gold web, sticky blood

hector griffiths, 36, braddock native, director of the funeral home, cat owner corporali alchemist, lvl 3 corruption points: 8,325

[hectorgriffiths-blog1]

It’d come to this. Griff stood frozen in his doorway, half crouched, newspaper in hand. His devil cat had taken the opportunity to shoot out onto the front step and now stared his master down in a twisted power play. Dangling from his jaw: the perfectly preserved skeleton of an endangered dove shipped straight from Samoa and put in a Ziploc to be saved til Griff was definitely about to die. He pointed the paper at the cat — stop right there. Fair trade necromancy ingredients were not easy to get a hold of. 

“I need that,” he tried to reason, but by the time he’d spoken Cheese’s tail had already flicked out sight. “Ah.”

Well. People here had more to worry about than a sweatpants-clad zombie trailing pathetically after a cat with a bag of bones. Griff zipped up his jacket and made slow, slow chase. “Don’t lose anything,” he called down the sidewalk.

[hectorgriffiths-blog1]

andyradcliffes:

        ‘Here,’ Andrea hears Griff say. Where, where, where? She feels like she’s losing her fucking mind. All she can focus on is the shouts behind them, which bounced off of the winds that carried and echoed the noises every which way. They’re coming closer, that much she can tell. Andrea watches Griff and quickly follows him towards a rocky trench covered by dying branches. She doesn’t hesitate in following the male down with a jump, creating cloud dirt. Hastily, she slips the weapon between her spin and jeans before pressing herself against the dirt-covered wall. Unfortunately, she didn’t see the dust rising to her agape mouth taking in large gulps of air that was supposed to calm her and instead only made her choke.

        With a breath hitched painfully in her throat in order to not make any noise, the blonde covers with mouth with the shirt she wears and practically stops breathing. Her eyes begin to water from the stinging of her lungs, desperately wanting air and to hack out whatever earth and grime snuck its way into her airway. And then the voices were closer. Much closer. Andrea closes her eyes and prayed she were somewhere else. At home with Christine and Sunday. At the bar with Lachlan, Isaac and Ethan. With Griff on a Tuesday morning getting fucking waffles and a coffee. Anywhere but here would do. And just as if God wasn’t listening, things quickly turned from bad to worse. At first what she heard wasn’t processing properly from the muffled tone since she was getting ready to pass the hell out through lack of oxygen, but the quick and rapid vibrations through the rocky wall were what got her attention.

                               One of their phones was going off.

        It didn’t matter whose phone it was, they just needed to shut it off. Now. Using one hand while her other keeps her shirt material over her nose and mouse; she searches in a panic for her phone. But it’s too late. The night gets eerily quiet – minus the phone. And then quick, excited stomps against crunching rocks are heard getting closer and closer until she looks up just in time to see a foot kick cold dirt down into the tunnel where Griff and Andrea hide. She shelters her face into Griff’s shoulder to protect her eyes.

        ‘Well, well, well… Look’s like our little rabbits fell down the hole, boys… Let’s give them a hand.’

        She hears a gun cock and the sound makes her tremble internally. She coughs now and let’s air in gratefully. She looks up to see the barrel of a gun pointed at Griff and her and swallows thickly. Andrea looks back at Griff ‘do or die’ expression. She may be sick, but she wasn’t going to die by these asshole’s hands. With that, the journalist climbed out of the hiding spot. She let out a help when one of the males grabs her by her hair and upper arm forcibly before throwing her to the side. Andrea gets to her knees in time to watch them do the same to Hector and toss him her way. She takes his shoulders and helps him to his knees before pressing their shoulders together. We’re not dying tonight.

        ‘You know why we have to go through with this, right?’ The man as she can only describe him as the leader asks, pacing back and forth in front of the two. ‘You’re dying. Slowly. Painfully. We,’ his arms open up, gesturing to the two other males on either wide of him, ‘… We just wanna help,’ Unable to hold back her anger at his words, Andrea spits on his shoes. Her saliva mixed with black blood from biting her tongue too hard. The man looks down at his ruined shoes with a slight glimmer of panic. He doesn’t look so tough now, this creates a small smirk on her lips, but before she knows it, Andrea feels her face being wiped to the side and her face sting from his backhand making harsh contact with her cheek. Hardly, expecting the slap to happen, Andrea doesn’t make a sound. Both fear and anger make her tremble.

