Elizabeth Gryffiths (outofboundaries) wrote in at_the_gates, @ 2011-04-26 12:20:00 |
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Entry tags: | elizabeth gryffiths, samantha newman |
Who: Elizabeth Gryffiths (outofboundaries) [OPEN]
What: Mundane meets magic.
When: 4/21; fallout from Vauxhall.
Where: Not overly far from the middle of the mess.
Warnings: None.
She wasn't entirely sure what had happened. Too caught up on the phone, Mark using his reedy I-am-hanging-on-to-my-calm-by-threads voice, Danny tinny in the background talking about astronauts (astronauts this time; it had been dinosaurs last visit), and there Elizabeth was with bag strapped to her side, phone pinned between cheek and shoulder, takeaway coffee raised high in hand as she charged up station stairs to the street beyond. Rushing, rushing, racing as always to meet an invisible deadline, and of course -- of course -- nothing was running. A strike? She couldn't remember having heard anything to that effect. Someone on the tracks? Terrorists? Elizabeth's mind ran hyperbolic tilt-a-whirl at the best of times; when it was something like this, like now, a crush of people needing to be elbowed past so she could pick up reports and harangue politicians and get her damned job done while her ex-husband threw a guilt trip her way which even the Catholic Church would be envious of--
“(Excuse me-- so sorry, thank you.) Mark, I know the weekend is coming. I am aware of the day of the week, try not to be a passive-aggressive ass just this once. (Pardon-- excuse me. Yes, I am trying to get around you, thank you.) Tell Danny-- no, do not put him on the phone, Mark Stuart don’t you dare. Tell Danny that I’ll try to finish this piece by tomorrow afternoon, and if I do, then we’ll absolutely go to the museum. (Excuse me? Yes, you. Thank you, just squeezing by, thanks so much.) No, I can’t guarantee that it will be finished by then, particularly if you are going to keep me talking until Saturday fucking morning. (Excuse-- ah, thank you.)” The argument rattled on while she took long strides, heels putting her higher than much of the crowd, coffee cup held aloft as though it were a torch, or a weapon. When Elizabeth emerged out onto the street -- pulling faces at Mark, hair halfway to unpinned, but free and breathing city air rather than other peoples’ used breath -- she surged ahead with intent of hailing a cab, then stopped dead.
There was magic in the air, high and hot and heavy as humidity. Of that, she had no idea -- Elizabeth Gryffiths was cheerfully oblivious to the London behind the veil, could not quite sense the pin-prickle of spells across her skin when Occultists ran amok. She had eyes, though, and other senses atop that. Not city air at all, but something tinged with smoke -- not woodsmoke, not the sulphurous after-scent of matches lit and dead, but something similar, something which rang a little more rank than either. And the street-- “Mark, I have to go.” She cut the call without a good-bye, slipped closer to the pavement’s edge to find nothing but stalled traffic, minor urban chaos in the face of magical aftermath. People flooded out the tube station, irritation there and growing with inconvenience, people jostling and grumbling as their plans were thrown about like driftwood in rough tide. Most went on their way, but Elizabeth hung back to bystand with a handful of others, tall blonde woman too well-dressed to be loitering without reason, but policemen and milling Londoners and the scent of things once burned were reason enough for the open curiosity which sat so comfortably across her face. Walking on, leaving and not finding out what had gone on, that would be both uncharacteristic and tragic alike.
So Elizabeth stood, watched, listened, did not creep closer to people who seemed to have an inkling of understanding. No, she did not creep nor edge nor sidle -- she strode right up, hands full of phone and coffee, eyebrows raised in interest while she searched out the epicenter of all this chaos. “Jesus Christ, what happened?”