@corinnebaileyrp
Rare sighting or another life?
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@thebiggestlies
@corinnebaileyrp
Rare sighting or another life?
Take from my palms, for joy, for quiet, a little sun, a little honey, as bees offer their gold to dark hives.
Let my lips, so long foolish with noise, speak truth at last into the hush of your listening.
Let something of the unknown plant grow from these hands. Let a drop of the sun rest on the curve of your tongue.
This is all I have. Not words but the memory of summer pressed into light.
-Osip Mandelstam - ĐĐŸĐ·ŃĐŒĐž ĐœĐ° ŃĐ°ĐŽĐŸŃŃŃ ĐžĐ· ĐŒĐŸĐžŃ Đ»Đ°ĐŽĐŸĐœĐ”ĐčâŠ
@morgansmornings
@brooklynislandgirl
Lawrence had seen her work before, but never quite like this.Â
The clearing was half-swallowed by mist, pale hues flecked with gold under a creeping dawn light. Dew drops clung to branches and blades of muted grass. Beth crouched low over something he could not see. Slender fingers moving through the dirt as though coaxing secrets from it.Â
He did not announce himself. Did not need to. There was power here. The kind that would not bark commands or rely on bloodshed to leave a mark. Strong enough Lawrence predicted an unceremoniously ejection if his presence were opposed.Â
In turn, he stood respectfully still. Coat buttoned, gloved hands tucked behind his back. To the untrained eye, he might have resembled a gentleman observing a garden show. But anyone familiar with Lawrence Lynch would recognize the calculation simmering beneath the calm. A fine-tuned analysis of every gesture the resilient witch made.Â
Beth neither spoke nor turned. The only sound made a soft swish of her clothing grazing against earth. Lawrenceâs eyes narrowed slightly, adjusting to the way her aura distorted the air. Rippling like heat waves rising off asphalt. Beyond what would register on even the most arcane device in his private collection. Â
A twitch in the jaw. Not from envy but something far colder.Â
His obsession rose slowly, brushing hands off on the hem of her skirt. There was loam in Beth's hair, a leaf stuck just behind one ear, as though the woods had marked her as theirs and she had not bothered to object.Â
Still, no words. A glance over her shoulder, eyes finally meeting his. Something unreadable passed between them.Â
Lawrence offered the barest nod. Respect or perhaps surrender.Â
The mist thickened behind her as she walked into it, barefoot steps barely leaving a trail. Lawrence didnât follow. Wouldnât.Â
Not this time.Â
âÂ
When he opened his eyes, the forest was gone.Â
In its place emerged the quiet geometry of his bedroom. Clean lines. Neutral tones chosen to avoid distraction. His nostrils, which a moment ago had been filled with moss and earth and woodsmoke, now smelled of nothing at all.Â
He lay still for exactly eight seconds. Then he rose, dressed, and departed.Â
âÂ
It took time, but not much, before Lawrence found the dreamscape. A clearing at the edge of his more rural estate. He stepped into noon-drenched grass and crouched where the dream version of Beth had been, touching the ground with gloved fingertips.Â
The soil was damp. Cool. Mundane.Â
Until it wasnât.Â
His fingers came away stained dark. Not mud nor sap. Blood. Fresh.Â
He studied the smear along the glove. Tucked his handkerchief from his coat pocket and wiped clean the surface with unhurried efficiency. There would be tests. DNA and data unraveled. Then, perhaps, he would understand the message.Â
Curiosity was such an odd sensation. Lawrence had almost forgotten what it felt like. Â
@therealgamble
It was past midnight. The city below his penthouse windows spread in shadows, broken by scattered headlights and the distant pulse of warning beacons from high-rise cranes. The rest of the world slept or spawned or toiled in bitter labour.
Lawrence sat at his desk, the lighting low and cold, carefully reading the crisp, cream-colored folder laid open before him. The report had arrived by hand earlier in the evening. No traceable metadata. Just fine paper stock and ink that didnât copy.