        The leader continues to ramble as if nothing has happened, casually swining a baseball bat with nails in it. One of his goons move to Hector’s side, taunting her friend with the gun, tapping it against his side, then his calf. – There’s still a machete hiding between her clothes. With a small, shaky breath, Andrea looks from the corner of her eyes to make contact with Hector. She gives him a subtle nod, something to reassure him that she had a plan. She didn’t know if it was going to work or not, but they were going to damn well try. As the man with the gun comes her way to threaten her. Andrea waits with eyes closed. And waits. He’s at her feet, then her knees, then at her side - hovering. She waits. One second. Two seconds… Opening her eyes, she sees The Leader is still talking, his other follower standing back, holding his own gun. She takes her shot then.

        Quickly, Andrea lifts her shirt and slides out the machete, she brings it back and aims for the man’s hand, but misses and cuts deeply within his arm. He yells in surprise and pain. His blood splashes against her neck and shirt and tries to pay not mind as she takes his gun and tosses it to Griff. She doesn’t know if he knows how to use it, but it’s better than nothing since he threw away his scapel earlier. She moves away from the man she had wounded before lifting her machete at The Leader who stares at the two with passive looks.

        “Leave us alone.” Andrea instructs, pressing herself close to Hector.

We’re fine. It’s dark. We’re fine.

Griff breathes through the flannel with his eyes shut. Terrible time for a first shot at positive thinking. It’s alright! We’re fine! Andrea’s a badass! We’re gonna be fine! he forces through his brain like a maniac. — Then the phone rings.

A marimba has never bored so fucking cold through the depths of a human being’s heart.

Dust clogs the air as the two are hauled up from their hiding spot to be executed. The pressure at his side encourages him, but he can’t shake himself from a numb panic. Even the slap, the prowling goon, the nudge of metal... someone half-transparent hangs upside down from a tree straight ahead. Moonlight curls around them, disappearing as the clouds pass and the wind rattles the branches. Griff stares through their torso into the mottled darkness… it settles him somehow. He peeks over at Andrea —  she’s already looking at him, she nods — he furrows his brow to say what —

— she moves fast for a journalist.

Griff’s heart almost bursts as he catches the gun but he doesn’t drop it — he doesn’t drop it and he scrambles to his feet, grabbing Andrea’s sleeve and pointing the gun at the leader.

“Uh,” he starts, then shuts his mouth immediately. Tough guy. Tough guy act. His hand threatens to shake — don’t — he brings the other one up to steady himself, like they do on fucking TV. Hands steady. Hands steady. Just like making a clean cut. The barrel stays on target. One lackey lies moaning on the ground. The second has his gun halfway up, eyes moving uncertainly between his boss and his prisoners.

“No one has to die,” Griff says in a voice that sounds half like a stranger’s. He gives Andrea a subtle kick where their legs are touching, hoping it conveys his message of I have no FUCKING idea what to do.

The four of them stand in uneasy silence as a lopsided smile eases its way onto the leader’s face.

“Maybe you don’t understand,” he says slowly. “This isn’t a choice that you two,” the bat swings low to point between their feet. “...get to make. This is an act of mercy.” He twirls the weapon until it’s upright in his hand, but doesn’t make a move. “Now put those down, why don’t you.”  His eyes flit briefly to his companion but the other man doesn’t seem to notice. Griff keeps the gun trained at the leader. He can smell the blood on Andrea beside him. Chances are low he’ll be able to say no without his voice cracking, so he just releases the safety without a word.

“…Boss, this is bullshit, come on—” The big guy’s lackey cocks his handgun impatiently like he’s going to —

“Hey!” Griff reacts with no time to think, jerking to fire a warning shot — a warning shot that blasts through the man’s hip and drops him like a stone. His gun slides across the ground between them and the leader.

