Post by Roche on Mar 5, 2013 1:06:50 GMT -5
(another boring bar thread YEAH!)
Last night Roche dreamt of flowers. Thousands upon thousands of petals rained down from the sky. They blot out the sun and turned the world dark, and the strength of their perfume grew suffocating. This, to Roche, means one of two things. He needs to seriously reevaluate his masculinity or, more likely, the fairies are sending their unique warning of your number’s up, bud.
All he did was steal a tiny wooden idol that may or not be a catalyst to some very old and very dangerous magic. It was not as if he had a choice in the matter; the witch commands and the wolf obeys. Such has been Roche’s life for the past five centuries.
The faeries care little for details and Roche is left wading through the fallout inspired by his little errand. Modern culture and pretentious art illustrate faeries as tiny delicate things full of whimsical magic and the ability to make children’s wishes come true. Roche knows the truth of it. Faeries are less glitter and more ravenous hunger. They feed on the energy created from dreams and nightmares, and it is the world of slumber that is their domain.
Sooner than later they will realize that their tactic of assaulting the werewolf’s dreams will get them nowhere. It is then that they will escalate their efforts. Faeries are rarely direct in their approach; they tend towards manipulation from afar. Roche watches the news, he sees the stories involving regular people that suddenly snap and do something wickedly out of character. He watches and he wonders how many of the tragic tales had a touch of fairy magic propelling them.
In the end, he doesn’t care. Roche, despite his abnormally long life, is not a patient man. If the fairies are after him, fine, he just wishes they would cut to the chase. It is that minimal taste for suspense that pushes Roche towards a decision. They want to play their stupid games. They want to draw the chase out and write Roche into the role of the cornered wolf. He may not have control over his existence anymore, but Roche takes the reins where he can.
Being pursued has never sat well with the wolf. He, as his species might dictate, prefers to be the predator. Roche will seek the faeries out and scream a raucous take me to your leader deep into the woodwork. This will take place within one of Boston’s parks, as the fairies have channels open in any place of nature. The werewolf has done the math, or his version of it. There is a ninety percent chance that his call will go unanswered and he will come off as nothing more than an insane foreigner screaming about fairies a few yards away from the tennis court.
Roche could not care less what others think of him, but he decides his escapade will go over better after a little drink. Or, in the case of Roche and his habits, a lot of drink with a little drink on the side. It is the bar he heads to now late at night and on a weekday. He does not dress to impress; Roche wears dark old jeans, a black button up, and a pair of scuffed work boots. He drives no car, as he has no license, and forgoes any form of public transportation. He has two legs, he might as well make use of them.
The establishment is a small one but well-stocked and obviously cared for. It is clean, polished and yet lived in. He makes his way to the counter and the bartender must read something in Roche’s expression because he opens with, ”We got medicine to cure whatever ails ya’, buddy.” The server’s grin is broad and friendly. Roche shrugs and slides into a stool. The werewolf meets the human’s eyes and delivers a dry, ”I got a bunch of fairies after my dick, what do you figure?” There is a beat, and then the bartender smirks and nods like he has heard stranger, and he probably has.
”First one’s on the house.” He plops a drink in front of Roche and the werewolf does not hesitate. Roche picks the glass up and takes a sizeable swallow, an action he immediately regrets as it sends him into a restrained coughing fit. Never let it be known that a drink got the better of Cillian Roche. It is whiskey, and a damned strong one. With tears stinging at his eyes and his throat burning like acid, Roche can’t help it; he laughs.
Last night Roche dreamt of flowers. Thousands upon thousands of petals rained down from the sky. They blot out the sun and turned the world dark, and the strength of their perfume grew suffocating. This, to Roche, means one of two things. He needs to seriously reevaluate his masculinity or, more likely, the fairies are sending their unique warning of your number’s up, bud.
All he did was steal a tiny wooden idol that may or not be a catalyst to some very old and very dangerous magic. It was not as if he had a choice in the matter; the witch commands and the wolf obeys. Such has been Roche’s life for the past five centuries.
The faeries care little for details and Roche is left wading through the fallout inspired by his little errand. Modern culture and pretentious art illustrate faeries as tiny delicate things full of whimsical magic and the ability to make children’s wishes come true. Roche knows the truth of it. Faeries are less glitter and more ravenous hunger. They feed on the energy created from dreams and nightmares, and it is the world of slumber that is their domain.
Sooner than later they will realize that their tactic of assaulting the werewolf’s dreams will get them nowhere. It is then that they will escalate their efforts. Faeries are rarely direct in their approach; they tend towards manipulation from afar. Roche watches the news, he sees the stories involving regular people that suddenly snap and do something wickedly out of character. He watches and he wonders how many of the tragic tales had a touch of fairy magic propelling them.
In the end, he doesn’t care. Roche, despite his abnormally long life, is not a patient man. If the fairies are after him, fine, he just wishes they would cut to the chase. It is that minimal taste for suspense that pushes Roche towards a decision. They want to play their stupid games. They want to draw the chase out and write Roche into the role of the cornered wolf. He may not have control over his existence anymore, but Roche takes the reins where he can.
Being pursued has never sat well with the wolf. He, as his species might dictate, prefers to be the predator. Roche will seek the faeries out and scream a raucous take me to your leader deep into the woodwork. This will take place within one of Boston’s parks, as the fairies have channels open in any place of nature. The werewolf has done the math, or his version of it. There is a ninety percent chance that his call will go unanswered and he will come off as nothing more than an insane foreigner screaming about fairies a few yards away from the tennis court.
Roche could not care less what others think of him, but he decides his escapade will go over better after a little drink. Or, in the case of Roche and his habits, a lot of drink with a little drink on the side. It is the bar he heads to now late at night and on a weekday. He does not dress to impress; Roche wears dark old jeans, a black button up, and a pair of scuffed work boots. He drives no car, as he has no license, and forgoes any form of public transportation. He has two legs, he might as well make use of them.
The establishment is a small one but well-stocked and obviously cared for. It is clean, polished and yet lived in. He makes his way to the counter and the bartender must read something in Roche’s expression because he opens with, ”We got medicine to cure whatever ails ya’, buddy.” The server’s grin is broad and friendly. Roche shrugs and slides into a stool. The werewolf meets the human’s eyes and delivers a dry, ”I got a bunch of fairies after my dick, what do you figure?” There is a beat, and then the bartender smirks and nods like he has heard stranger, and he probably has.
”First one’s on the house.” He plops a drink in front of Roche and the werewolf does not hesitate. Roche picks the glass up and takes a sizeable swallow, an action he immediately regrets as it sends him into a restrained coughing fit. Never let it be known that a drink got the better of Cillian Roche. It is whiskey, and a damned strong one. With tears stinging at his eyes and his throat burning like acid, Roche can’t help it; he laughs.