The summary was efficient. Subject neutralized. No collateral. Distance: 421 meters. Weapon: custom-modified bolt-action rifle. Ammunition: silver core, jacketed. Confirmed kill: through the thorax, heart obliterated. The body had fallen cleanly onto the rooftop of a decommissioned station. No witnesses, no retrieval needed. The shooter had left the scene before the body cooled.
Lawrence read the last line again. âContractor reports no deviation from expected behavior.â
He closed the file without expression, then rose from the desk, folder in hand, and crossed to the fireplace. The flames had been stoked recently, Mary had seen to that. He dropped the entire record into the fire without ceremony. The report caught quickly, curling into black at the edges. Lawrence stood a moment longer, watching it turn to soot, ash, and inadmissible as evidence.
Then he returned to the desk and opened a private directory on his laptop. A single video file blinked to life. The footage was silent, distant. Captured by a mounted camera Brian didnât know existed. Lawrence had placed it there for this purpose alone.
On-screen, the rooftop scene unfolded in black and white. The werewolf, still in mostly human form, loped across the concrete in shadow. A half-second later, the bullet hit. The creature dropped mid-stride, mid-breath, without drama. Dead before it knew it had been hunted.
Brianâs silhouette was visible only briefly. His face unreadable. He dismantled the rifle with practiced grace. Deliberate. Emotionless. No questions had been asked before the assignment. None afterward.
Lawrence let the footage loop once, then again, considering every frame.
It had been a male target. That wasnât accidental. There was no practical reason, merely curiosity. Lawrence was still mapping the borders of Brianâs compliance. Not every test had teeth. Some merely marked the distance between command and obedience.
He watched until the screen dimmed. Hit delete. Then shut the computer, fingers tapping once, twice, against the desk.
Perhaps it was time to unleash and see where Brianâs loyalty truly lay.
@brooklynislandgirl
The booth still exists.
A miracle, really. So many things vanish. People, rituals, gods. Even cities change their steel bones and the decay grows so fast of late. But the booth where she first became real. It remains. A half-moon curve of worn leather tucked beneath a tungsten light.
Mikhail stands at the threshold of the bar. No shadows touch him. The streetlamp outside has fractured in a pattern that resembles spiderwebs or veins. He takes it as a sign. Inside, the place smells different. Cinnamon where there used to be cardamom, citrus instead of cloves. Mortals bray too loudly, irreverent, unaware that a cathedral once stood here in the space between heartbeats. He should spill the blood of the more sacrilegious and anoint the ground anew.
Should, but wonât.
Instead, he approaches their former domain. Itâs empty. She isnât here. That night is long since turned to ash even if the memory lives on. So bright it has been clawing at his mind, repeating so often Mikhail begins to wonder if he dreamed it into existence.
No. This is real. He knows as he slides into the same spot once occupied, lets his fingers rest on the wood where her sleeve had brushed it. There was a before his sprite had engraved herself into this venueâs story, and now there is the after. A tale only he can parse.
There are two drinks on the table. One of them is not his. The condensation ring left behind is wrong for the climate. It drips ink instead of water.
He knows not to touch it. Not yet.
Mikhail closes his eyes.
Sheâs there, again.
Beth, with her voice made of throaty sighs and spells, speaking poetry like a priestess, eyes sharp as daggers wrapped in velvet. The way she looked at him then, as though the witch saw a story unspooling behind his teeth and wanted to swallow it whole.
She thought him strange. He called her divine.
He opens his eyes. The glass is gone. The mark remains.
Nothing permanent. Only ephemera.
But even paper can cut.
Mikhail rises, one hand pressed flat to the tabletop as if the surface meets him in prayer.
The bar continues around him, unaware. But the booth breathes. It remembers.
And as he steps into the night again, he leaves behind a folded scrap of parchment. A version of a kvitel, inscribed with remembrance, tucked into the crevices of worn leather like a prayer slipped between stone in Jerusalem.
