VETERAN. MOM. NURSE. WRITER.
Caliginous Need
WRITING SAMPLES
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Modern Realistic
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The joint always seemed to be jumping down at One Eyed Jacks, a popular night club/music venue which had the distinction of once being a theater and a cabaret space as part of its history. The same rollicking theme evolved into the establishment becoming one of New Orleans’ leading spots for local and touring indie rock artists to perform their music on its three stages. The nightclub was located just steps away from the French Quarter in the historic Faubourg-Marigny/Bywater district at 612 Toulouse Street, offering premiere live music 6 days a week.
One Eyed Jacks general manager, Henry Toussaint, had a feeling that his Monday morning was heading quickly south moments after his arrival at work. He got a vague feeling of unrest just before he sat down at his office desk to enjoy his to-go cup of hot coffee and eat his beignet from Cafe du Monde when his land line phone rang with some very bad news.
Whoever the caller was on the other end of the line had jacked his blood pressure up to a whole new level."What da hell you mean?-- we can't make the got-damn show on Friday?! You might want to re-tink-dat my friend," Henry's pleasant mood shifted to an icy tone into the telephone receiver, as the call abruptly ended with an angry slam of the receiver on the phone when he hung up on the caller.
"Damn it!" he cussed loudly enough for the entire bar and kitchen staff to hear him yelling from down the hall.
Henry was about to tear out the scant tendrils of gray hair on his balding head due to a last minute cancellation from New Breed Brass Band for the 12:30 jam session this upcoming Friday. Not only was it the busiest club night of the week, the popular band had been booked for a catered VIP package that was reserved for 450 people in the clubs private party room.
"What's goin' on Henry? You need some coffee a'somethin'?" his events coordinator, Tre Baptiste, asked because he had heard the loud cussing roll like thunder from his office next door.
"How is it Tre, you askin me questions about why da hell the New Breed Brass Bass gone and cancelled fo' the VIP booking, when you the got-damn talent acquisition specialist round here?
After Henry clued Tre in on the sudden and unexpected cancellation, he was on the phone in his office in less than a New York minute. In order to salvage the night club's profit margin --which would be pissed down the proverbial drain if that block of time was left unbooked, he took out the talent contact list from his desk. Tre made multiple phone calls and left voice mails to any and all musicians of note, working through lunch in desperation to land someone good enough for the clubs VIP's.
By the end of the workday Monday, Tre was left staring at a sheet full of crossed off musical artists and no bookings for the VIP event.
His lanky form pressed against the doorway of Henry's office as anxious beads of sweat formed on his forehead he dabbed away with a spotted linen handkerchief clenched in his hand.
"Just got off da phone wid Kishi Bashi, she's booked til August. Called and left a voicemail for the others," he replied,
The Samsung Note in his hand sounded off with the chime When The Saints Come Marching In. Glancing at his phone number on the screen, he recognized it as one of the artists tried to reach and wound up leaving a message on their voicemail earlier.
Henry's burnished brow arched expectantly as he waited for a good word, while Tre took the call from Waylon Jennings hybrid indie band called Shooter. The phone call seemed to bleed into another and another, as artist after artist returned the calls.
Tre' sighed and shook his head in disappointment, giving his boss more bad news. "Shooter is playing up Lafayette this weekend, both Soul Man Charles Bradley with the Jazz Fest band and Black Moth Super Rainbow booked til' September."
"And that's it for the contact list, Tre'?" Henry asked, pausing as he took off his reading glasses to rub his work weary eyes.
"I know you don't 'preciate untested talent Henry, but rememba that blonde-haired, corn fed -bayou bred -white boy -street playa, I tole ya bout last week when I was coming out of Brennan's? The one who played the acoustic guitar sounding like da next incarnation of Django Reinhardt?"
"No. Not partic'lrly, Tre', and you right. you know I don't do new talent with VIP's. It's a crap shoot wit more crap than shoot." Henry groused, knowing this time Tre' was going to win this battle.
"Go on." Henry waited, barely able to contain his excitement. Figured it wouldn't hurt to hear Tre' out this one time since they were in a one footed ass kicking contest together.
"I distinct'ly rememba tellin' you bout him. Name's Ayren..somethin' Wrote da name right down'chere bout to hear it go!" he spouted off excitedly while fishing around in his pockets for a moment, having written the Cajun's name down on the back of a credit card receipt still stuffed in his billfold.
"Bélanger! He young, an' self-taught, got the voice of a damn angel too. I sware on my papa's sainted grave, dis boy da next Marc Broussard, Henry! Ya want me t-"
"Ayren Bélanger. From the Houma Bélangers? What he play?" he asked, knowing Louisiana history well enough to know that several generations of the Bélanger family had founded that town centuries ago.
"Acoustic guitar," Tre' reminded him, then clarified his answer when he saw the irritation form on his boss' scowling face.
"Oh ..he play Swamp Pop. He damn good too. Want me t-" he was about to ask again when he cut off once more by Henry.
"Get his ass on da phone. If he good as you say Tre', we lookin' at a fat bonus at the end of the month." Henry waved at him, taking a sip of the cold remains of the cafe au lait he brought in that morning.
Tre' was already on it.
Ayren Bélanger was a twenty-two year old Cajun kid from down the bayou city of Houma in Terrebonne Parish. Somehow, the kid had come on hard times back home leaving the swamp country for the vibrant nightlife of N'awlins. It was a strange twist of fate when Tre' Baptiste was attracted by Ayren's raw, almost prodigal harmonics when he sang original Swamp pop-style songs he'd composed and a few famous covers for the tourists on Bourbon Street, accompanied by just a Gibson J-45 guitar and a Humbucker P-90 pickup in order to be heard above the crowd.