“Fuck!” Griff swivels back towards the leader in a panic, ears ringing, gun aimed straight at the chest. “Don’t do anything!” he practically shouts as the man starts to move. “Andrea —“

[hectorgriffiths-blog1]

erin-fairley:

The angel of death recognized the man right away. Even if their interactions with each other had been sporadic and short, there was something about Hector Griffiths that stood out from common mortals. His link to Death was almost something she could touch, which was in some way something that made his presence somewhat calming for a being like her.

“Hello, Hector” she greeted the man as she walked towards him, standing before the brick wall in which he sat. “Yes, they are” she stated matter-of-factly, not particularly appreciating that he was hinting she wasn’t doing her task. It was no longer an easy one to carry out, not since all these people that were supposed to keep on living were dying or being killed. “They’re not going anywhere because they’re not supposed to. They died before their time. Death didn’t claim these souls”.

“...Huh.” Okay. Not their time. Death didn’t claim these souls. She seemed to be suggesting some kind of fate. Determinist angels running around with their little list of Today’s Fatalities. That just didn’t sound right. The gears in his head once again began to turn.

A calm ghost stood hunched by where they were, its face a void. Griff raised a hand in greeting, not sure what to do with this New Information Energy. “—So who’s Death again?” He turned right back around to Erin after a brief period of blankness like a student who never does an assigned reading. “Are you not—? There’s like, one guy?” 

[hectorgriffiths-blog1]

[hectorgriffiths-blog1]

ghost_seeing_fool_waits_in_line_for_grande_nonfat_latte.jpg

[hectorgriffiths-blog1]

erin-fairley:

The people of Braddock seemed to run on two speeds as of late. Too slow or crazy fast. It was either deserted streets and no sounds at all, or the feverish high of the hunters wreaking havoc all around. For weeks she had been dragged by everything without flinching, surrendered by the course of events as if they were predetestined to happen, until that day before Rachel’s grave when she had enough of her own inaction and chose to start acting. Since then she had managed to stop a few of those mercy killings when she ran into that kind of vicious scenarios. Who would have thought it? An angel of death impeding deaths from happening. Oddly that gave her a sense of purpose, of having a reason to be in this maddened town and somehow help it from descending into a state of full chaos. Such thoughts were coursing the angel’s mind when she saw a person appear at the edge of the block. Someone who looked like they were waiting for her.

Oh. She’s here, Griff thought with mild surprise. He was sitting on a low brick wall by the cemetery gate, not necessarily waiting for her, more... seeing if she would appear. She came around more often than most, and it seemed like a natural place — Erin-who’s-definitely-not-a-real-journalist, Ms. I Pass Souls Along. Angel of death, Orion had called her. 

Now that she’d shown herself, Griff didn’t have a real game plan. He at least wanted to know why they were all piling up like this — the long-legged child hunched over in the tree, the large jawless man vibrating an undefined distance away, the whole flickering crowd — if they were really stuck here somehow, or if it was just his supernatural sense going haywire from the fever. 

“Hey.” Griff stood slowly as Erin approached. “Hey, sorry to skip pleasantries, but — isn’t this your responsibility?” His eyes moved from the specters to the angel with a dry smile as he realized the poor word choice. Nasty rumors floating around. Hostility. Griff wasn’t ready to jump into that scapegoating business just yet. “They don’t seem to be... going anywhere.”

[andyradcliffes-blog]

        Too frightened to speak, she stands there like a deer in headlights, waiting for Griff to follow her desperate command. One that she can hardly follow through with herself at the moment. In this moment, she catches her breath. The infection rippling through her chest, making her wheeze. And then cough hoarsely as a way to expel sickly air from her tightening lungs and take in the fresh tree atmosphere. Or what as supposed to be. All she could think about was how damp the forest ground was and how it seeped into the base of her feet, how the wind would whip through the trees once, giving a rustled warning before calming down into a chilled silence. Until she had heard the group behind her shout some more. This made her flinch, and her muscles tense significantly.

