sample #o1 excerpt from entropy (contributions in bold)
True to proper, fashionable etiquette, he arrived five minutes late to take a seat in the darkest, furthest corner of the little underground theatre. The experiment had decided -- quite resolutely -- to wait a week until going to the actor’s production, reserving begging and baiting for a pensive seven days’ wait.
This, however, was not abided by.
He sat through the show, listening and watching intently every gesture and implied subtlety.
And what everyone in the theatre would have given to die in that residual lamplight right along with him.
The show came to a curtainless close, actors departing the stage and lights dimming, only to brighten the space again after an austere round of applause. Those in-the-know headed to the front row to mingle with the two actors that came back out - neither of which were Julian. A handful of teenage girls left, crestfallen under their rather tragic haircuts.
And the owner? Nowhere to be seen.
He remained in his seat unlike all the hipsters occupying the rest of the theatre, content with examining his surroundings in preference to pouring over the illusions indulging in shameless ego-petting before the stage they’d just graced.
He wasn’t quite sure how the theatre thing worked. But as the throngs either dispersed or congregated into groups, he remained, that last row and that last seat, staring ahead at the now-dead stage.
"Will you walk with me?"
A voice from behind, silken and infinitely quieter than it was onstage. Just behind his newest patron's seat, right into his ears. He was out of his stage drabs - one couldn't really call solid black a costume - and back into the combination of a women's dress shirt and dark denim he was most comfortable in.
And a coat to keep out the cold, oversized and overdressed.
Felix tipped his head back, looking up at the man behind him. He nodded before turning slowly, sliding out of the seat to beside the actor whose presence had quieted -- though not diminished -- before him.
“Of course.”
His sleeves slipped over his hands regardless of the shirt he wore, and his fingers picked at manufactory seams, clasped at his waist, keeping their distance,
keeping their payment, for now, to themselves.
Retreating to the hallway that lead to the stairs, Julian rounded a corner, and beckoned the boy with an oblique gesture, his blank face peering around.
The experiment acted the good little boy and obeyed, following the actor closely through the hallway and up the stairs that were as dark as the walls of the theatre they had just left.
The street was dark and damp, fog raising ever so slightly and barely visible a foot from the pavement.
The mangled mess that was the patrons of Thalassa made its lights and noises on the other side of the street, quick to pass behind and fade. Julian didn't speak until it was gone - his hands were in his otherwise empty coat pockets.
"What did you think?"
“The juxtaposition was interesting.” Felix finally ventured to open his mouth, pensive between paraphrase. “But I couldn’t quite tell if it was necessarily genuine.” He looked up from the street, his gaze returning to the pavement as he continued.
“Despite its intent to confuse.” A grin, and an accusation with lack of better turn of phrase and good humour. “Are you always so condescending towards your audience?” [[from the game ENTROPY (http://agrescitmedendo.livejournal.com), Julian is individual copyright and property of player Elle, and in no way belongs to me. 8D]]
sample #o2 excerpt from a private storyline, contributions in bold.
And the shifts in audial texture were noted, as it was, essentially, all the younger boy had.
Until those familiar and anticipated footfalls fell into proximity, Harrow had been sitting against the wall, fingering a sharp fragment placed beside him and counting the drops of water he could hardly hear. It had been at four-thousand, three hundred and forty-four when he heard the shift in soil and dead foliage. The suddenness with which he realized those steps caused him to jump, and he felt immediately a dull pain in his finger.
He considered hurrying to the bed, acting as though he'd been asleep, but thought it better to remain where he was, nursing the wound he could not see. He licked at what tasted of iron and heat, and waited for the sound of locks and hinges.
Any door has a thousand ways of opening. The best is often from the inside. And so, Miura knocked. Gently, as if it wasn't even a door he happened to own.
"Hello," he said to the poor soul inside, whispering through the grain of the wood.
"Hello." Harrow responded quietly, succinctly. He clasped his injured finger away from his lips, looking blankly in the direction of the voice that beckoned him from beyond his little cell. The voice always caused something like that of a cat bristling, a chill he couldn't really define as fear of anticipation.
"Are you still mad at me? Too mad to even look at me?" It was the cruelest of questions, the least meant of all.
His chest constricted, breath bated, and for a moment he was silent.
"I..." he faltered.
"Of course not. How could I be mad at you?"
"Liar," said he, with the key in his hands. "You're always such a hateful thing," he said, dirty wood against his fingertips. "Always acting out of spite, always doing everything you can to hurt me. How can you be so cruel to your own flesh and blood?"
He closed his eyes, fingers trembling, as they only did out of sight from all others.
"Apologize."
The younger of the two crawled carefully across the dirt floor, the sting of infection competing for attention in his index finger. He pressed himself against the door as he would a lover, feeling the knots and dents he'd remembered into imaginary visuals.
"I'm sorry, oniisan..." It was little over a whisper, desperate and desolate.
"I'm sorry..." [[Miura, as written here, is property of player Elle. Harrow and Miura both conceptualized by myself.]]