The young Cajun street busker was playing before a vibrant crowd tonight, his first solo gig at a genuine music venue, renowned for its superb acoustics. One Eyed Jacks was a fitting home for his first appearance set as he utilized the space with his vocals and shared stories about each of the songs in the intimate setting of the VIP area. Before Ayren even played a note, he walked onstage after the emcee briefly introduced him. The Swamp pop musician was greeted by the full capacity crowd of 450 with a thunderous standing ovation to kick off his performance.
"Bonsoir mes amis, y'ready f'us ta laissez les bon temps roulez!?" Ayren's hot spicy Cajun accent resounded through the microphone as he banged out the beat on the body of his rosewood Gibson guitar, "1..2...1-2-3, yeah!"
What Ayren didn't know was that a few people from the main stage had crashed the party during his 10-12 song set. Normally, for a better known musician or band, the security at the door wouldn't have been as lax, but everyone was so distracted and were entranced by the young Cajun's soulfulness onstage, they didn't notice the commotion at the door. Everyone continued drinking at the bar, or eating some of the catered food as Ayren belted out one of the first songs he composed called I Want Crazy.
"Got washed away in a summer rain/You can't undo a fall like this/'Cause love don't know what distance is/Yeah, I know it's crazy/But I don't want good and I don't want good enough/I want can't sleep, can't breathe without your love/Front porch and one more kiss, it doesn't make sense to anybody else/Who cares if you're all I think about,/I've searched the world and I know now/It ain't right if you ain't lost your mind/Yea I don't want easy, I want crazy/Are you with me baby? Let's be crazy, yeah!" The song was a fast one that was meant to be a crowd pleaser that showcased Ayren's flawless fingering skills as they plucked the strings, and hugged the neck of his instrument.
Three songs after it were also upbeat and lively, until the fifth song Ayren chose to sing. Although no one else knew it, the young man on stage and his eight siblings lost their mother when Ayren was only the tender age of five. She died in a tragic hit and run that was still unsolved after fifteen years.
"Dis song f'my defante Maman, Émilie, she die when ah was ah was jus' a p'tit boug, but she a'ways rite here in ma' Cajun heart," his voice deepened as he began the harmony and followed it up with the warm outpouring of his song.
In true Cajun spirit, the blonde flashed a happy smile towards the ceiling above his audience briefly as if he were briefly singing to her instead of them. The song from the movie Footloose that was normally sung in a sweet duet with a lady. As Ayren's chin dipped down under the stage lights, fingers strummed the harmony as his mellow voice married it in perfect key. "I used to think that dreams belonged to other men/'Cuz each time I'd get close/they'd fall apart again."
Ayren's peaceful melody changed to a soft gasp from the crowd as Swamp Pop princess, Shelly Waters, came right out of the audience to join him up on stage. After Tre' handed her a microphone, she began singing the female part of the song for Ayren. The famous Louisiana bayou native had attended the show as part of the group of VIP revelers, and recognized him as a member of her community that had seen more than his fair share of tragedy and suffering. Nearly moved to tears as she joined him in synchronized melody as they sang, “I feared my heart would beat in secrecy/I faced the nights alone / Oh how could I have known /That all my life I only needed you.”
As Shelly slowly strolled towards him from the other end of the stage, their voices blended together in perfect synchronicity with each other, "Who--aaa/Almost paradise!/We're knocking on heaven's door/Almost paradise!/How could we ask for more?/I swear that I can see forever in your eyes/ Paradise/Paradise."
This new rendition of the song, brought the crowd to their feet, as Ayren and Shelly took a bow together, and he turned to her,"Awww cher, y'sing good good. Tanks f'ya help honorin' m'maman." Ayren's voice choked up with emotion.
Shelly kissed him on his cheek as he gave her a hug, "Naw sugah, you good good. Now y'go git you sum, bayou boy." she smiled, taking her leave of the stage to the sound of applause as she returned to the party.
Ayren briefly took a break to grab a bite to eat before continuing the rest of the show. Four songs passed in a blur, all of them wonderful and as everyone watched his skilled fingers move effortlessly, it was as Tre' predicted. Ayren brought the house down with each song.
With a nod to the amazing venue, Ayren closed out his set by singing a cover of the classic hit, “Summer Breeze,” accompanied by Simon Hayes on the keyboard and and Ayren on acoustic guitar. Ayren played solely by ear without the aid of a lyric sheet in his hand as he solely focused on belting out the Seals and Crofts that dated back to 1971.
"Shout out go ta Houma, heart of de bayou an' dis Cajun boy's home!" Ayren laughed, as he belted out in song.
"See the curtains hangin' in the window/In the evenin' on a Friday night/Little light is shinin' through the window/Lets me know everything's alright/Summer breeze, makes me feel fine/Blowing through the jasmine in my mind/Summer breeze, makes me feel fine/Blowing through the jasmine in my mind/See the paper layin' on the sidewalk/A little music from the house next door/So I walked on up to the doorstep/Through the screen and across the floor/Summer breeze, makes me feel fine/Blowing through the jasmine in my mind/Summer breeze, makes me feel fine/Blowing through the jasmine in my mind/Sweet days of summer, the jasmine's in bloom/July is dressed up and playing her tune/And I come home from a hard day's work/And you're waiting there, not a care in the world!/aaaah." Simon backed Ayren up singing harmony in the background as if they'd practiced before hand. Not so.
The crowd roared. "Tanks y'all fo de love, yeah! Tank ya, g'nite!" he bowed gracefully onstage. Ayren had turned to remove his guitar and place his instrument back into its case, and get off the stage so the next band could do their set when a strange man came up to him.
