Jules (iheartwine) wrote in summerview, @ 2019-01-09 23:05:00 |
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Entry tags: | errol fírinne, julius fírinne, player: declan, player: lyddia |
I'm a dead man walking here but that's the least of all my fears
Saturday, 1/19/19
A Reunion of Sorts TBD Ongoing |
The day Shara stepped on the island had been stifling. Julius didn’t think he’d ever feel that much Fair Folk magic at one time in one place ever again--had anticipated a gaggle of his kin to explode all over Summerview--but at the end of the day it had been on very tiny, very old Hob woman, and a congenial one at that. Not that all Hobs weren’t fairly congenial, but still. She could have been something else. Or many somethings else. Or. Someone else. He wasn’t sure how he could have been so stupid, thinking that Shara could possibly be the thing that he expected. But hindsight was 20/20, or so they say. There was a real warmth to Shara’s magic. Like sunshine and freshly baked brownies, and tea precisely when you needed it most.The magic he felt when he woke up that morning was something he thought he’d never feel again in his life--or at least, not for a very long time--but there was no mistaking it. There was a blue-ness about it, quiet but heavy like Spanish moss hanging from trees in an eerily still forest. It smelled like… Foxglove. Oberon’s balls. He was a child again. Angry. Small. Heart drumming at his rib cage for no reason other than he sensed his presence. No. No, no, no. Fuck. Julius’s feet hit the hardwood floor. He wasn’t a child anymore, nor did he have any desire to be treated like one. He couldn’t be sure why his father was here--though he most definitely was--but he wasn’t going to face him like a 16 year old. So, he pushed himself up out of bed, brushed his teeth, and pulled a tee shirt on before setting the kettle on the stove and lighting the burner. The tug of Errol Fírinne’s magic invaded his senses. If he was going to have to do this, he might as well do it with tea. The kettle was just about to whistle when he felt the familiar pull from the interruption of his wards. He couldn’t be bothered to actually get the door, so he peeled the wards back from the kitchen with a nonchalant flick of his wrist and allowed the house--which still felt like an new pair of shoes, that is, not yet worn in and not quite conformed to him--to open up the door for his guest while he busied himself with mugs and loose leaf tea in egg shaped metal infusers. “Hello, father.” |