Repose

[Public]

can anyone teach me how to make soda bread ;-; my failures all look like burnt, deflated dodgeballs. i will pay you in franks.


[Patrick]

what do you want to do for saint patrick's daaayyy????

[Raven's trailer]
[As promised and because the B&B is super quiet in March, Connie set out to the mysterious girl's trailer around noon. She thought about bringing Thane along, but he'd get one good look at those trees and be gone for good. Probably to fly around for a few hours before getting eaten by a hawk. Not under Connie's watch. So, it was just her by her lonesome. Dressed in a blue hoodie, hiking boots she bought to keep up with Patrick and sturdy outdoor jeans, she was off on a forest adventure.

Connie was much more her dad's daughter, while Patrick was his mom's son. She preferred the whir of machines more than the chirp of birds. But, even she had to admit that it was nice being outdoors after being in that dusty old house for so long. Stopping time here and there along her way towards the trailer, Connie finally arrived an hour or so later, feeling very much in-tune with mother nature.

She knocked on the trailer door.] Hey! My name is Connie- I'm Patrick's sister! I came to bring you some supplies!! Like a box of taaammppoonsss!

Who: Atticus & Matt
What: A chauffer and a passenger
Where: Chicago, a house in Oak Park
When: Nowish
Warnings/Rating: Werewolf bite ailing?

Atticus felt like shit.

Since the bite, he'd been sleeping feverishly. Had woken a few times. Had managed a few conversations. But, mostly, he'd slept. The moon had come and gone, and he hadn't even noticed the emptiness of the big house that he was staying in. Everyone was kind, compassionate, diverting, but Atticus couldn't enjoy any of it. The first week, especially, just reminded him of being a child. Had spent more of his childhood in the hospital than out of it. This brought all that to mind. The memories of confounded doctors, which gave way to distrusting doctors. Then police, then lawyers, then social services, foster homes. Atticus was lucky. His foster home experience was a good one. His parents were wealthy. Meant he was looked after by the lawyers managing his trust. Didn't have to suffer any of the horrors some foster children suffered. Still, there was the guilt. And, when his illnesses didn't improve after his parents were jailed, there was suspicion cast his way. Disliked being ill. Disliked this.

But there was a bright side. The haunts had been nothing but flickering nuisances since the bite. Noisome, but ineffective. Made him chuckle sometimes. Was sure his hosts thought the fever was eating his mind. Wasn't that. Was just nice to finally do something to incommode the haunts. Finally. After all this time.

Two weeks after the bite, and he felt worse. The bite to his shoulder was angry, red, inflamed. If anything, it looked larger, worse than it had immediately after the bite. Was sitting in bed, white t-shirt soaked with with sweat, pajama pants bunched up to his knees and low at the waist. Smelled sick. Curls were drenched. Blankets were shoved down to his feet. Was restless. Knew Matt was due to arrive that morning. Had told Stephen to show him up. Stephen, who was playing his saxophone mournfully in the parlor. Apparently did that after every moon.