Ayren heard him say, Hey, the name’s Claude. As in Claude Quinn. And I want you, babe.
Grand-mère had a name for the way he appeared, de man he got dem hungry eyes. Ayren's blue gaze shifted warily at him as he continued to pack up his shit.
"Do y'now podna?" Ayren chuckled and decided he was kinda of cute and more than a bit intoxicated. "Ah dun know ya, naw. You some couyon, yeah? Mebbe y'buy me a drink ' ova at de bar, cos dis boy, tertsy f'true! Den ah tawk wid y'crazy ass, yea?"
Science Fiction
Luca had carried out plan A, without knowing the extent of Mradon's game plan. As far as he knew, a leap of faith for mankind had been made, and once Mradon was free it was his turn to come through on whatever idea he had of escaping. Luca had a reason to be afraid. The gray aliens were hostile, they didn't care if he was in pain and he had the strange sense that they thought he was more of a laboratory rat that was easily disposed of rather than his being a life form worthy of their care and respect.
Trusting Mradon to stay true to his word as far as the visions he was projecting into his mind telepathically was the first step, and Luca silently prayed that he wasn't misinterpreting those messages. He was visibly shaking as he begge Mradon not to leave him stranded with the Grey aliens, because he knew just how horrible things would be for him if this plan didn't work. Especially since their freedom weighed so heavily on their limited options as well as time to execute those plans.
Luca felt energy that enveloped his mind like a warm, friendly hug that was filled with optimism and hope. He could pick up by Mradon's mannerisms that he was grateful. It was the tears of gratitude that momentarily blocked the messages to his brain that were a part of his anxiety. It acted as a temporary buffer for an impending sense of panic at what he'd just done. He felt his heart begin to race, and as Lucas inhaled, his breathing began to quicken until he was almost hyperventilating.
Now that the shackles Mradon wore to mute his telekinetic ability had been removed, the alien would have little trouble breaking through the barrier that crippled Luca since his first abduction. Severe anxiety that was usually exhibited by a panic attack, that increased when he was alone. Only after the barriers holding his mind captive were completely removed, could the human see what Mradon intended to do, and how his plan was going to unfold.
"O-oh, kay." Luca gasped as if he'd been drowning underwater.
As his mind recovered from its moment of panic, his air starved lungs burned as he sucked in some much needed air. The message that was sent telepathically to him caused Luca to begin scrambling backwards to the wall where he had been chained initially by his captors. It would be clear to Mradon as Luca tucked the shackles behind his body, that he was on board with the plan. It meant that he would have to do more than just try to keep his mind open for Mradon without going into panic mode again, he had to succeed.
The images that Mradon showed him of what he could do with his own power was brutal, and undoubtedly the Grey leader and his crew would be devastated. Asked by Mradon whether he was willing to earn their freedom,
Luca answered, "Entendido. Yes, I understand."
Then Luca suggested an idea, sending an image of himself closing his eyes and remaining as still as death, but still very much aware of his surroundings.
"I will close my eyes. They will think I am still unconscious."
Luca was completely focused upon the task at hand, taking a deep breath to relax and quiet his mind so he would remain as calm as possible for what was going to happen. Despite having butterflies in his stomach as well as feeling the urge to puke, the human remained focused, sending a quick message to Mradon just before he sensed someone was coming and whoever it was didn't have good intentions.
He closed his eyes, "I'm ready, Mradon. Let's do this."
The human was not only ready to take back his freedom, but to face his greatest fears. Humankind had not evolved for millions of years without a sacrifice of some kind, and it wouldn't just be his head on the chopping block like all the other extraterrestrial life forms that the Grey had encountered.
Luca wasn't as vulnerable or as inferior as the Grey thought, and soon his kind would pay for their acts of depravity against him, they'd finally know that humans were a force to be reckoned with.
Smut​
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Sometimes actions spoke louder than words, and Ayren was a man of action. Ayren laved his left testicle with a languid stroke of the flat of his tongue, dragging it with excruciating slowness up to Gabe's leaking slit. He tasted delicious, and Ayren knew it was unlikely he would receive the same level of boy on boy love and worship of his cock from any other guy.
The blonde between his legs had exceptional skill at cock sucking, and it was obvious by the way he spent so much time licking and sucking Gabe's tight, full scrotum until he heard a satisfied groan. Closing his eyes, Ayren let himself enjoy the sensation of the soft yet textured feel of the fleshy sac filling his mouth, sucking it gently as he laved and rolled his nuts around with his tongue.
He heard Gabe gasp, ah fuck, and his reaction allowed his lips to form an impish grin at the enthusiastic outburst. Ayren suppressed the urge to laugh, moving over to his other ball instead. It filled his mouth, and the blonde Cajun hummed his appreciation. There were two kinds of moans from Gabe. One released in frustration, the other in pleasure.
And if his mouth were free, Ayren would be moaning too. He gave Gabe a sloppy lick of his scrotum and another waft of warm breath, then released his balls, now glistening with his saliva. Ayren was happy to observe his sac draw even tighter to his body in a wave of goose flesh that radiated from his crotch. Using only the tip of his tongue, Ayren trailed a line from the root of his cock to his slit, poking it in and wriggling it about within his cock's eye, gathering the juice.
His azure gaze sought out Gabe's face, meeting his gaze as he grasped the base of Gabe's pole in one hand. Angling the blunt tip toward his soft lips, and with slow, sensual swirls, Ayren tongued it repeatedly. He allowed his hand to move up Gabe's shaft until his thumb was at its leaking eye, rubbing leisurely circles, and spreading his nectar, making the head of his cock glisten.
