Writing Prompt - real life person
Angel and I finally got together to do a writing night. Sitting at Artmosphere, we were talking and talking and definitely not writing, when a curious creature distracted us.
You can decide what is real and what is fiction, but we each found inspiration in a fellow patron, and did a word war.
The Conceited Shaman - Angel’s version of events
Chad had spent most of his day at the car lot polishing his sunglasses, taking them off and putting them back on constantly to the eventual annoyance of the other salesmen. He knew they were just jealous though, these sunglasses would have set one of them back three hundred bucks. They’d have set him back that much also if he wasn’t so well-versed in the dark arts.
He rolled into the bar after work, setting out his things on a spacious table on the patio. It took him ten minutes to get the sleeves of his light lavender dress shirt rolled in just the right way, adjusting them until they were showing off his guns to perfection. Out of his backpack he took his necessary ingredients, a turtle shell, a collection of pebbles, a perfect, round silver coin, a large snail shell, a tiny golden figurine depicting an Egyptian obelisk and a long, intimidating yellow handled knife. In his backpack, he left the wriggling, furry creature he’d need the lifeblood from to activate his magic. The spell needed a real sacrifice to kindle the conjuration to its own life. It would be no small feat.
The mutterings that the other happy hour patrons heard seemed innocuous enough, though strange. He didn’t open his eyes through his chanting, drawing blindly in charcoal across the patio table, a symbol that blurred to the other bar customers’ eyes but that he could have seen perfectly. A chill rose in the air, women with sleeveless dresses chafing their arms to dissipate their goosebumps. An ominous whisper fell through the slight breeze on the patio though no one alive would be able to understand the words. Still without opening his eyes, Chad reached into his backpack to grasp the furry nape of the kitten concealed within. His other hand grasped the yellow-handled knife, dipping the blade below the edge of the bag where his sacrifice was concealed.
“Bro!” Pleated khakis and a pink polo shirt preceded the man approaching. Chad released the kitten and the knife, swiftly zipping the opening of his backpack closed again. His muttering stopped, the air resuming its natural warmth. “Sup, bro?” asked the man, spreading his arms in a grandiose affect.
“Sup, man?” Chad said, smiling. “What’re you doing here?”
“Three dollar Jaeger shots, dude! Gotta decompress from the whole nine to five thing.” The man pointed to the small embroidered spot on his polo that read Jackson Insurance over the name ‘Travis.’
“I haven’t seen you since all the Kappas got together for Matt’s wedding. You’re working in insurance now?”
“Yeah, bro. The money is bangin’. I heard you’re over at the Caddy dealership? That sounds righteous!” Travis held up a hand for a high five, and Chad obliged. Soon, though, Chad’s former fraternity brother’s eyes began to stray over the ephemera that lay over the tabletop. “Dude, whatcha doin?”
“Casting a conjuration for an advanced copy of Kanye’s new album. Fuck if I’m waiting til it drops.”
“Duuuuude,” said Travis, drawing out the word. “You’ve got a kitten?” Chad nodded. “I’ll help you. Give me the knife."
The Conceited Shaman - Hilary’s version of events
It was a dark and stormy night when Chadwick Hamilton Newry sat back and decided he was just fucking done. If memory served, it was a Wednesday, which of freaking course, everything demonic and horrible always went down on a Wednesday. Chad, as he was called, or your friendly neighborhood shaman, simply couldn’t bring himself to give two shits.
But he was under contract, so he had to at least give one shit. The bar on Tallymoor and Broad street was as divey as they come, but had a hint of the magical underworld. Lush greenery adorned the front, and to the passing observer it looked like an overextended herb garden. To any half functioning enchanter, paladin, warlock, or necrofiend, it was a one stop shop for elixir ingredients and a helluva slice of tomato and basil. Chad fucking loved pizza.
It was happy hour, and Chad cringed at the thought. Who in their right mind deemed those hours after self induced mindless labor “Happy”, he couldn’t guess. But he imagined they’d never did a nine to five in a paper pushing office and tried to down double wells happily after such a shit show.
Stopping at a window on the porch, he gazed at his worn face. Not bad for six hundred and eighty two years. Or was it six eighty three? Whatever, it didn’t matter. He actually looked quite good for having a four day hangover and a sprite’s arrow stuck in his shoulder.
