mythopoeics

And so the game passed with limited incident. He'd heard about the break-out but not enough about it to really take pleasure in the chaos and disruption. Not enough to find those who had tried and mock them, even drag them back. Disappointed claimed him but he let it go, having his work to attend to as it had piled up on.

There was something to be done about his mother's godforsaken husband. He penciled it into his notebook, working it in as code in case anyone every found it. If there was a chance he could twist the man's sexual desire, he'd do it in a heartbeat. After a small pause, he penciled in a hopeful lunch date with his mother and an entirely different kind of date he planned to make with darling Naamah.

What? He liked to keep busy.

[She'd refrained from reaching out while locked in the asylum partly because she was horrified at what she had been accused of. All of it had been a lie, she knew it and yet it struck a nerve. Was she really that irredeemable even in the eyes of a crazy goddess? She knew what she had done was beyond wrong. Little could make up for it. But she had been trying and wasn't the forgiveness of the man she had fooled something?

In her heart, she knew it wasn't. It was baffling how Galahad had been born from such sin, between two terrible people but God was funny like that. But she needed to state something, just to give herself breathing space.]

Don't call, don't visit. Let me have a week to myself, please.

She'd wished, in the end, Gwynevere had been in the asylum. Her brother was no fucking saint. The man deserve to burn for half the things he'd done. But she'd never precisely taken to Gwynevere for committing a sin that she herself had. But she had paid a more heavy price for all her sins. Gwynevere got to run off and live the rest of her days trying to repent.

It didn't seem quite as fair to Morgause. No, she wanted her sister-in-law, her fellow sinner, to suffer more. Lose her mind, maybe a limb - oh why not, maybe her precious little head. She knew she'd pay to see it tumbled down some steps, long hair winding around it and growing sticky from the blood.

Loathing so rarely went down easily.

My dogs came with me for that 'trip'. They adjust better to this BS than I do. Huh.

[Filter: Morgan]

I don't like the warnings of death. Watch yourself. We might come back, we might not. But death at the hands of a person like that Greek bother isn't the way for either of us to go.

Besides, it would be annoying to lose my little sister when I've gotten so used to you.

[It'd happened right at the end of that crazy trip back in time. He'd avoided communication because he had been (yes, he was going to admit it) frightened of what they were saying. He didn't want to know. Good ol' Raoul was not going to join in on all the crazy stuff. All of what was going on was a bad, bad dream. Just like all those wolf dreams.

And then his secretary brought in her puppy and it had bit him. He hadn't even reached for it but it leapt up on his desk and went for a finger. The apologies that had followed were numerous but he couldn't even process them. One tiny bite from a puppy should not have hurt so much but it felt like the damn thing had taken it all off and barely stifled a howl. Instead, he excused himself and locked himself in the bathroom, ignoring his co-workers concern about his hand.

The memories were peeking through the cracks and he wanted to scream at them to stop, to stay back and let him be. Even now, as a time of strife and drama came to him in bits and pieces, he fought, knowing he was going to lose.]

My head is killing me and I think I know why I've always...felt itchy around canine things. Dogs. Wolves. Aw, fuck, I didn't want to be one of you guys. I really wanted to be just me. Just Raoul Gaudreau. Not...

No. No, I'm not saying it. No. I just want to be me.