Ayren teased him a little more by running the flat of his tongue slowly from his balls to the tip, knowing full well what he was doing was the equivalent of giving a thirsty man a single sip of water. Feeling Gabe's body shudder, Ayren took a deep breath, then engulfed the head of his cock, drawing it into his mouth and sucking hard. Returning a hand to his balls, Ayren gently rolled and squeezed them with his fingers as he focused his mouth on the head, continuing to suck firmly while using his tongue to tease and tantalize.
"Ah wanna make ya cum more Gabe, fo' true. Ah'm gonna suck you dry, yeah." Ayren replied, shifting the angle of his blonde head.
Ayren began to bob up and down, taking a little more of his length into his mouth on each descending stroke. He aimed the crown of Gabe's cock toward the inside of one cheek, letting it tap against it firmly—a nice prelude to when he finally let Gabe submerge himself in his throat. Ayren did to Gabe all the things he wished a guy would do to his cock—he ran his tongue up and down his frenulum, tongued his slit, swirled his tongue all around the head and up and down his shaft, bobbing his head up and down along its hard ridges.
Ayren licked.
Ayren lapped.
Ayren kissed.
Ayren sucked.
And Ayren worshiped Gabe's cock.
Historical
Death. Destruction. Dominance.
There weren't many citizens left among the city of Pella bearing witness to the decimation of their people and their cultural center that could speak the language of their captors. The Romans were gloating and lauding their victory over them with the leader of their band of pillagers front and center. What wasn't already dying, dead , burning, raped or defaced stood in sequestered terror within the terraced peristyle courtyard of the royal palace. Nikandros' eyes of burnt umber were lit with the intensity of his antipathy for the men that systematically slaughtered his friends and family.
There was only his younger sister, Kressida left. When the soldiers herded them into the peristyle, all of them were stripped by the soldiers and anything of value claimed by them. Kressida and the other women were treated as if they were common whores. The leisurely stroll the pair of soldiers made as they picked and chose who lived or became a corpse to add to the pile of the dead made Nikandros' distress even worse when his sister was seized by a soldier, and dragged away.
If his hands had not been bound.
If the Gods and goddesses answered their cry.
If meant nothing anymore.
The conquering soldiers must have read the ferocity translated through the sculptured flesh, the bone and muscles of his face. Nikandros' pristine white teeth clenched together in restrained anger as they filed past the group of men who were now their prisoners of war. The captives were wise enough not to murmur their confusion aloud when the leader's speech was beyond their comprehension, but Nikandros understood every single word the man uttered. It was difficult to disguise his discontent, even behind such a handsome face. He hoped the gods would strike him down, this man--no dog -- in command of the others.
Nikandros believed him to be the equivalent of a Macedonian strategos autokrator, or commander in chief of the legion. Not that he wouldn't be able to tell from the arrogant display. Perhaps in another time or place, Nikandros would have considered a man of his ilk desirable. Cassius was now a battle tested soldier. There was the softness of youth along the edge of his jawline, but affections cooled when he looked into his eyes and saw nothing but frozen indifference. Nikandros stared at him, as the two men spoke around him as if he were a pretty bauble or an object to be amused by. He was a physician, instructed in grammar, music, and gymnastics by the most distinguished teachers of his time.
A flutter of dread enveloped him when the second in command pointed him out to his superior, and all eyes honed in on Nikandros. He was quickly snatched up from behind and forced to move forward so that the commander could scrutinize him even closer. Nikandros dark bangs fell into his eyes to obscure his vision, but his gaze never left the face of the one that seemed to have derived some strange interest in him. Nikandros also appeared unashamed of his forced nudity, because he had participated in the Symposia from the tender age of twelve as an eromenos. The Symposia was a party held in a private home where Greek males gathered to drink, eat and sing together.
Various topics were also discussed such as philosophy, politics, poetry and the issues of the day. His mentor helped him to embrace adulthood and to become a man. It was a Macedonian custom to remain in the company off his erastes, for the period of time necessary to constitute this rite of passage. In Nikandros' case, his mentor, Aesepus, helped to educate him in the ways of Macedonian life and the responsibilities of adulthood, among other things. As proof of his readiness to accept that role, and sit with his elders at the Symposia, he had to compete in physical tests and games of skill as well as slay a wild boar.
Only boys who were successful in their efforts could be considered an adult. Nikandros had passed the test which was expected of a young male part of the aristoi.
The strategos autokrator, addressed him in a deprecating way, and from the flash of indignation in Nikandros' warm brown eyes, undoubtedly there would be plenty of spirit within him in which to marvel over, or crush under the commander's gilded sandals.
Unlike the Romans, Macedonian males only took one name like the Greeks did, and referred to their paternal connection. His voice was deep, hidden emotion, "Familia ? Occidisti patrem meum et matrem. Soror mea, et fratres mei. Non est genus. Sicut me. Nikandros. Fortasse etiam album relatus victoria tua ?" Nikandros uttered, his loss apparent in the tone of his voice.
He already knew the Romans cared little of his feelings or anyone else they plucked from their homes and businesses. When Cassius presented the rough cloth meant to be used as a loincloth and the collar and tossed them at his feet, the normally placid young man felt his anger suddenly erupt like a volcano. He spat on the collar and the subligar. He would have also spat in the face of the man that threw the items at his feet if he hadn't been held in place by the soldier.
If his hands had been free, Nikandros might have tried to throttle Cassius.
Modern-Supernatural
Milo was pretty. Pretty fucking annoying. And if Ever did allow his mind to wander to more pleasant thoughts about how pretty Milo would look with his sweet lips wrapped around his cock, but he didn't betray those sentiments. Ever had just skimmed through Milo's entire rap sheet, a summary encompassing years of infractions and law breaking in the span of a few seconds, and it had only been the abridged version.
