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August 14th,
2021 6:03 pm
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I will show you fear in a handful of dust.( Read more... )
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| IV. |
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February 8th,
2012 12:47 am
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( LOCKED TO: London Library. )
Finally (re-)visited my favorite old pub. All they were selling was Stella to a flock of barely post-teen collegiates. Time to find a new favorite pub.
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| III. |
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December 25th,
2011 11:19 pm
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[The fact that this is Not his time of year always comes as a bit of a surprise, to Iain as well as to those few living souls he encounters during these few festive weeks. 'Numb' isn't precisely the right word for his typical state of being, but there is a certain aloofness to his demeanor, an evident distractedness that is in fact a (perpetual and exhausting) acute perceptiveness that removes him, typically, cleanly, from regular demonstrations of ordinary human warmth save with those who've learnt his ways best. During the winter months, this manifests as more of a fatal flaw than just a personality quirk.
Not that he has much time to worry about old alienating habits during the holidays. There is practically twice as much mischief to sift through (mischief being an old hand's code for apocalyptic mayhem, of course), and the spirits were always restless. Always. There were never any exceptions nor abatement in the onslaught of tortured souls just now, tortured moreso with visions of their own loved ones living and dead, all layered atop one another as tightly and transparently as a stack of millennia-old tracing paper. The holidays are for family, their family, and Iain seems their conduit, their voice, their alarm, their last substantial link to a world probably already withered. It wears him ragged.
It is also perhaps the one time of year he allows himself, at least consciously, to feel their pain. The searing-hot chains of yearning that still keep them bound like shadows to the bustling living remind him of his calling, of how closely he has drifted to the chill River and to that final death in the last year, and the years before. It brings to his mind (ever more sharply) those ignorant of the world beyond, those happily thoughtless of what awaits them all.]
Masquerades advertised by shackled souls aren't really my proverbial cup of tea. But I suppose it'll make for interesting Christmas stories. Cheers, all.
( Gideon. )
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| II. |
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October 11th,
2011 1:09 am
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[LOCKED: LONDON LIBRARIANS]
It's official, then. This'll be the new stomping ground for the forseeable future.
[LOCKED: GIDEON FOSTER]
Need to have a chat, I think.
[PUBLIC]
Sometimes think this city could use a refresher course on the pros and cons of talking to strangers.
[And added later, after this and the onset of a headache--]
[LOCKED: CATHERINE GRYFFITHS]
I should probab
Hey Cath, we should pr
Hello
Catherine, do you have a mi
[...]
You about?
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| I. |
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September 27th,
2011 10:38 pm
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[The page doesn't show any sign of moisture, but the feel of the rain hangs over everyone, even here in the annals. The faint hint of copper has been swept away, but he hasn't forgotten the Isle's way of clinging to weather as a sanctified conversation topic, a grade somehow above the average human communal endurance inspired by the sky's output since time immemorial. It suffuses so thoroughly their thoughts that he needn't bother saying what's really on his mind, with things still in boxes, stacked in a few sparse leaning towers in the corners of a new flat, pasta dinner served to himself in bed by the light of a new candle and the dregs of an old book. His hand is as light as ever, purposeful but somehow distracted. Perhaps this would be like riding a bike, after all.]
Well. Looks about the way I left things.
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