#starter;001

[lordofthefaeries]

The Immortal Bibliophile

Starter: open for everyone

Location: library

Earagon ambled through the cobbled streets, the familiar rhythm of his footsteps a comforting counterpoint to the city's gentle hum. His gaze, however, was soon drawn irresistibly towards a building he knew intimately – the grand, old bookshop, a sanctuary of stories he frequented with a passion. Today, a particular longing tugged at his heart. He found himself searching, not for just any tome, but for a cherished work by his dearest friend and human companion, the sadly departed Miss Jane Austen.

During his extraordinarily long lifetime, Earagon had been granted the immense privilege of befriending the witty and insightful lady, and today, an acute pang of nostalgia for her presence, and her prose, settled upon him. He yearned to reread Pride and Prejudice, one of her truly fantastic works, a book that never failed to charm and captivate him with its sharp observations and timeless romance.

With a hopeful sigh, he pushed open the heavy oak door, the familiar scent of aged paper and ink enveloping him like a warm embrace. He stepped inside, his eyes already scanning the towering shelves, praying that the beloved novel would still be in stock. As he navigated the narrow aisles, his attention fixed on the endless rows of spines, he inadvertently bumped into someone. The other patron, just as engrossed as Aeragon, also had their eyes buried deep within the pages of a book. Curiosity, an ever-present facet of Earagon's ancient spirit, piqued within him. He leaned in slightly, a subtle tilt of his head, hoping to catch a glimpse of the wonderous work that had so thoroughly captivated the stranger.

[barkatthehellhound]

Hunger

Cade knew he shouldn't do it. The thought, a persistent, nagging whisper, echoed through his mind with every step he took. He really shouldn't. It went against every principle he clung to, every shred of dignity he desperately tried to maintain in a world that seemed determined to strip him of it. His body, lean and hardened by necessity, had long ago adapted to scarcity, a testament to countless nights spent with an empty belly. It assured him, with a stoic, almost scientific certainty, that he could easily endure another night without food. A mere twelve hours, perhaps sixteen, and he'd still be standing, still capable of facing the harsh light of dawn.

But the grumbling of his stomach, a deep, resonant growl that seemed to vibrate through his very bones, offered a stark, undeniable counter-argument. It wasn't a whisper; it was a roaring beast, a primal force that drowned out the quiet logic of his brain. It demanded, it insisted, it ached. The gnawing emptiness was a constant, physical reminder of his vulnerability, a relentless drumbeat against the fortress of his resolve.

The aroma, too, was a cruel tormentor. It wafted on the cool evening air, rich and tantalizing, a symphony of sizzling meats and aromatic spices that promised warmth and satisfaction. It pulled at him, a siren song to his famished state, making his mouth water despite himself. He fought it, he truly did, clenching his jaw, trying to focus on the flickering streetlights, the distant hum of traffic, anything but the scent. But it clung to him, a delicious, inescapable cloud.

So, with a final, desperate internal shrug, he surrendered. He cast a quick, paranoid glance over his shoulder, his eyes darting across the dimly lit street. The few late-night strollers were engrossed in their own worlds, their conversations, their hurried paces. No one was looking. No one would notice. Convinced of his invisibility, a shadow among shadows, he peeled away from the main thoroughfare and slipped around to the back of the bustling restaurant. The alley was darker, narrower, filled with the clatter of bins and the faint, sweet-sour tang of discarded food. His heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs, a mix of fear and a desperate, almost giddy anticipation. He moved with a practiced stealth, a lifetime of navigating the fringes teaching him how to blend, how to be unseen. His gaze swept over overflowing dumpsters, discarded crates, and the greasy sheen on the pavement, his senses heightened, every nerve ending alert. He was no longer just hungry; he was ravenous, a primal need overriding everything else. As he drew closer to the back door, where the scents were strongest, almost overwhelming, he inhaled deeply, a shudder running through him. "God, this smells..." he breathed, the words a low, involuntary groan of pure, unadulterated longing.

[toeaseyourtroubledmind]

After-hours therapy date

"Honey..." Aurora's voice was a low growl, a stark contrast to the clinking ice in her perfectly crafted cocktail. A deep frown creased her features, pulling at the corners of her expertly applied eyeliner. "I said I wanted to have fun with you. I may be a therapist, but that doesn't mean I need your whole sob story after hours." Her patience, a finite resource even on the best of days, had completely evaporated. With a decisive swish of her silk dress, she pivoted on her heel, leaving the crestfallen man mid-sentence and making a beeline for another, seemingly empty table across the dimly lit bar.

Ugh, men. Sometimes, she truly missed the uncomplicated tenderness of a woman's affection, a softer touch, a quieter understanding. But then, Aurora was easily bored; relationships, no matter the gender, tended to fizzle out as quickly as they ignited, leaving a trail of half-remembered dates and forgotten promises.

She settled into the plush banquette, letting out a soft sigh of relief. The silence, for a glorious moment, was hers alone. But before she could even take a fortifying sip of her drink, a shadow fell across the table. Her frown deepened as she looked up, her gaze landing on an unexpected pair of eyes. "Please tell me you've had a better day than me, at least," she grumbled, the words laced with a weary resignation that spoke volumes about her evening.