|Dullahan (gan_ceann) wrote in nevermore_logs,|
@ 2012-10-05 06:32:00
|Entry tags:||conchobar mac nessa, dullahan|
Who: Dullahan & Open
What: Creepy Horselady is bitchy, arguementative, and creepy. Featuring long-suffering!Ciaran!
When: Wee hours of Friday morning
Where: Their apartment, then a dark street somewhere
Ciara was twitchy and impatient. This was not unusual, but it came with the added side effect of fidgeting and tapping her foot, accompanied by drumming her fingers on the tabletop. It echoed in the large apartment.
Ciaran had finally had enough. "Will you stop that, woman," he barked, looking at her over the top of his newspaper. "You're driving me up a wall, you are."
Ciara's glare was positively poisonous, but she stopped drumming. "I'm bored," she ground out, her accent dripping off the words. Despite being in America for decades, neither of them had ever lost their accent. Their story was purely Irish, and so Irish they would always be.
Ciaran rolled his eyes, unimpressed. "So go and kill yourself a Greek, Crom knows there are enough of them about that one won't be missed."
"Tempting," Ciara replied. "But they're not enough a challenge."
Ciaran rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath in Gaelic about sisters that were impossible to please, and what, exactly, they could go do with themselves.
Ciara shot him another glare as she pulled on her coat, and Ciaran just smiled sweetly. She cuffed him round the head affectionately. "Don't wait up," she called over her shoulder. Ciaran just shook out his newspaper and murmured, "I never do."
Ciara was used to wandering back streets and alleyways, looking for the souls of the dying to shake loose from their bodies. New York was just bigger, that was all. She walked for blocks and blocks, barely feeling the chill of the wind that flapped her black leather duster around her legs. She was in the part of the city where the Irish immigrants had lived all those years ago, and a lot of their descendants still lived there. Still passed along the legends of their ancestors.
She paused outside an apartment building, turning to look up at a third story window. There was a soul inside, one of hers. "Mary Doyle!" she cried at the top of her voice. She saw shadows of people running inside the apartment, but it was already too late. Mary Doyle was gone from this life.