        The woman looks to the handle of the machete. She doesn’t want to take it. She doesn’t want to hold it at all, but on reflex and instinct, Andrea took the weapon anyway. She doesn’t have to use it. She won’t have to use it. At least this is what she prays. Seeing that Griff now has a scalpel in hand, she’s about to insist that she takes this smaller weapon and give him back his machete, - the horrifying thing she would much rather not use at all. But Griff is already talking, giving her an idea where go. Where they could hide for their lives.

        The shouts are closing in. This time she can hear their heavy footsteps. We’re comin’ for ya! There’s nowhere to hide! Quickly, Andrea nods silently in agreement takes whatever piece of clothing she could grab that Hector is wearing and runs. Andrea doesn’t look back, or even forward. Everything is blurred in her sights. She can only assume it was a mixture of her body fighting (and losing) to this sickness and the adrenaline rush from the flight (and the drive that was still debating whether or not she was willing to fight if it came down to it). While running, Andrea had let go of Griff, but she didn’t lose him since she could hear him. Whether or not he was behind her or beside her she couldn’t tell, but she concentrated on listening to him instead of the hollering from the group.

        The path was narrow and uncivilized. The dirt road snaked around ancient, withering trees. There was a beauty to it - raw and barren - yet amid the fact Hector and Andrea were hiding for their lives no joy was felt. The wind tunneled around them like a thin silver ribbon. She stops on the flat head of an incredibly large rock and looks around momentarily. Maybe she was looking too hard, too frantically, but she wasn’t able to spot somewhere where they could hide. With her free hand, Andrea runs her fingers through her messy mane, leaving her hand in her knotted hair. Andrea looks to Hector with wide, desperate eyes. Not knowing what to do as she can still hear the shouts, her hand clutches the machete tightly.

[hectorgriffiths-blog1]

     Life or death. If Griff was alone… no, he’d still be goddamn terrified, heart up in his throat. The adrenaline would kick him forward, make him breathe, maybe even make him fight. Might not be enough to see that through. Wouldn’t be enough to save him. But Andrea deserves better than being caught by a murder squad because Griff’s self-preservation brain is shriveled up in a jar on some dusty shelf. And Andrea is mortal.

     The tug on his jacket reminds him to run.

     He can hear her follow behind him, an erratic, urgent rhythm over the damp leaves and hard ground. Confusing shadows rush by. There’s no source of light. Griff isn’t sure he’s going the right way but he can’t slow down, not any slower than he already is with his low fever and rattling lungs. A ghost drags her body down the way ahead with her head the wrong way round. She stays the same distance away with every step he takes. Griff blinks and she’s gone. He tastes blood.

     By the end Andrea outpaces him and he catches up as she stands on the rock — the rock — Griff thanks whatever strange thing is out there that they ended up here, that she didn’t run past.

     First they’ve gotta wash their scent, go through a river – he throws his scalpel farther down the path for their assailants to track, praying the tacky red handle will catch their eye. Might be the best they can do.

     “Here —” Griff scrambles across the rock past Andrea and kneels in the darkness. It doesn’t look like anything in the nighttime. This far in the forest, black blends into black. Fall’s dying branches let the moon stretch her cold fingers through the remains of the canopy but something in the air gnaws them up before they reach the ground. With a numb hand, Griff digs his phone out of his pocket and switches on the flashlight, careful to keep it on low. Ahead of him, the ground opens up to a clean six foot drop.

     “They won’t see it,” he whispers, as if saying it will make it true. “Come on.” He waves for Andrea to follow and makes the jump. The thick layer of detritus softens the landing — but sends up a cloud of dirt and dust. Griff leans against the cold wet wall of dirt and yanks his shirt over his mouth as he waits for Andrea to join with her own dusty landing. Voices follow them up the curve of the hill. Don’t cough. Don’t cough. 

