#miller-mayfair

[maggicktouched]

@miller-mayfair (moving this to a thread)

[Text: Miller (Post Talamasca)] I was banned from the London motherhouse :/

[Text: Miller (Post Talamasca)] I could probably get into the New York motherhouse in the next couple of days.

[Text: Miller (Post Talamasca)] This favor is starting to sound like I'm about to get banned from another motherhouse... or fired.

[Text: Miller (Post Talamasca)] Duck it tell me anyway I'm curious

[Text: Miller (Post Talamasca)] *Fuck

[ourbotticelliangel]

[Text:] Can I have $20?

[Text:] Oh fuck

[Text:] I meant MAY I have $20?

[Text:] What am I receiving for the $20?

[Text:] The answer is yes but I do wish to know what I receive in return.

[istartedthefire]

Meme- Something your muse has problems understanding.

The cloud.

I have no clue what it is or why it keeps taking my pictures.

[everarddelanden]

send ☠ for a misguided advice text

[text] I know a very friendly vampire that would love to be interviewed by the Talamasca. Isle of Mann, near England. Let me know how it went.

[eliestela]

Here’s @miller-mayfair again. Because Miller deserves a colour version :) And I don’t know why, in my mind he’s always wearing his red sweatshirt.

Also: I have another version of this but with glasses... I might post it another time XD

[yourstrulyalexanderdietrich]

Fancy meeting you

There seem to be an awful lot of people milling about outside this place. 

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say we were waiting to score scalped tickets for some...stadium event,” I mutter. Max stands politely close, lighter at the ready while I lean into the little flame, bleached bone held between my teeth. Ah, a true gentleman and a professional, what would I do without him?

“What a motley fucking...” puff “...they let anyone into these things now don’t they?”

I always did prefer the taste of tar in my lungs to stranger’s heartbeats. Far less distracting, far more discreet. And there are so many of them here tonight...

Max has a strong and very warm gloved hand for these three marble steps. One, two three--click, click, click--barely out of the Rolls, fur barely adjusted over a shoulder, cigarette barely half sucked back and already I’ve dodged the unsolicited eye-contact of one ignorant stranger, one nauseating peer, and one catty bitch. So many pots to stir, oh which one to pick! 

“Oh be still my heart,” I groan around carved bone. I blow smoke away from Max, don’t want to give the poor thing anything I’m not willing to immediately fix--that’s not in the contract--and roll my eyes up to meet his politely neutral expression. I knew this was a public event but if I had known how public...

At least the doorman has some license to scrutinize. Some gangly mortal thing in a suit that was made for someone else stands vying to be let in, and does not look successful. 

I cannot remember the last time I’ve had to queue for anything. 

“Excuse me,” I tip ash and breathe rather than endure this mortal. Max has never been at my side to speak for me, and using my own voice I look between the gawky thing and the venue staff member who, though boring, is much better dressed. “What is the matter here? Are we to just wait outside all night? Is this the main event?” 

@miller-mayfair

[darknessmolten]

[Text: Nicolas] Where are you?

[text] Stockholm. I like snow. Why?

[exsanguisdraconis]

@miller-mayfair

She had always loved England. So much though that, entirely by choice, she’d adopted its accent through magic and practice even if she hadn’t ever lived there long enough to acquire it naturally. For the vast majority of her life, and to a lesser extent even in modern times, English accents had been trademark of proper, elegant, and fashionable ladies, and while she could have very well simply let her accent develop naturally and people would have undoubtedly still come to those same conclusions, she liked to cut right to the chase. There was little tolerance within her for people who didn’t treat her properly--that was her dragon’s pride--and she preferred not to subject people to one of the few things that might inspire her wrath.

London was the height of culture in England, and yet Areta still found it too dirty and crowded to do anything but disgust her. She ran a cleansing spell over her hands every time she couldn’t avoid touching something. The chances that anything could make her sick were nonexistent; it was that she felt as if there were some sort of grime that only the tingling burn of a spell could fix. And it was more discrete than magically opening every door.

She didn’t bother with the buzzer to the apartment complex. There was a soft click, and the door gently swung back out of her way without so much as a glance. The dragon stepped into the narrow hall and continued to follow the locator spell that she’d cast. Thank the goddess her sister wouldn’t wash a dish to save her life because without the cup he’d held in his hands, getting a read on him would have been an arduous task even for her. The Earth was small, but its population was booming, and finding one lone man across an ocean with no physical link, having never seen him herself, would have taken time she didn’t want to spare. As it was, she was only paying this visit as a courtesy. 

A woman stopped to stare at her, mouth agape as if she’d say something, but then turned and walked away without a word. Rude. While she stuck out here like a sore thumb, but they could at least have the decorum not to gawk like drowning turkeys in the driving rain. Just because these people wanted to live in squalor and dress like country bumpkins didn’t mean she should feel bad for showing up so finely dressed.

Areta gently rapped against the appropriate door and then took a step back to wait. When it cracked she adopted a polite, easy smile.

“I apologize for neglecting the bell, but if you could spare a moment of your time. My name is Areta Fuchs---and I believe we need to have a conversation. Privately.” She raised her brows expectantly. “Might I come in?”