Location: The Manor, room twelve.
Date:17|07|21.
Closed: @lauraxvardhamana.
Saint, for the most part, had remained quiet. An allusive soul, craving for peace to balance the chaos and destruction that clings to his life. And although it’s foolish to think he may not deserve this, the bad things that are born from a life lead in criminality, he also can’t deny the unshakeable narrative that his maman’s departure etches into his chest. More so, in the comparison of what he’d felt when it was his sister who was taken, snatched in the night and stolen along with his meticulously guarded warehouse, its noticeably less painful. Shockingly, in someways, and in truths he’d dared to speak, not even to himself, Gabrielle’s sudden vacancy doesn’t choke him, but almost, it allowed him to breath. As if the heel digging on his throat had at long last removed it’s pressure, and there were no longer this need to perform, or be perfect, in the hope that the hoops he jumps through would reward him with the praise of an uninterested god.
Although, it’s not to say he’d wished her gone. He doesn’t, not really, and if his Horseman’s survival depended on his bated breath, then Saint would adapt to survive at the lower frequency. Permit deities to feast on his passions in order to keep War alive, in order to keep War strong. She’d linger on his mind then, cling to his conscience and the reflection he see’s in the mirror. It’s odd, really, how he’d never noticed the similarities in his features to Gabrielle’s until she’s gone. The same shaped lips, the same sharp and narrow gaze that even in it’s resting state had seemingly been searching for suspicions. She’s with him still, even now, embedded into him, buried like a rose thorn that skin traps and encases by healing over then singing in pain. But now, as the sky fades from blue to black, night crawling in and capturing the British countryside in a star-filled night that the city in all it’s light pollution could never quite offer, Saint only wishes to sleep.
He’s yet to go to his allocated room, carrying a gym bag full of his clothes in one hand, he turns the door handle with the other, and enters. Still empty, he thinks, green gaze looking at a vacant bed as he sets his belongings onto his preferred mattress, (the one located closest to the exit). With the hood of his hoodie pulled up, he sits down, his back pressed against the wall and focus now centred on a book that splays open in his palm. Only for his attention to draw upward as the door swings open, and his room mate to finally announce themselves, with long dark hair, and a pair of shoes that Saint can’t help but find hauntingly familiar. A frown sits on his face, puzzled, and waiting patiently for the other to turn around and offer any greater hints of their identity.
Laura isn’t happy. Not only has Death been forced into a truce, but with Uriel gone, she trusts the other gangs even less. Duplicity is second nature to all of them and without their leaders, Laura’s already fragile trust in the truce cracks even more. It’s not made any stronger when their Seraphim bring them together, opening the floor for accusations, reasons given for names spoken until four are left as the primary suspects. She thinks it’s a fairly reductive process, a game of clue in place of action, without consideration of a potential external force. What she doesn’t say when it’s her turn to speak is how skeptical she is that any of them have actually done it. Maybe, instead, they’d made such a mess of their playground these past few months, that the authorities were finally stepping in. She thinks it would make more sense than self sabotage. But her opinion doesn’t matter. And, at the end of the day, the four would be dealt with and if it wasn’t their doing, they’d all find out soon enough.
She makes her way to her room, annoyance pricking at the back of her mind after her encounter with Sacha. Apparently, it wasn’t funny to throw around accusations she didn’t mean. You know, Sacha is quite sensitive when you slight them. Believe me. So the fact that Uriel overlooked them for Jack as Seraphim...well.. But she had meant her words. They were quite sensitive – the fact that they’d accosted her after the meeting serving as evidence. Laura wouldn’t let him get the best of her, though, pausing outside the door to take a breath.
The Power comforted by the knowledge of a knife tucked away in her bag as she turns the knob, pushing open the door. Pivoting to shut it behind her, Laura adjusts the strap of her small overnight bag before turning to face her roommate and pausing. Not quite frozen in shock but a wave of surprise hits her before a smirk forms, tugging at the corner of her lip as she makes her way to the bed opposite Saint’s. Heels promptly kicked off as she collapses unceremoniously onto the bed, amusement colouring her tone as she glances over at him. “You know, if you’d wanted to see me again, you could have just called.” He’d ghosted her and while it rankled in the sense that she preferred to be the one doing the ghosting, there’d been no love lost for Saint Warden who, she supposes, will have finally realized her involvement in Death tonight.
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