[p-evans-deactivated20170208]

Picking up Messes

[p-evans-deactivated20170208]

Phoebe tried not to laugh, as far as she was concerned, Parish was fine. He had his reasons for sending her out to the infected residents instead of going outdoors himself. “No, no.” She started. “This is regarding your uhh-” She paused to try and find the right words. “sick problem.” She took a small step away from the man and smiled, “the mayor wants to know how you’re feeling today? Any worse?” She asked. 

Phoebe pulled out a pen and pad of paper and began writing down as he spoke. “Is that all?” She asked. “The mayor asked for specific details… anything at all would help.” 

[hectorgriffiths-blog1]

“Oh — right. That’s good,” he said, relieved that Braddock wouldn’t be going through any crisis of leadership during such an Unfiltered Hell kind of situation. “Uh, I’m not doing very well, though. Not terrible —” he assured her in the case of some dystopian culling. “There’s some. Yknow. Blood.” Griff brought his fist up in a coughing motion to specify. “... But shouldn’t this be between me and a medical professional? Or at least.. I dunno, at least someone besides a proxy sent out by the big guy in an increasingly dangerous and infectious environment. Not that that’s you, necessarily.” 

[orion-salvail-blog]

He follows the alchemist’s eyes to the horizon. Dreams are fickle, a fragile puzzling mess. Considering how Hector is most of the time, however, it wouldn’t be a huge leap to assume what his dream might bring. Maybe Orion was simply lucky to catch the peaceful dream during such ordeal. He knows, even as they converse idly in the dream, back in the reality Hector suffers a fever and weakness. “We could visit there again someday. Angel airline, can fly anywhere you wanna go, Hector.” He offers with an air of overdramatic arrogance. Father did give him a set of wings. Travelling with a mortal is not their purpose, but at this point Orion has given up trying to understand Father’s intention.

“I just wish I could do more. Servant of the Lord, can’t even fix a damn sickness. What’s the point?” He laughs at himself somewhat bitterly, but soon wipes the sneer off of his face. He didn’t come here to whine about his existential crisis. “But, thanks for your sentiment, Hector. Dream you is way nicer. Maybe I should visit your dream more often.” He jokes.

He shakes his head with a soft chuckle, messing with the other’s hair. “Fine, be like that.” He flicks Hector in the forehead playfully. “We certainly can. And we are not just gonna sit here idly. We should explore, y’know? Poke around your subconscious.” 

[hectorgriffiths-blog1]

“Don’t give me ideas,” he grins. “I assume you’ve already been to Cambodia.” Griff makes a squinty little smile at Orion’s obvious unhappiness that says Haha I Want To Discuss This But Understand It’s Neither The Time Or Place. His own hand lingers for a moment as he pushes the angel’s away

“You wanna?” Griff quirks an eyebrow. Between pleasant and unpleasant a trip into the ol’ Hec Griffiths Subconscious would likely fall under: unpleasant. But there’s fuck all to do around here, so. He stands up and pats off his jeans. “There’s like… all that.” A direct 180 from the shining beach reveals a comically dense forest. He wonders what’s in there. Snakes, for sure. And huge rabbits, and snakes eating rabbits whole, and snakes eating their tails, cause somebody’s predictable. Maybe a colossal god snake cut straight in half with both sides extending infinitely, the spine all gone leaving an endless hole, a cave to wander down forever. Peeking above the dripping canopy are cathedral spires, figures of Mary raising their hands here and there all the way back to the mountain range flickering in the far distance. His mother’s influence. Griff points to the closest. It grows larger as it moves closer with a dizzying rumble. “Hey, there’s a church.” He walks towards the forest without a hitch on the shaking ground. “Assuming you’re a… church type.   

“By the way, if one of us starts crying in the next -” he checks his watch, which isn’t moving anyway. “-fifteen minutes, it’s time to take a break.” 

[andyradcliffes-blog]

H E C T O R G R I F F I T H S.​

tw; violence, drowning, (suggested) death.

