheery prison vibe must be sinking into him deeper than he’d realized. He’d need one hell of a hot shower tonight to scrub it off. Patiently, he waits for her reply--in neither hurry nor hustle for an answer. Really, he often didn’t get one when he talked. “Well shit,” he says sweet as can be “How in the world did ya’ end up ‘ere thinkin’ all o’ this is sweet--?” he asks, laughter light at the end of his words.

He scratches at his beard, trying (and failing) to look through another pair of eyes. Rosey shades were never his thing. “Let me guess, small town’s always been yer thing?”

[timid-amira-deactivated20160807]

If there was one thing Amira hated more than anything then it was spending more time at home than it was necessary. Before hell broke loose she often went to the nearest cafe after school just to stall as much time as she could before going home to her parents. However in Salutem she couldn’t use that excuse. 

Instead she told her parents she needed some fresh air and took her favorite book, Persuasion, with her just to sit down outside on a bench - far away from her new home. She was enjoying reading her book when suddenly someone plopped down next to her on the bench. Broken out of her reverie Amira turned to look at the person.  She couldn’t help but frown when he started to talk to her. “I am sorry, but I don’t know what you’re saying.”

[getdeacon-blog]

Eyeing the young woman with an air of almost disbelief, he wonders for a moment if perhaps his accent might have been a bit thick. Here he’d been thinking it had mellowed out some sucking on the American dream for nine years. “Really?” he questions in a slow drawl, the words nice and thick on his tongue and he cocks a brow not completely shuttered behind his aviators “What part confused ya’?”

With one tattooed hand, Deacon gestures about the expanse of town before them (really, it’s all around them) “I’m sayin’ it’s pretty as a painted whore, not one o’ the expensive ones either--” he kicks his boots out before him, and lifts his other hand to pluck the cigarette from his lips--the thin curl of smoke in it’s wake a welcome perfume.

A low hum “Shouldn’t ya’ be at like....school or somethin’ kid?” he gives it another go, taking a second drag of his cigarette; not that it was any of his business or anything--hell, he found himself only wondering what nasty little secret brought her to this hidey hole. 

[audioslaves]

Visit Original Link

I can ride my bike with no handlebars…

[getdeacon-blog]

On one hand, it was as much like city life as he’d ever known--on another, the nutjobs came with more teeth. Not that he had a problem with the sharp bits, oftentimes--they were the best bits. But, folks didn’t seem so keen on flashing them as he hoped and he suspected it was but only a matter of time before his hands made work in the ways Salutem loathed. Cooking already, the little nagging voice at the back of his mind; was pushing the limits. 

Something about the smell lingering, in his clothing--in his hands, a peculiar tint to his aura. But, with a distinct lack of fast food locations he found himself with a certain ire for the little township, maybe nowhere near the vein in which his fellow spooks did bristle but it was common ground all the same. 

Thus, he plants himself on the nearest bench, next to the first soul he sees that was foolish enough to leave the space next to them an empty one and stretches out “Ya’ know, blows more dick than a dollar store whore but--at least it’s pretty,” he rolls his head towards them, indicating that yes he was indeed talking to them “Ya’ know what I’m sayin’ yeah?”

[getdeacon-blog]

Deacon Freeman ; moodboard 1/?

“well butter my butt an’ call me a biscuit; what in the world have we got ‘ere?”

[charleshunnam]

[phaedra-theinconsolable-blog]

The irritating sound of steel nails grating a shrill screech upon the front counter of Silkwares could be heard even just outside the shop. It was Phaedra’s way of making herself known it seems in Salutem. Most people have gotten used to her ill-mannered behaviour and cold demeanour. It had become a coping strategy, to deal with death as well as something of a hobby; annoying the customers and anyone that was in ear-shot distance from her, without the use of her voice. 

Her voice was something she refrained from using, knowing that she had lost control of it since everything she loved had been taken from her, and her voice was capable of piercing a human’s ear drums, or worse killing them. Though of course there were no humans anywhere near Salutem, but using her voice to the point of strain always reminded her of her husband - and so she had started to avoid it. There was a time she sang beautifully, many years ago now: a distant memory to her, the last time she were truly happy, a time when her voice soothed others, not harmed others; it was a time lost to her.

When she heard the approach of a customer, she was still dragging a nail slowly downward upon the table making the usual piercing noise like a sharp object on a chalkboard. When she realised she was gawking at the person, continuing to ignore them except from that agonising noise; she stopped her hand and dropped the thin smile that enjoyed annoying everyone in sight. She knew the owner of Silkwares would not be overly pleased at her behaviour. 

“Oh - I’m sorry. A coping strategy, you see,” she explained to the stranger; not at all sorry in the slightest. A forced curve of the lips was given before she dropped the smile entirely. “Are you looking for anything specifically? If you need something tailored, or perhaps seeking to improve your wardrobe taste - you’ve came to the right woman.”

[getdeacon-blog]

As far as pop up towns went, this one was an alright if ever he did see one. He’d posted a review of the quaint little hole on yelp only to have his government monkey berate him for an hour while he cooked up his next batch of somethin’. The review didn’t last. Not like the place was going to be a roaring tourist destination anytime soon anyway--not with all the characters caged within. He liked characters, more interesting than the average joe; tended to find something of a struggling camaraderie with them. Not that he’d he’d ever give voice to such, fuck no. 

So, he follows the latest song of the damned because he’s outside and he’s not at work which, usually prompted him to do something off the line. For all the familarizing himself with the regulated maps he’d been gifted with his welcome package, he figured he might as well actually take stock of the town with his own two eyes to complete the whole picture. Hardly a dream. Which, in his case; was probably the good kind of thing.

How he found himself standing before one of the more curious characters, lit cigarette dangling from his lips and a halfway interested expression upon his face, was anyone’s guess. He can feel the poison in his lungs, just a moment--a heartbeat really, before his body wipes it away “Ya know, I could name at least six sonuvabitches who would pay top dollar for ya’ to do that to ‘em for an hour.”

She probably wasn’t in the market. Hardly seemed to be much o’ a market in this town for that kind of thing. And, they hardly had ready access to craigslist anyway. Lifting one shoulder in the kind of half shrug found on disinterested across America, Deacon shifts his cigarette to the corner of his lips with his tongue “Don’t go out much outside o’ the bars--heard a tune fit to strip paint,” he explains as though that’s that and cocks one brow at her “What? That’s how ya’ bring in customers?”

‘Course, his wardrobe could do with some sprucing. They’d tore through his apartment(s) like a tornado fresh out of the sky in Kansas itself. The monkey on his back had sent over couple suitcases (none he’d ever owned) filled with his clothes, which he supposed was as much of an apology he was ever gonna get from the guy. It hadn’t been any of the nice suits he’d collected (but never wore). His free hand picks at the hem of an aged t-shirt, tasteful (dog on a skateboard) and all. “So, what?” he questions smoke curling towards the ceiling “Ya’ make everythin’ from scratch or somethin’ ‘ere?”

[nemanja-bogdanov]