"The point that I was trying to make Milo, was that you are far from being an upstanding citizen. Of course if you wanted to hear more details, I'll be happy to fill the blanks in for you. Shall I?" Ever said.
He was met with a moment of silence. "I guess I can take that as a no, then."
Ever just smiled at him, mostly to annoy the fuck out of Milo and send a clear message that he didn't really give a shit what the gang banger thought about his working attire. The price for the suit jacket he was wearing was $1200. In fact, his entire outfit was Giorgio Armani, hot off the runway of the Fall-Winter season of Milan Fashion Week. Ever figured he should look as successful as he knew he was, and what better way to show it than to wear an Italian made suit.
Besides, Milo didn't know jack shit about fashion. He barely knew how to count to ten. If Milo had any future hope that he'd shut the hell up, that dream was completely destroyed with Ever's next comment.
"Oh yes your pants are extremely BIG. I'd say you're a 32 waist at least. As much as I love seeing your ass, Milo, the size 40 hood wear you've got hanging around your knees right now is screaming, I'm going to steal your purse, bitch. Here's an FYI: They do sell belts your size at Walmart, it is my suggestion you buy one and wear it."
Ever truly was a man of his word, a deal was a deal. He'd offered Milo a job, the first installment in the yellow manila envelope on in his desk was placed before him. Inside the envelope was $2500 up front, contingent on Milo's ability to finish the first assignment he'd been given.
"Sounds fair enough to me," Ever said, tapping his fingertips together behind his desk rather decisively.
"There you go. $2500 upfront, and a photo of your target is in the envelope with his address. Put the fear of God in him, but don't kill him yet. You confirm that you've done it, and you get paid the other half. Don't get seen, don't get caught." Ever said.
"Refer to the first part of the instructions I just gave you. You are to beat the living shit out of the target without leaving behind a dead body. Unless its expressly ordered by my client, you don't get paid for dead bodies, and if you come back here with one-- the other half of your payment will go to the people that handle clean-up. Keeping the mess down to a minimum attracts less attention and prevents the heat from coming my way."
When Milo produced a weathered black and white photograph from his pocket, and pushed it across the glass surface of Ever's desk his green eyes flickered down to gaze upon the happy image before him. The picture was almost like a time machine. One glance and he was transported back to age twenty-four, when he was a successful ballet dancer that wasn't facing a five-year jail sentence for attempted murder.
Every decision, good and bad, that Ever made between his past and present self had been left deferred until now. It seemed impossible for him to forget the two bad decisions he'd made that cost him three years and out for good behavior plus another eight years of his life. Even though he was successful now where he sat behind his desk, Ever's life had been forever changed by his incarceration in the Washington State prison system.
His shitty luck continued when his boss, Ophelie de la Fontaine, added more insult to the injury than he already had. How was he was supposed to know that the little bitch had fangs in her pretty little mouth instead of teeth? Ever thought. Now he'd become a vampire like her.
"Awe. How cute," he said.
Ever almost hated to disappoint Milo, but he didn't recognize the face of the other guy in the picture at all. Then again, Ever had only just moved to Scylla Bay a few months ago, and his setting up operations here was just as recent.
"Soooo is he your main bitch, or do you go for the daddy type? I must say, he's quite a catch. I bet he'd win the award for best mugshot of the year." Ever commented.
Leaning back in his chair, Ever stared at Milo. A tiny smirk blossomed on his full lips because Milo's eyes had lost all signs of aggression, becoming luminous, softer and much more desperate to find the man in the picture. Ever released a soft sigh, rolling his eyes a little bit.
"Merde. Stop scowling! I was kidding! Sorry, but I don't recognize him. I won't promise you anything, but I can try to see what I can do on my end to get a lead on him. While it might be true that he's using an alias, there's a very good chance that I can find him here in Scylla Bay, or pass the word on that you are searching for him." Ever said, more than confident in his own skills as well as the other resources he had at his disposal.
Gorean
​There was a room at Ananda Estates that only Kiran's father, Trevan Kriostor MacBeith, was allowed to enter. Some said it was his grandfather Camarius's old chambers, where he died of Bazi Plague, and that was the one way Trevan could feel close to the man that he had called father all his life.
Some said it was Trevan's crying place. But the key was left in Kiran's hand, once his father had passed. Many moons had passed before entering the secret room on the second floor of Ananda Estates.
Then one night Kiran did. Beyond the shuttered door was a hidden collection place of old, worn things. Things that were seemingly worthless, but held great value as momentos of a life tragically interrupted. In a box all the way to the bottom, were rence pads containing his grandfather's handwritten missives.
Kiran was curious about what the notes said about his life in Schendi, and instead found out that his grandparents, Camarius and Naia, were not his father's biological parents. Trevan wasn't even supposed to be a spice merchant at all, but should have been a warrior's son.
It was upon the Argentum Road he traveled now, only some 40 En'Vars before he existed. A fiery haired babe was found tucked away in some Brak bushes, crying and soiled. The burning caravan of unfortunate travelers was the scene of a great tragedy, death surrounded the babe.
The child's parents, Tristan, of the warriors caste, and Delia, a freed slave, were among the dead. Piled on top of each other, they lay beside the smoking remnants of their burnt wagon. Delia's soot covered auburn hair and face lie draped across the chest of Tristan, as if she got in the way of the fatal blow meant for her companion.
Moments before her warrior rose to defend his honor, she used a moment of clarity to spare the one thing she cherished dearly, before the raiders claimed her infant son, Trevan. The baby was asleep and blissfully unaware of the carnage taking place all around him.