        Wandering through the shadowed area of Chapman Park, the old soul lets the warmth of familiarity course through her. Even though everything has turned to shit, it was still nice to be home. At least there was a home to return to, at least there was still a home to save. Andrea hadn’t told anybody she had returned twelve hours ago because although she was alone for a month in that rundown hotel slowly going insane, she needed a moment to collect and reground herself. Stopping by a dense group of trees, Andrea swings her purse to the front and pulls out articles from The Telegraph she had printed off at the hotel before leaving. She scans over the highlights bits of paper, a way of connecting the dots without having a board. She’d hoped that if she glanced at it every few times something new would come up. But the words never change and the evidence stays the same.

        With the abrupt sounds of a heavy object breaking water, Andrea’s eyes flicker to the sound. She has to squint through the darkness, but eventually, she saw somebody struggle to come back to the surface along with three other bodies waiting at the edge of Lake Nauset. The three waiting silently, weapons in hand and stoned faced. Without thinking, the woman steps forward from out of the trees. She can hear the person in the water struggling to call for help. She couldn’t help if this was a mercy killing or murder… Was there a difference between the two?

                                 ‘ Hey little lady! You lost!? ’

        Wide eyes move from the lake to the group, she opens her mouth to speak but nothing comes out. She grips the papers in her hands tightly in fear. Slowly she backs away. Their attention had moved from their victim to her which scares her intensely. Quickly, Andrea spins around and takes off into the park. She ignores the yells from the three strangers wanting to catch her now. She focuses on pushing the front of her feet harder into the ground in order to run after, no matter how much her chest hurt. Needing a moment, she hid behind a tree, breathing heavily to the point where she felt incredibly lightheaded. And then, – looking to her immediately left after sensing anther presences, it took her a moment in the shock to realize who she was looking at.

        “Hector, – Run. You have to run.” The hollering can be heard in the distance, closing in.

[hectorgriffiths-blog1]

     There’s not much time left to find answers. Griff has given up on subtlety - he’s decided to find the absolute oldest thing in town to take blood or bone or sap from to put in a silver bowl and study. There’s no saying what that’ll teach him -  probably not a cure. How much wiggle room there is in mortality? If there’s a hiding place somewhere in that strange wide subspace?...but results are results are results. A long day of tracking has led to this - a gnarled sycamore about a bus-and-a-half wide. There’s a dowsing crystal in his hand meant to find “ancient lyfe” according to the dusty manuscript from the secret part of his library. It took no lack of blood and sweat and several small fires to create, and he’ll damn well trust it whether it’s useful or not. The crystal, originally clear, pulses a dark mottled color, like old lava. Humming a bland tune, Griff measures some notches with a machete and prepares to collect.

     He pauses at the sound of a wet thud in the distance. — Silence… a shout. Griff remains frozen for a moment as the sounds fade out - but before he can bring the machete down to make the cut, Andrea Radcliffe is breathing hard in front of him, telling him to run. The crystal turns pitch-black and freezing. Griff clutches it like an anchor.  

     “Andrea...”

     She stands there like a lightning bolt. The sounds come together. Rustling wind. Harsh breath. Footsteps. Yelling — plague rats! … for the kids!

     He realizes what the thud was.

     Griff’s eyes widen at the journalist in understanding. The voices advance on their spot by the ancient tree. He moves to open his bag — thinks again, and offers Andrea the slim machete he’d had in a vice grip. He’s not sure what to say beyond a shocked stare and small shake of the head — all yours. With the other hand he shoves the malfunctioning crystal into a pocket and takes out a smaller, less lethal scalpel. A precaution.

     “There’s a gorge up ahead — you can’t see it from the ground. We could —”

     Griff takes one, two steps backwards, ready to sprint off as fast as a blood-hacking plague carrier can, as long as Andrea follows.  

[vincentarakawa-blog]

The witch nodded lightly. “Okay, that would be great…I just don’t exactly know how to get to me home at this point…” he looked up helplessly. These days, his memory was blurred. He remembered people, but direction sense was all upside down. “But I know what street it’s on,” he added moments later so he didn’t sound like a completely lost child. Even if that’s what he was. “Uh, water would actually be great.”