Fuck, he thought. He needed a healer to remove that and soon. Sprite’s arrows were always coated in something nefarious. Last time he’d been addicted to bacon for eight months. And delicious breakfast be damned, he never wanted to experience a magical colonoscopy ever again. Fucking sprites. Could’ve been worse. His mentor, the wise Grat de Leicester, had an arrow stop him from ever making right turns. The man went through a lot of left footed shoes.
Chad straightened his hair, wiped some sleep from his eyes and moved outside to the patio of the bar. The cushions at Phomost’s reminded him of stone benches from the flat he’d shared with Merlin back in the 1670s. He settled himself in and gently unzipped his bag. With a delicacy he rarely gave anything, Chad pulled the Pebble of Belize from his bag and set it before him.
He pulled out his Moroccans, the antique wizarding glasses he’d pawned off a she-elf in Pakistan. Sliding them over his eyes, he gazed at the Pebble. It glowed the faintest color of pink.
Pushing the Moroccans above his forehead, Chad smiled and turned back to his bag. He grabbed his tortoise shell, his Aureus coin circa 310 AD, or in the magical world, when pagans decided heaven was more important than orgies. It was one of his most prized possessions that he’d won off a Serbian terrorist that had known a few magic tricks. “Tricks,” Chad had told his friend Jonathan later, “can’t reattach your index finger to your hand.”
In addition to the normal things he’d need, Chad asked the barkeep for two sprigs of alastarian honeyleaf, six ounces of ground sageleaf, and a dime bag of mary jane because Azrael knew he’d need it after the meeting he was about to have.
Samantha glared at him after she delivered the goods, and rolled her eyes when Chad said, “Put it on my tab.”
He rolled up his sleeves, probably to the point of being uncomfortable, and started his summoning spell. Fire of marsh, sage of the desert, coin of a spirit murdered. He threw the ingredients into the shell and set it on fire with a flip of his wrist.
“Barnaby Oliver Wentworth,” he whispered and finally flicked the Pebble into the flames. “I summon you.”
The fire turned a neon pink and a man’s face appeared in the flames. He appeared to be quite agitated.
“This better be good, Chadwick, I’m in the middle of something quite literally out of this world.”
“Barnaby! Old fellow, old pal,” Chad smiled and pat the top of the flame. “This will take but a second.”
The man raised a brow and scowled.
Chad continued. “I need to know who crossed over in the warehouse district last night.”
“Because,” Chad leaned in and peered around to make sure no one was listening. “There was a sacrifice offered to a pagan god.”
Barnaby stilled and lost his annoyed expression after hearing Chad’s words. “Which god,” he questioned.
Chad tried to feign concern, but in all honesty, he really didn’t care. After battling Zeus himself in 1969, pagan deities just didn’t hold the same power over him.
“Just Eris,” he answered and looked at his watch. “Look, just figured out who it was that crossed over, and get back to me. Preferably by dawn because that’s when I forsee myself finishing my bottle of scotch.”
At the mention of the goddess’ name, Barnaby’s eyes widened. He nodded and said he’d get back to Chad within the hour, then cut off the connection.
Chad sat back and stared at the tortoise shell. Sure, he hadn’t encountered a pagan god in decades, so he might be out of practice. But really? Who would set up shop in freaking Louisiana? The state was ruled by the blood suckers and ironically, the corrupt magical revenue service, which he only seemed to avoid through sheer willpower and concealment spells. If they started taxing his elixir sales he’d never be able to keep his debilitating drinking habits.
He’d found himself a great hole in the world there, with booze and food and great music. After the schism between him and Merlin, and the resulting 1815 Edict of Brussels which barred him from setting foot in Europe for another millenia, Chad supposed he’d nestled himself a comfy little spot he might not want to vacate for a few hundred more years.
And he definitely didn’t need Merlin finding out he was practising shamanism again. Goddesses, fuck that guy.
So did he really care that someone was sacrificing humans to the ancient Greek goddess of chaos? No. But he couldn’t have anyone looking too closely at central Louisiana. So he supposed he might give that second shit after all.