Tucked neatly into the bushes, he awoke crying a few ahns later, hungry and soiled. There was no one there to answer his lustful cry. All of those on the fated caravan were dead. Hope soon arrived when a caravan of merchants from Schendi passed. They were heading home after a trip to the En'Kara Faire in the Sardar Mountains.
Camarius and Naia Blackthorne had been thwarted in their attempts to have children of their own, and with no little blessings from the Priest Kings to call theirs, had given up hope in trying to bear an heir. It was after their own caravan came to a halt near the remains of the burning wagons of another caravan that they heard the faint sounds of a baby crying.
Their guards, Torrin Vesper and Nduli were alerted, and sent out as scouts to investigate the strange noise, which was probably a wild animal. Except it wasn't. Instead of a dead tarsk, they returned with the crying bundle, which was a copper haired male infant, apparently the only survivor of the raid.
The Blackthornes examined the baby, who wore a single bracelet on his wrist made of gold. Trevan Kriostor Mac Beith. it was inscribed, Love Mother and Father. They at least knew the baby's name. But who were his parents? Had they been slain?
The worst was assumed, and with the growing need to return home to Schendi, Camarius decided to take the baby home to Ananda Estates, and never tell him that he was the son of of someone that died on a tragic raid. Trevan grew up knowing Camarius and Naia, as his mother and father. He learned the ways of the Ushindian people, and the life of a spice merchant.
Kiran read many different tales of his father finding trouble in the jungle, running rampant through the house as a child, long trips to the Sardar for the faire, and his father's learning to become a spice merchant despite his proclivity to spar and use the gladius like the warrior he was meant to be.
Then he came to the last and final journal of his grandfather, a time when the Bazi Plague came to Schendi and when Camarius came down with the pox, and death came to those beloved to his family. It was during this time that Camarius was on his death bed. He called for 18 En'Var old Trevan, and told him the truth of his birth, as the life in his body faded.
Trevan was in a state of shock, because he always believed that he was the Blackthorne's son. It was too late to ask Camarius any further questions, or to be angry about his situation. The words spoken by a father, marked Trevan's heart forever. Knowing that he was proud of him made all the difference in the world.
Within the next hand, his grandmother Naia was also dead of Bazi Plague, as was a good portion of Schendi. Because Trevan was breast fed by a slave girl named Bina, she had passed on a natural resistance to the pox and Trevan never became ill. He knew after the last pyre that he had to leave Schendi. The port was blocked, so Trevan used his skills in the jungle that he had learned from his Ushindian parents.
He traveled out of Schendi by foot, then found an old wagon in which to sell spices and perfumes from. Kiran's father traveled from place to place, selling spices and making a name for himself as a merchant. He developed a name for his shop, Moonlight Whispers Spice and Herbal Emporium, which grew in influence as well as coin almost triple fold, became a successful enterprise.
If not for that, Trevan would have never met Ofelia Honor on the way to Jasmine, and she would have never become his free companion. Together the two merchants birthed a son that they named Kiran Tayler Mac Beith.
The son of the ost.
"Were there any survivors, Torrin?" asked Kiran, with a worried glance to the western foothills.
Merchants had to get their supplies over land when the Thassa wasn't an option, and his spices and merchandise were meant to stock a new shop in Ar Station, land locked and impassible by water.
"No Kiran, there are none. Nduli and I checked very closely for any sign of life. These people were unprepared. The warriors had no time to unsheathe their weapons before the attack. Everyone is dead, and we might be as well if we don't move before the night falls." Torrin's sage reply was given, and duly noted.
Kiran valued the advice of his men, and signaled to the others to keep moving onward. He said farewell to his father at his pyre. Trevan became ill with a fever of unknown origin and left his entire fortune with his children, 26 year old Kiran, his 24 year old brother Camarius, and 14 year old Azuri.
Camarius was left in charge of Ananda Estates and Abasi Mines, and when Azuri came of age she would be able to help her brother with managing Moonlight Whispers Spice and Herbal Emporium, Schendi. Kiran on the other hand, wanted to travel afar and seek his fortune elsewhere.
Digging booted heels into the side of of his kaiila, his verdant green depths pored over the smoky landscape. Saying farewell to the graveyard of burned out caravans, and charred remains of people lost forever, he whispered aloud.
"All my living days, I will honor your name my father. As long as I still draw breath." Kiran replied, reverently placing a hand to his heart, before galloping off in the direction of Ar Station with the rest of his caravan.
Urban Fantasy
​Any show of concern for his own safety in the alley didn't bother Kais as much as the burgeoning need to get his human vessel fully healed and prepared to fight again. It was important that he abandon the alley and lay low in a safe hiding place as soon as possible. The fallen Grigori couldn't use his powers in his weakened state, nor could he predict how much time it would take for his body to regenerate.
He expected Lucifer would come looking for him once he found out that his demonic bullies had failed at their task of killing him. Eventually, the self-proclaimed king of hell would send another legion of the fallen to eradicate his problem child, so Kais had to be at full strength.
In the meantime, it meant Kais had to suck it up buttercup, which was as close as he could be to experiencing human vulnerability. A grunt of pain slipped from his lips in a soft wail, followed by a desperate plea for help. His cries evoked the desired effect, spurring a young man that appeared into action.
It was no small wonder that the good Samaritan nearly freaked out after seeing how severe his injuries were, mostly because he was mortally wounded. His face had been struck so hard it would have pulverized a human skull, so the kind stranger would've been hard-pressed at recognizing Kais even if he did know who he was.
