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[Aug. 17th, 2009|12:46 am] |
Who: Soren, Sable, & Cass, with a possible Marnie somewhere.
What: Uh. Not good things, that's for certain.
Where: The Wolfpack's London residence
When: Nowish
Warnings: If you don't like seeing little fluffy jerkwads yelling at poetspawn, this wouldn't be for you.
Cassidy was pacing the length of the living room like a caged wildcat. He was wearing his gloves, and in them, his fingers flexed into fists and loosened once more, only to repeat the process. Soren was able to hear him mentally reciting the Fibonacci sequence, and he was well into it. His breath was tight and huffed out in little growls of anger. Around his shoulders, Henn's Shadow, Kitten draped like a rather strange boa. It was to Kitten's credit that he wasn't completely livid. He was waiting for Sable to show up. He was fucking done with playing around. He'd learned just earlier that his fears were true, that in some way, Sable was using Henn to get back at Soren. To stab Cass in the back. And that wouldn't fly with him. Not because it was against him, but because it was Henn that she was hurting. He couldn't care less about his own pain at this point. What mattered was that she was being a two-faced bitch over all of this.
She had to be gone. Now. Preferably without his having to confront her, physically. |
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| When sorrows come, they come not single spies |
[Aug. 17th, 2009|07:17 am] |
Who: Geoffrey Tennant, Ellen Fanshaw, Meg Thatcher, Constable Benton Fraser
What: Reunion, possibly.
Where: Luton, England
When: More or less an hour after this post
Warnings: Possible swearing, given Geoffrey and Ellen's fantastic command of the art.
The phone wouldn't stop ringing.
Geoffrey Tennant is not a man renowned for his patience. He's also not renowned for enjoying the phone, either; and he likes it even less since the last time he spoke to a much-maligned old friend before he was run over and killed by a pig truck.
The phone is now in the freezer.
His first instinct had been to throw it out a window, but it had bounced off the reinforced whatever-it-is they make windows out of now and hit him in the head, so the freezer seemed like the better option.
It's probably still ringing, but if it is, he can't hear it anymore. And he's going to sit right here and finish making this little stage diorama out of those tiny water crackers he found in a cupboard and which the upper-middle-class seem to love so much, and ignore it happily. Well. Maybe not happily. Perhaps that's too strong of a word. But it beats wanting to tear his brain out of his own skull and thinking too much about what's going on.
Suits him just fine. |
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