I remember you in the places that forget us.
@corinnebaileyrp
 The city was a cacophony of noise and motion. Sirens in the distance, conversations spilling from half-open doors. A truck engine rumbling as it turned too sharply down the narrow street and the screeching horn of the taxi it missed. They loved their horns around here. Rafe stood tucked into the shadows beside a delivery van, collar turned up against the wind, shoulders hunched more from the need to blend in than the cold.
It had been months since heâd been this close to a skyline. Longer still since he'd willingly stepped into such an orbit. Give him the woods and the mountains. Yet the cabin heâd moved to, another in a long line of temporary hideouts, had no more soul than the concrete jungle.
Or perhaps he was comparing it too often to lost ghosts. The kitchen was functional but not the one where Cory used to hum while baking. There was no hairline crack in the bathroom door from the time Tabby lost her temper and unnatural strength flared before she could control it.
Rafe shook his head. He shouldnât be so sentimental, and he definitely shouldnât be here. Every instinct told him so. Heâd been trained to listen to that voice. Move when it whispered danger. Fight to the death when it screamed. But this time⊠it murmured a different warning. Not to his life, but to something far more fragile.
Just a quick recon. Thatâs what he told himself. Thereâd been chatter on the underground channels. Someone related to the kidsâ program had died. Messily. If it was Tabby, she needed help. If it wasnât... that mattered too.
But instead of going directly to the crime scene, Rafe had let himself drift here. A different kind of pull, a different sentimental indulgence. It was natural for a bakery to have glass windows that offered no protection. He wished they were tinted for her safety, and against his temptation.
Sarah⊠no, Corinne nowâŠ. moved behind the counter with that same easy grace he remembered. All warmth and quiet confidence. Still so beautiful it ached. Still whole, somehow. Standing strong after everything that tried to break her.
Rafe swallowed hard. Damn how he wanted to walk through that door. To see her look up and smile. Have those dark eyes widen, the rest of her run from behind the counter, throw her arms around him like nothing had changed. Let him hold her tight and banish the emptiness that had wrapped itself around his bones.
But he couldnât.
Each of a thousand imagined futures had to be let go for the sake of the one - this one - where this woman was safe.
@morgansmornings
Eric crouched beside the diminishing stack of unpacked boxes in Jayâs new apartment, turning the closest one toward him.
Knives â the non-kitchen ones.
He stared at the label for a moment, thumb resting on the edge of the box cutter. The writing was Jayâs compared to Bethâs, black sharpie instead of purple glitter. A slight frayed to the edges of the letters suggesting this had been sealed up towards the end, when hands were growing weary of cataloguing.
A natural curiosity made Eric want to slice it open. A womanâs knives however⊠that felt a little intimate.
He turned instead to the next box in the hallway. The sharpie read: âClothing / spare stuff.â Safer. He could handle clothes.
The tape split clean under the blade. A few folded tees, some jeans, that hoodie she always wore when she was working late. He reached in without much thought until something heavier caught at his fingers.
His old college motorcycle jacket.
A bemused crease appeared in Ericâs brow as he turned it over in his grip. The leather was softer than he remembered, broken in first by years of wear and then one very determined thief. The collar was creased the way it always got when Jay folded it over with that precise flick. A faint trace of cologne lingered. His, but barely. Mostly it just smelled like her now. Like wind and warmth and New Yorkâs roads.
He hadnât even realized it was missing.
Footsteps approached, slow and steady. He glanced up just as Jayden appeared in the doorway, carrying two coffee cups and no trace of guilt on her face.
âThought I lost that,â Eric murmured, holding the jacket up like evidence.
âYou didnât.â She handed him a cup. âI just packed it early.â
He rose with a chuckle, taking a sip of rejuvenating caffeine and staring at her over the rim. Christ, Jayden was beautiful like this. Hair dishevelled; shirt tugged half off one shoulder. The sensation of this being a dream hadnât quite passed, that this was no longer a long-distance relationship, and Eric basked in her presence.
