xblasphcmy:
Gravestones lined the eerie graveyard, Some recently placed, whereas others, cracked and crumbling. Mold covered the engravings dedicated to the dead, trees leaning towards the stones, branches reaching out to each other. The smell of old stone filled the dry air, weeds covering the graves of the dead, loved ones long since stopped visiting. Gravel paths weave through the maze of graves, allowing passers by to pay their respects to the people lined up in the earths embrace.
Tonight though it was just her alone. Paying her respects and talking to the sister whom she recently lost. PRUDENCE BLACKWELL. BELOVED DAUGHTER && SISTER. and her family crest. Though most would say it was just a drawing to match all the blackwell’s grave.
After all the Blackwell Symbol is made up of a circle with a central triangle with a cross on top and at the left of the cross is a shape of a throwing star.
Not expecting anyone here at night, Paige caught his scent as soon as he entered the cemetery. Could be just like her and visiting family or a friend. Yet paige knew to always be on alert. Considering all has happened and Beacon Hills becoming a prison for everyone in this forsaken town, one can never be too sure about people.
An amused smile graced her lips at his words as she turned to look at him. Something about him was familiar though paige couldn’t be bothered with it. “Pretty sure she wouldn’t mind or need the flowers.”
After all, it was technically her grave. Just that her body was never there in the first place. All thanks to her mother who made everyone in this town believe she was dead. Though she wasn’t about to announce it. “Can’t really steal from a dead person. “ Or yourself. “It’s a thing. Ask museums. After all, dead people don’t own anything. ”
The brunette hybrid leaned against her own grave. “ && I’m positive she would want to give her sister the flowers she doesn’t want or need… Thanks for the condolences, though.”
Dead people don’t own anything. Peter wished he could agree. The dead owned an awful fucking lot for being dead, claws dug in deep. Not even just the haunted items shtick. Deeper shit. Peter didn’t linger, why bother? He spent six years stewing over everything. He was haunted in every sense of the word. And he’d taken an awful lot, from both living and dead. Dead people don’t own shit.
The words rang hollow. Awful fucking hollow, a child whispering--no, whimpering ‘I’m not scared.’ to the dark.
He lifts his shoulders in a shrug as if he could be rid of his own internal monologue so easily “Least anyone could do when coming across someone else in a cemetery,” he responds casually “Maybe I could have left you alone but well--we’re all stuck here so why bother with common decency?”
Not that it was something he dabbled with much in passing.
But he was in short supply of friendly faces, or any faces outside of his very small circle of his nephew and his band of idiots. “So, what?” he shifts over to another gravestone -- not the sister but about two stones down “You frequent graveyards at night often then? Better than the local shithole bar I guess.”
He wondered about the unspoken dance between two werewolves. He wondered about her pack. Was she separated from them now because of this curse? She wasn’t local. Because well, he was local. The Local. Then again...his gaze cuts towards the gravestones. Maybe he really was bored. Visiting a cemetery spoke of a connection, there wasn’t a werewolf in town he didn’t know. Six years Peter. Six years. He hated that. Hated hated hated that annoying nagging little voice that always chimed in with that wonderful tidbit. So, she probably rolled in during his comatose period. Or whatever.
“So,” he idly scratches at his jaw “What brought you to Beacon Hills? Couldn’t have been the graveyard, it’s more of a one and done kind of place.”