[hectorgriffiths-blog1]

“Straight home? Sister’s not waiting?” Griff stopped at a conveniently timed red light to reach into the back seat and maneuver a twelve-pack of water bottles onto the dashboard in front of his passenger. “For her, too. And... other family members. Who I hope are in... good health,” he ventured in a futile attempt to ascertain Sick Kid’s well-being without overtly prying.

[orion-salvail-blog]

Orion shrugs with an unapologetic smile. “Hey, this is your dream. I don’t make the rules.” He protests halfheartedly. He doesn’t mind the shirt. It’s all very carefree and chill, as the cool kids say these days, and vacation is not something a workaholic angel comes by often. “One of the divine gifts from Father. We can poke into mortals’ subconscious.” He flops down on the bench, resting his one arm on the back. He takes in the serene ocean, humming. “Honestly I expected something darker.” He observes, smirking at Hector.

At the question he casts his eyes to the other side, frowning at the presence disturbing the beautiful beach. “The usual. I try but I come up short.” He opts to answer as short as possible, not wanting to ruin his relatively peaceful mood right now. He leans back on the chair, closing his eyes. He lets out a small sigh as he soaks himself into the sunlight even if it’s an illusion. Sometimes he wishes he could sleep– really sleep, not just an imitation of the act. He wonders what kind of dream he would have. “How are you holding up?” He asks breaking a lighthearted silence.

[hectorgriffiths-blog1]

Griff echoes the shrug as he looks over the glittering expanse. The clear light is a tad eerie, the slowly twisting shapes on the other side of the world, but nothing that would belong in The Inferno. “Me too,” he agrees, thinking back to the usual fare of black swamps and echoing quarries. “What can I say. The beach was nice.”

He pushes the sunglasses back up as a soft ‘sorry’ floats up from his chest at Orion’s response— spend so much time focusing on people after, on the soothing and grieving of those left behind and you forget that it hurts to fail — but he catches it and gives Orion a sad smile instead. “It matters that you try,” he says quietly. The angel’s probably aware, yknow, being a good son of god and all, but its still something of a revelation to Griff. 

Must be exhausting. Looks tired as a divine servant can get. Griff’s not sure what kind of answer wouldn’t be a shit bummer so he goes plain as possible — “Sick.” The implications are convoluted and dark whale flips her tail up before she makes her journey downwards. “But we can hang out here while I’m passed out out there, right? Bright side.” The water backs him up with an unnatural roll, like the contracting body of some behemoth cosmic leech. It’s cute.

[p-evans-deactivated20170208]

Picking up Messes

Phoebe left her house early, knowing that she had to make many stops on her way to work. She sighed as she pulled up to the first one. Parish gave her a list last night, telling her how important each individual was and how he needed to see them all today. She pulled out the planner she put together for him and opened to today’s date. Phoebe started scribbling the name, date and time for this person’s meeting and closed it again. 

She walked up to the door and began knocking. There wasn’t an answer at first, so she continued. Phoebe looked down at the list and double-checked to make sure the address was right. She called out, “Hello? is anyone home? I’m here by order from Mayor Parish. He wants to meet with you. Hello?” She called out again and was about half-way towards her car when the front door flung open. 

[hectorgriffiths-blog1]

“Hey. You’re here for the mayor?” Griff leaned against the doorframe, bundled up in a sweatshirt-sweatpants combo that screamed ‘I’m Sick And Haven’t Left The House For Four Days.’ “Is this about the deceased?” He whispered the final words with exaggerated sensitivity. “Listen, I’ve kind of come down with something myself. If you need the funeral home, you’re better off going to the funeral home. It’s staffed just fine today, so. Sorry.” Griff gave her a tight smile. Why would the mayor need him enough to knock on his own front door, really, unless he was like, in the throes of Death and wanted some kind of Braddock establishment sendoff? ....Hm. It wasn’t not a possibility.

“—Unless. Does he need arrangements?” he asked euphemistically, this time with genuine concern. 