That didnât stop a sprinkling of good-natured ribbing. âAny other surprises in these boxes?â
Jayden smirked. âHave I warned you yet about my pet alligator? He and Jenna are best friends.â
Eric huffed a soft laugh. âRight. Iâll let the dog know sheâs being replaced.â
âSheâll cope. Heâs housebroken.â
âUnlike you.â
Jay padded closer, brushing her shoulder against his as she nursed her coffee. For a moment, they stood in the middle of the chaos. Boxes stacked high. Tape crumpled underfoot. The place didnât exactly look like a home yet.
But she did.
Name: Lawrence Lynch
Age: Early 40s
Sexuality: Ambivalent
Relationship status: Battling for power with @brooklynislandgirl and occasional employer of @therealgamble.
Profession: Business Magnate
Key Features (according to a third-party personality assessment):
Meticulous. Every move he makes is deliberate, every action weighed against potential outcomes.
Unflinching. Morality is a flexible concept in his world, and he does what is necessary without hesitation.
Manipulative. He views people, knowledge, and power as things to be owned, controlled, or leveraged.
Name: Rafael Rojas Soto
Age: Lates 30s/Early 40s
Sexuality: Straight
Relationship status: Itâs Complicated with Cory @corinnebaileyrp
Profession: Recluse
Key Features (according to a third-party personality assessment):
Resolute. Heâs not one to make empty promises, and when he decides to protect someone, he does so with unwavering determination.
Wary. He keeps people at armâs length, always calculating risk, always expecting betrayal or danger.
Haunted. The past weighs heavy on him, whether itâs the blood on his hands or the choices that led him to this isolated life.
Name: Mikhail Alkavich
Age: Unknown, appears in his early 30s
Sexuality: Redundant due to his Kindred nature
Relationship status: Besotted with his sprite Beth @brooklynislandgirl
Profession: Primogen of Clan Malkavian
Key Features (according to a third-party personality assessment):
Charismatic. He has an allure that draws people in, whether they trust him or not.
Detached. He observes more than he engages, keeping himself at a remove.
Merciless. When pushed, he doesnât believe in half-measures.
Name: Eric Myers
Age: Early 30s
Sexuality: Straight
Relationship status: Dating Jay @morgansmornings
Profession: Construction Foreman
Key Features (according to a third-party personality assessment):
Dependable. A rock-solid presence, he always comes through.
Thrill-seeking. He craves excitement, whether itâs on a bike, in a ring, or pushing limits.
Hot-blooded. His sense of justice burns fast, and sometimes, his fists speak before his words.
Name: Hannah Miller
Age: 18-19
Sexuality: Bisexual
Relationship status: Dating Noah @multi-mused
Profession: College student
Key Features (according to a third-party personality assessment):
Driven. She relentlessly pursues her goals, refusing to settle for less.
Analytical. Always thinking things through, she dissects problems with precision.
Guarded. She keeps her emotions tightly controlled, making her hard to read.
Name: Jonah âVaneâ Vanelli
Age: Early 30s
Sexuality: Straight
Relationship status: Recently married to Aspen @multi-mused
Profession: MC Member
Key Features (according to a third-party personality assessment):
Loyal. His devotion to those he loves is unwavering, no matter the cost.
Commanding. He naturally takes charge, his presence demanding attention.
Possessive. When it comes to whatâs his, he doesnât share - ever.
[After endless neglect of these muses, some character profiles are upcoming in the queue.
Thread responses will hopefully be coming also.
If you want to write something with any of them (new verses can be created if needed), just hit me up.]
