Zach (ex_bridges_b70) wrote in regulation, @ 2008-03-29 23:58:00 |
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Current music: | "Guaranteed" : Eddie Vedder |
Entry tags: | backstory, christopher warrington, zacharias smith |
[Reflections, part 1] "Underneath my being is a road that disappeared..."
Who: Christopher Warrington, Zacharias Smith and a billion NPCs
What: An artist with a broken wand begins to unintentionally embed magic into his art, channeling the thoughts of those who have disappeared, expressed through whispers in the glass itself. Warrington finds one of these pieces and begins to investigate.
When: February - March, 2008. It takes place directly after this RP.
Where: Mainly wizarding and muggle London
Rating: R for language and violence
Status: Closed; complete
Notes: This is less a true RP than a series of collaborative drabbles. The story arc in this RP will continue later on and may arise in other RPs. Part 1 of 2 because IJ says this is too long to post in one post. Sorry, all.
"There's someone out there buying your art." Zach ignored the other man as he focused on the pool table in front of him. He knew that Colm was staring at him - it was hard to ignore but he managed it, keeping his eye on the colored ball ahead, its red exterior like a flag to a bull. With a slow, steady push, he slid the cue between his fingers, stroking it lightly, the shudder from the man behind just barely perceptible as the ball knocked against the side, then into the pocket.
"Besides you?" He snorted, glancing up at the Irishman. Walking around the table, he took another shot. "Don't know about you, Colm, but never fucking had a problem with people buying my art. The right people."
"Are you sleeping with him then, Zach?"
"Nope. Don't even fucking know him. Haven't even got the goddamn check from Jude yet. Don't know his name. Address. Whatever. But you apparently got this stalking shite down." The next sink was tighter, his anger coiling in the pit of his stomach. He hated this - hated the fact that Colm wanted control over him. Control but not affection. It was why he'd left. It had taken four fucking years to understand it.
"Sell it to me. It's worth more than ten quid."
"Art's worth the price the artist puts on it, Colm." The eight ball hit the side, then went into the pocket. Neat, clean. Severed. "And you just bought him a fucking discount."