Under normal circumstances, his Nordic good looks were easier on the eyes than he appeared right now. His handsome face was swollen and bruised from the smack down Lucifer's arch-demons had doled out. Running low on energy resources, Kais barely protested as he was helped to stand up and to walk out of the alley, bleeding heavily. An electrical charge sparked between the two men as their etheric bodies made contact with each other.
The good Samaritan might have felt the faint static charge running up his arm, but as his lethargic auric energy merged with the aura of his rescuer, Kais felt the positive effects quickly. Helping him to walk towards a rather unimpressive looking vehicle on the curb, he hoped it would help him get as far away from the alley--used as a portal into this dimension.
All physical appearances aside once Kais was deposited into the passenger seat, the man told him not to die in his fucking car.
"Guess you're lucky I hadn't planned on it, sweetheart." Kais spoke, wearily.
He only spoke once more, resting after receiving a small burst of energy from the skin contact with his rescuer. Kais tried to detect the male's nature but his discernment was weakened, so he was uncertain if he was a human or something else. He was frustrated because of the fragility of human vessels, and if his died, it was going to take him a long time to find a willing human to channel and contain his essence. Kais supposed the outcome could have been much worse.
"It seems, we are on the same page then, elskling. No hospital." Kais replied, mentally urging the bleeding to cease.
[Translation: elskling-darling]
Kais needed more contact with the human or whatever he was . Whatever his essence consisted of, kindled inside of him like a raging wildfire. Kais closed his eyes to rest briefly as his hero bypassed the hospital for his apartment instead. It didn't look exactly the Four Seasons Hotel, nothing more of than a slum actually.
A faint grin touched Kais' lips as he was assisted from the man's car after he parked, Their auras intermingled once again with the same static charge, and it was almost as if Kais were a car with a dead battery and he was getting a jump from the good Samaritan.
"Mm...fuuuuck? If you're offering, I accept," Kais repeated the word he used, feeling another ebb of strength while he was being helped to the very decrepit looking building that looked more like a trap house than a home.
"My name is Kais, whoever you are. I am indebted to you." he spoke, as the man half dragged, half walked him inside. The longer it took him to move, the more energy exchanged.
"Nice place, but the shabby chic trend is so last year." he joked.
Pausing at the door, Kais was separated briefly from the warm ebb of electricity the man produced. The bleeding had stopped by the time the door was unlocked, but the wounds still needed to heal. Once inside his apartment, Kais yielded to the kindness of the one who was now his protector, laying down of the sofa so he could tend to his injuries.
"Actions speak far louder than words, handsome stranger," Kais gazed at him, his natural inclination to lay with anything remotely close to human growing as he bathed him with water in order to take a better look at his wounds under the light of a lamp.
His body was flawless, except for the black and blue puncture marks on his torso where the stab wounds had not fully knitted together yet. Kais' hand lifted, settling upon the hand that was tending to him as the man wanted to know what to do. Apparently, Kais needed to be more direct.
​
"Kiss me, and you'll find out." was the answer he gave him.
​
Modern-Supernatural
"Look, I get you're a witch, but I don't want your help." Juneau said shortly, tone leaving it clear she expected him not to argue with her.
June's comment was so out of character as far as what Magnus knew of her, and it stung. He just stared at her open mouthed, brain formulating no thoughts other than to register a total sense of shock. His throat suddenly felt dry, so he swallowed the burning lump of hurt with a gulp, then stared down at his feet for a second before glancing back up to catch her gaze.
The cheerful mirth had quickly evaporated from Magnus' amber colored eyes, its customary warmth gone faster than summer rain on hot pavement. Magnus focused on the wall behind June after setting the cake he baked for his friend down on her table, as if she had become completely invisible to him or he could not bear to see her at all.
She'd crossed an invisible line, offended his sensibilities. His hands clenched into fists so tight, his knuckles had turned the color of chalk, his teeth clamped together as if he struggled to maintain his composure. The anger when it came, was a fire that burnt hot and fast. The intensity of his gaze was frozen ice. It coated him like protective permafrost, protecting him from the torments of his youth, the beatings he endured.
That impenetrable layer of ice further isolated him from his family and his friends. It was pointless to try to reach Magnus now, any comforting words June could have offered would have probably bounced off him like rubber bullets.
"I'm sure you didn't, June-bug." Magnus said. "Then again, I'm sure I didn't ask for you to be such a bitch either. Yeah, I'm a witch, not a damn doormat for your emotional melodrama. I guess you can consider my leaving a wish fulfilled. I'll go. Enjoy the fucking cake, Juneau."
Magnus' voice sounded cold, indifferent, as he felt a crushing pressure rise up from the soles of his feet, through his body and out through the top of his head, the control over his magic lost in a split second. It had been the way June laughed, the mocking sound of it and her angry snarl that triggering it off. The apartment walls the and floor beneath their feet began to tremble, as a soft breeze swept past him.
"I didn't ask for this." Juneau hissed, as if his words were accusatory instead of him coming to a conclusion. She slunk further into the shadows of her apartment, suddenly feeling far too aggressive for anyone's health. "You need to leave. I'm hungry, I haven't eaten today. I don't want to hurt you."
The gust grew in intensity, stirring up the loose papers June had lying around on her table, fluttering the edges of the blankets covering her windows. The breeze felt cold, yet caressed his dark curls before it died down inside her apartment. Magnus felt a sense of release as the excess magic poured out of him, but the impending storm was inevitable and Magnus could already sense its approach.
The sunlight bothering June's eyes moments ago was now completely obliterated by gun metal clouds, loud thunder rumbling in the distance. He turned for the door, as a bolt of lightning cracked the sky into two, its jagged flashes of pure light casting their glow against the monochromatic background. Magnus reached for the doorknob, then opened the door.