[moonelsker-moved-blog]

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The blood The mine The yours Combined Blood control A hazy line Rearranging Of desires

[vincentarakawa-blog]

“…” The thought of having a supervisor made Vincent uneasy. Then again, the guy from the farmer’s market had a point. Easy, he could just collapse or cause a stand of newspapers to go flying and begin chaos. “Kass, she’s parked by the university and that’s where I thought I was,” he begin, accepting that perhaps taking up the offer for help was wise. “It’d probably smart to have an…escort?” God this was weird. “But I wouldn’t want to put you out or whatever.” For some reason, though, he felt this man might insist or just not really care. 

[hectorgriffiths-blog1]

“No, it’s fine, let me drop you off. Just a couple blocks.” Griff generally tried not to have the Weird Overbearing Stranger gene rear its head, but Jesus, the kid was sicker than he thought if he got his location so utterly muddled. Or maybe ‘getting into a random car’ should have been a stronger tip-off. “Hey, d’you need Tylenol or something? Or water?” 

[orion-salvail-blog]

@hectorgriffiths

It has been years, or maybe even decades, since Orion dared to walk a mortal’s dream. He has never enjoyed the intrusiveness of his presence in their subconscious. He could defend himself saying that he wanted to check up on the contemplative alchemist after the diagnosis, see how he is doing. But to tell the truth, curiosity got the best of him. He just wanted to know what was going on inside Hector Griffith’s head. He also needed a break from the reality where everything was falling apart, a rest angels are not allowed to have. He supposes his time with Hector constitutes as one. 

Surprisingly, he finds himself in a beach inside Hector’s dream, wearing that horrible Hawaiian shirt he bought from their little trip. “When in Rome,” he laughs to himself as he walks up to the owner of this fragile yet wild world, sitting on a bench facing the deep blue ocean. “Fancy seeing you here,” says him cheekily as he intrudes Hector’s dream.

[hectorgriffiths-blog1]

So there is a silver lining to being deathly sick — a guaranteed coma-like sleep every night, and sometimes during the day. The dreams have been a cool 50/50 on ‘sweat inducing nightmare from Hell’ and ‘relaxing abstract landscape.’ Griff finds himself now in what he hopes is the latter — alone on the shore, a bright, pale light illuminating the beach from an unknown source. 

There’s no breeze but a warm shudder nudges through the air. Something enters the world. Griff recognizes it — and he’s not sure if the weight comes from Orion’s Otherness, or if it’s just become familiar enough to factor into a Dream Orion who would show up for whatever reason — a familiarity he’s not ready to consider while he is so utterly chillin’.

He turns his head to face the angel — “Oh my god,” — and goes dead-eyed at the sight of the vile shirt. There’s no way that belongs to his subconscious. “You’re visiting.” — the only acceptable conclusion. He nods once to reassure himself. Sad world if Griff’s fever dream is a vacation destination. “How’s it going out there? Save any lives?” He flicks his shades down regardless of the sunless sky. Dark smoke lingers in the distance as if a great volcano is resting just below the horizon. 

[hectorgriffiths-blog1]

vincentarakawa:

“Oh hey, you’re that dude that sells jam, right?” Or was it something else? Vincent’s short term memory was foggy, but he could remember a thing or two about people. “Kass is my sister…but that doesn’t really matter. Sorry, I, uh, thought this was her car, so I just got in…” a shiver ran through his body as he tried to think of a better apology and how to find his sister. But right now he didn’t want to get up again. Walking across campus was tough on his weakened body.

Jam seller... “...Yes,” Griff said, the I guess coming out in his head tilt and squint. “...You know where she is? Or Isaac, or whoever? You seem kinda... unfit to be walking around unsupervised.” He politely abstained from any mention of perhaps you are suffering from the same incurable plague as I, and furthermore are wandering outside where there is a constant possibility of a) spreading your germs every which way or b) collapsing the ground and bleeding out of your mouth. Not that he should jump to any conclusions. And yknow, kid could do whatever he wanted. Griff pushed the ignition button just in case.