âItâs good to see you too.â And it was. No matter the time difference, she was always set at ease when she saw him. Bruised or not he was startlingly handsome. Soft features on a strong face, wide shoulders, and an adorable little curl to the ends of his wet hair. The more she spent time with him, the more confident she was in her decision to move.Â
âIt was mostly bare to begin with even with all my stuff cluttering the space.â SHe moved to the corner of the L shaped couch, pulling the throw blanket down to wrap over her lap as she set her own laptop up on the back of the couch so she could pretend they were in the same place. In a matter of a week they would be in the same city. And to say she was excited was putting it mildly.Â
âItâs going well. I finished packing up the altar and my library.â She took a sip of tea, glancing at the now open space that had once been decorated with books and the tapestry. âI have movers coming in two days to get the bedroom stuff. Iâve got the hotel reservation confirmed. Bethâs going to be taking Jenna until I get my apartment set up out there.âÂ
She knew there was more to her ever growing list of things to get done. But she wasnât going to bore him with the details tonight. He looked tired and not in the heâd had a fight recently. More in that it had been a long day she was willing to bet money that he had yet to eat. Something she was going to change when they were no longer states away from each other.Â
âTell me about you so I can feel less guilty not being there to feed you.â
Eric let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as he reached for the beer beside him. âGuilty? Iâm a grown man. I can feed myself.â He took a sip, setting the bottle back down with an easy wink. âGranted, that doesnât mean Iâve actually done it yet, but the ability is there, even if it will be inferior to your cooking.â
He leaned back slightly, stretching out his legs under the desk. While the shower had helped, talking to Jay had a way of easing all of lifeâs worries. Hearing her list off all the progress sheâd made, that everything was falling into place, piece by piece, was welcome news. It eased the niggling guilt as to how he wasnât down there to help. As much as Jay had everything in hand, he had the ability to assist, even if merely in the capacity of lugging about heavy items.
But she wouldnât want him to dwell on that, and Jay was already steering the conversation toward him, giving him an out. Plus, there would be plenty of ways to redeem himself when it came to the unpacking side of things.
âLong day.â Eric admitted, rolling his shoulders back. âCold as hell, too. Site visit was out in the open, nothing to break the wind, so I spent the afternoon convincing the project liaison that my guys didnât have frostbite included in their contracts and we needed some wind barriers.â Even as he finished the small story, he realised that work talk wasnât necessarily talking about him, as much as it consumed his time.
âGoing to be icy again this weekend, so no bike rides. Donât judge but I skipped my workout at the gym this morning.â He only went a couple of times a week, mostly to use the punching bags and to keep old injuries under control. Hardly what anyone would call a gym junkie. âMy bed is never as warm as when youâre in it, but it was doing a damn good impression today.â A more amused expression crossed his features as Eric asked a question he already knew the answer to, but simply liked hearing Jay say it. âHow many days left until I have a more regular excuse to do cardio at home?âÂ
@brooklynislandgirl
The silvered light of a waning moon pooling like liquid silver across the floor. Tick tock, a silent clock, counting down to Yule. Beth rests amid rumpled sheets that are valleys and hills, protections he builds against lurking shadows. He steals her sleep as much as they, that is true, yet Mikhail leaves her with less dark rimmed eyes and less blood and more strength to rise when the silver is gold and is time to be festive with the living.
Day. Night. Life. Death. The divide between them, where his sprite lives in both and while the city sparkles with lights that pretend to fold wintery existences into one, traditions mixed and mashed until edges are blurred, he must be gone. Gone before they eat the kutya and throw a spoonful at the ceiling⊠No, that is not what they do here.
Yet Mischa does leave a small token. Only a folded parchment on her bedside table. Its edges worn, the ink a deep, deliberate script. Words meant to speak when he can not, between the eating and drinking and merriment under the pale gleam of a Noel filled sky.
Love at the lips was touch As sweet as I could bear; And once that seemed too much; I lived on air That crossed me from sweet things, The flow ofâwas it musk From hidden grapevine springs Downhill at dusk? I had the swirl and ache From sprays of honeysuckle That when theyâre gathered shake Dew on the knuckle.
"To Earthward" - Robert Frost