A gentle patter of rain beat against the windows, that soon intensified into a heavy downpour outside. Before Magnus stepped out the door, he turned and looked inside June's apartment. He knew she vanished into a bedroom, distancing herself far away from him. June wasn't there to see the frustrated tears that rolled down his face.
Magnus slammed the door shut behind him, the sounds of his footsteps fading along with the sound of his heartbeat as he took the six flights down to the street below. Steadily building into a thunderous deluge, icy sheets of rain began to pour mercilessly from the ever darkening sky , making the unpaved bridge awash with mud and obscuring the vision through his glasses. Suddenly, a fork of lightning, brilliant and buzzing with a magnificent electricity, flashed majestically through the groaning mountain of clouds.
The wind demands to be heard.
The lightning fights to be seen.
The rain lives to soak the earth.
The storm has broken.
So mote it be!
Whistling and shrieking, the wind raged like an angered bear. Thunder rippled; the noise enveloped Scylla Bay. its surrounding forest slick with torrents of cold rainwater. Then Magnus suddenly remembered the incantation he'd written days ago, the words he chanted into existence during the ritual so the goddess would allow him to harness the wind and rain. It hadn't worked then.
Magnus was left staring up at a starlit sky in the forest, fully naked and shivering, the moon shining down on him like a huge milky eye. He felt like a complete idiot, and he remembered how humiliated he felt the next day, and the next. No wind, no rain. But now? The cold damp soaking his hair and clothes was a soothing balm. It was reassuring that he wasn't a complete failure as a witch.
He failed at everything else he did. As far as June's big secret about her transformation from human to vampire? The news was safe with Magnus. He would let the others figure it out for themselves. As far as he was concerned, they didn't need him and he didn't need them. Fuck June, Fuck everybody. It was time for Magnus to get out of there before he did something that he'd regret later.
"Consider me gone," he replied, the words sounding forced as if Magnus' jaw had been wired shut.
Action/Adventure
Comms had been effectively established, and Ever was listening in on the information that was being supplied by the four spotters, as well as all the mafia leaders managing the windows team and the tunnel team. Ever adjusted the headset he wore on his curly head, so that his microphone was now online. Ever had commenced blackout mode on each of the security cameras within the building and the service tunnel already.
Hacking into the CCTV network allowed him to see the progress of the team members as they performed their sweep and at the same time, made them completely invisible to the security guards on watch that he was certain were present. Call Ever paranoid, but the fiber optic cables he noted up in the tunnel ceiling meant that this building wasn't as abandoned as it appeared to be. It was confirmed later after he pinged on the ISP's that the cables as well as the CCTV cameras were active.
Judging from the radio transmission that he'd just heard, there were some additional rooms not on the original building plan. Any alterations to the layout could lead to loss of precious information that were a vital part of the mission. He went to work while the ladies prepared to depart down the tunnel with the spotters moving ahead of them. Ever typed in an algorithm that would systematically unlock the security door that was further down the tunnel.
The algorithm was constantly ran, and all he'd be required to do in the future was to point and click on the door that the team wanted access to. During the second phase of his hacking into the system, Ever would gain the ability to pan the cameras in all directions in order get better visuals of the hallways, ceilings, walls and floors. Ever's fingers flew over the keyboard while injecting malware into the target's computers, which installed itself into their browsers without their knowledge within minutes.
The malware would then record the data being of their target. Once the malware completed its data sweep, it was programmed to steal and then transmit all data to all the espionage team.
"Roger that, Sydney. This is Ever. I've got eyes inside. There's a visual on you now, panning CCTV left commencing 3..2..1." Ever said, his voice coming through crystal clear.
Ever's green gaze focused on the camera feeds looking for anything out of the ordinary, floors, ceilings and walls scanned very meticulously. "I see the ceiling panels down, camera twelve. Panning up for a better view."
Ever could just barely make out the lower rung of a metal ladder through the hole left of a broken service duct. "Can you confirm the visual of a metal runged ladder to the left of the duct? Do you copy?"
Ever scanned multiple images at one time, and as some of the team members entered what appeared to be an break room with a disabled soda machine up against one wall, and no other furniture in the room but a stack of empty boxes clustered about in an odd way, it raised his suspicions. He clicked on camera 15 to control its direction in order to get an enhanced view of the soda machine. The machine wasn't as old as it looked because it accepted credit cards at one time.
"I'm getting an odd visual on camera 15, Syd. Looks like some kind of break room, four doors down from where you are. If you leave the room you're in, follow the hallway to the end of the hall and the room is on your first left side. Its within the right half of the building. Do you copy?"
It wasn't unheard of to use ordinary looking items to conceal the entrance of secret rooms and tunnels or use them as an entry point. Ever typed a code into the laptop, in an effort to see if he could get a ping of the disabled soda machine's ISP to see how active it was. Pressing the enter button, a line of commands came up. Open. Lock down mode.
Monitor mode. Password reset. He checked the monitors carefully, and adjusted the camera angles to get a better view.
"I think the soda machine may a secret portal, or those moving boxes might be a trigger for another doorway. Look for a trigger mechanism on the wall, or...." Ever said, testing the ping. Active. The ISP address popped up on the screen and he grabbed it.
"Holy shit." he murmured.
Ever typed a different algorithm that ran a series of number combinations every millisecond. Once he entered the ISP to the soda machine into the series, he struck gold.
"I got a combination lit up in red letters and numbers. E 6 7 3. Syd. The soda machine is active, I repeat, active, Team 2. If option Echo six seven three is listed inside the glass, press that code on the machine. That is your combination. Do you copy?" Ever asked.