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Feb. 16th, 2017 09:04 am
blackbirdsing: (💕 62)
[personal profile] blackbirdsing
[ Sarah's lounging in bed, hair up in a ponytail, and she doesn't have much to say except: ]

Why are there no old people here? You know, like...I'm going to go out on a limb and say I definitely haven't seen anyone over 60. And I'm talking visually. Don't be a smart ass and tell me you're over 1,000, I get it, some of you are immortal or magic or...whatever. I'm just saying, no one appears to be over the age of, I don't know, post mid-life crisis.

I wonder why that would be? Wonderland has a youthful aesthetic to maintain? If you're over, say, 65 in human years, raise your hand.
easily: (someday love will find me in the rough)
[personal profile] easily
Video;

I realize this is my first time addressing the network directly so for those who don't know me my name is Rebekah Mikaelson and I've been here a few months now. And for those from worlds similar to my own might know that today is Valentine's Day, a overly commercialized holiday aimed at those who are in love which is all well and good if you have someone to spend it with but can be somewhat disappointing if you're single [like she is, currently, not that there isn't someone she'd like to spend the holiday with but that's another can of worms entirely] so I wanted to extend an offer:

If people want to meet me at the bar tonight we can have a little informal get together and bond over our states together, drink, and try to distract ourselves from cryptic messages from mice. It doesn't matter if we've met before or not, the offer is extended to whoever wants to take it.

That is all.

Action;

[And true to her word, Rebekah can be found at the bar like she announced. She's ordered a row of shots of vodka to begin with and when people arrive she'll be handing off shots to them as a sort of welcoming gesture. If she had had the idea sooner perhaps she could have thrown something more impressive but for now she'll have to simply make do with what she has.

In any case, it beats drinking alone.
]

[ooc: feel free to do top levels/use this as a mingle if you want to, I thought it would be a fun thing to throw up for characters who might not otherwise have plans.]

[ action ]

Feb. 13th, 2017 12:09 pm
malkavialogist: (damn it all! now i'm doing it too)
[personal profile] malkavialogist
{ library, night }

[ As darkness spreads and the moon rises, some of you might notice an unfamiliar figure knocking around in the library. It's gothic and jagged tonight, like a cathedral of books.

The person in question is a pale and somewhat careworn-looking man, in bare feet and a dapper nightshirt, with hair that's only barely under control. He's going along the bookcases, cautiously, patting them, cautiously. Now and then he'll mutter aha! and pull a book out, only to push it back in disgust when it doesn't activate the secret switch to make the bookcase roll away.

What, they don't build secret doors like that here? Poppycock.

He breezes past a mirror hung on the wall.

I am not blind, says a voice: a deep, slow voice that reaches his ears and no-one else's. I am not deaf.

Trust that, says another, trust me, you can trust that.

Grout hmms softly, a signal that he's taken... whatever that means on board. It could be literal. It could be metaphor. It could be gibberish. He runs his thumb over a spot on the wallpaper, making sure it's not the light of a spy-hole. He raps the mirror with his knuckles, just in case it's hiding a secret room or something behind it.

But the knocking doesn't sound hollow. He steps back, disappointed. ]


Drat, absolutely nothing.


{ kitchen, night }

[ He finds his way to the kitchen as well, and here it's harder to conduct a search while staying silent. In the dead of night, there's a certain amount of banging involved in opening cupboards and knocking on walls, no matter how careful you're being.

The mansion, he's realising, is huge. Whoever brought him here certainly has resources -- and who? the Anarchs? perhaps; there's a Toreador or two in their ranks who might be tickled by a political kidnapping. He grits his teeth, ducks down and checks inside the unlit fireplace; but there are no pull chains or hidden switches in sight. Not a hunter or the Sabbat; he'd be dead. Although that would explain why the hallways are lined with lit candles -- the Sabbat would be mad enough. A rival in the Camarilla? Several possible names come to mind.

I'm a trap without hinges, key, or lid. The voice is inaudible, but Grout hears it with pure clarity. He straightens up, dusts off his night-gown, and tugs on a wall lamp in case it's a hidden lever. (It's not.)

Yet inside, God forbid. Yet inside, God forbid.

It's good practice not to talk back to his little club of followers and hangers-on; they're secret for a reason. But he's nervous, frustrated, and it helps his concentration to think out loud. ]


A trap without any way in or out isn't a trap. That's absolute consummate nonsense! If I set out a box trap in a field and neglect to add hinge or door, it won't very well catch any rabbits, will it? Every trap has a lid, including this one. Utter nonsense.

[ The voice is obviously trying to tell him something, but what damned unnecessary riddling. No-one who wanted to send a clear message ever wrote poetry! ]

( ooc: hi! grout here is a vampire with various mental abilities -- though to ordinary senses he isn't visibly inhuman -- so if you tag could you take a look at the questions on his permissions post? thanks! )

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