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Post by Rikku on Oct 4, 2008 1:47:59 GMT -5
The fae will play in subtle ways
To find a mortal's name;
While others play with guns and knives,
Fae treat lives as a game.^_^ ..shiny story. I like Ben ((..unless you come up with a better shortening of his name, I will call him that)) and Scott. Sinth? D= How about Sinth? Sinth is a good nickname. I like the name Sinth. ... Ehem. >.>; Oooh. =D So they meet online? In a fan forum? How intriguing mystifying and interesting! =D They are both awesome characters, though. I feel infinitely sorry for Scott. ;__; Though Bentasmal strikes me as a itch/thorn-character. Huh. xD Yay picture of Saffron. ^^ *hugs* Yes, yes they do. =D I foresee lots of chances for geekiness with them two. And I wouldn't worry too much about Scott - his mood tends to fluctuate. That was a low point. When the story proper takes place, it's about two years later, he's happy, isn't killing anyone for money, and still has a big shiny apartment. So you see it all works out nicely. ... Um. What's an itch/thorn character exactly? xD; I can guess from the name, but I can't help feeling there's some categorization I've missed. =D Shiny indeed! Your meeting scenes get more and more entertaining. Firefly fan forum FTW! Also, one suggestion: It's not really clear who is EITD and who is VE at first in the chat. Something to indicate that would be nice. Wow. That's impressive alliteration, there. I blame my dodgy paragraph breaks. I'm sure that's the problem somehow. >.>;
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Post by Kathleen on Oct 4, 2008 22:49:19 GMT -5
Yes, yes they do. =D I foresee lots of chances for geekiness with them two. And I wouldn't worry too much about Scott - his mood tends to fluctuate. That was a low point. When the story proper takes place, it's about two years later, he's happy, isn't killing anyone for money, and still has a big shiny apartment. So you see it all works out nicely. ... Um. What's an itch/thorn character exactly? xD; I can guess from the name, but I can't help feeling there's some categorization I've missed. Er, you probably didn't miss anything, considering it's not exactly an official term. xD *makes things up just a little too often* I guess.. just an irritating character. One who can easily annoy the reader. xD .. which can be good, of course! ^__^ |
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Post by Rikku on Oct 5, 2008 18:34:15 GMT -5
Yes, yes they do. =D I foresee lots of chances for geekiness with them two. And I wouldn't worry too much about Scott - his mood tends to fluctuate. That was a low point. When the story proper takes place, it's about two years later, he's happy, isn't killing anyone for money, and still has a big shiny apartment. So you see it all works out nicely. ... Um. What's an itch/thorn character exactly? xD; I can guess from the name, but I can't help feeling there's some categorization I've missed. Er, you probably didn't miss anything, considering it's not exactly an official term. xD *makes things up just a little too often* I guess.. just an irritating character. One who can easily annoy the reader. xD .. which can be good, of course! ^__^ Irritating? Hm. Applies to him well enough ... particularly when I'm thinking through scenes and suddenly realize that he's acting completely different from dream-Bentasmal. *sighs* Change is inevitable, I suppose. |
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Post by Rikku on Oct 6, 2008 3:06:52 GMT -5
There comes a time in every person's life when they feel compelled to write about pretty angels meeting in coffee shops and discussing some unknown past. Don't bother reading this if you don't want to, it's completely irrelevant. Fun to write though.
It was a nice day – windy, of course, but not enough to fling the city’s population of pigeons into the faces of the other, stupider denizens, of which there was the usual number. Jackets were in ample supply, coats somewhat less popular.
The man walking down the street wore neither, but he did wear an awful lot of black.
Black shirt, black jeans, black belt – though this last didn’t have any particular significance, it sure looked shiny – and, incongruously, white sneakers. He didn’t really look like he fit in any of the many stereotypes associated with the colour, though. If anyone had tried to pierce his ears, lip, nose, eyebrow or other miscellaneous facial parts, the metal would most likely have melted. He radiated goodwill. His hair was kind of unusual, too; thick, black, lustrous, slightly wavy, cascading past his shoulders, framing his lightly tanned face, even features and clear green eyes. Normal people didn’t get hair like that without spending several hours in a salon and then not moving again, ever.
His sneakers scuffed the pavement, and he whistled tunelessly. MP3 headphones trailed from his ears; the pockets they led to were noticeably empty of music-playing devices, but at least he’d made the effort.
A woman pushed a brightly coloured pram across the pavement. A little old lady crossed the road, and wasn’t swooshed to death by a harried office-worker trying to get to work on time, who didn’t end up late and fired and suicidal. The day seemed a little brighter.
That was his job, after all.
It looked like it might rain. Of course, this was New Zealand and it always looked like that, barring the times when the sun decided it would be kind of fun to incinerate everything, but he might as well play it safe. There was a neat little café around here somewhere that made a mean Danish.
The man in black fished a bouncy ball out of the gutter, wiped it off and gave it to a small child before continuing on his way. He glanced up.
And froze. For exactly 0.6629 seconds.
Then he leaped. The other people in the street stared in slack-jawed astonishment – no one leaped like that outside of the Olympics, and certainly not without several pounds of steroids and a decent run-up first.
But jumping two metres vertical wasn’t half so impressive as the wings that burst from his back. They were broad, feathered, whiter than snow and obviously quite functional, for all that they’d ruined his shirt. He hovered for the barest instance as his mind caught up with his reflexes.
The cause of all this seemed a little startled by his reaction. He wore a coat, but that wasn’t unusual. He was of nondescript height and build. Somewhat less nondescript was his very very long interestingly braided white hair, particularly when combined with his dark skin and apparent youth, but no one gave him a second glance. Of course, most eyes were focused on the one who had sprouted wings, but all the same you got the impression that the white-haired fellow could look as though he belonged anywhere from a packed office building to a stark African steppe to an abattoir. Particularly that last one.
“Andre?” he questioned. A tad superfluously, really. It’s hard to mistake someone with wings unless they happen to be wandering through an aviary. “Look, I just want to …”
By then an instant had passed, and Andre’s mind agreed with his reflexes. He spun in midair and was gone, kicking off from the facades of various buildings to build up height and speed.
“… talk.” The white-haired man stared after him, then glanced around. A number of spectators were blinking, trying to convince themselves that they’d just seen a particularly large pigeon. He cursed, ran a short distance and leaped. Broad wings spread out, enveloping his form in a flurry of ink-black feathers. He flew less elegantly than Andre, and quite a bit faster.
He caught up to him after a few breathless minutes. Andre glanced over his shoulder and stopped, clapping his wings shut. He fell to the ground in a crouch, stood and sprinted in the opposite direction. His pursuer swirled in confusion for a moment, then finally righted himself and stared after him. That angel was fast.
“Andre!” He dithered, but he was getting nowhere here. “Please. Give me a chance.”
There were a few moments of silence before Andre cautiously poked his head around the wall.
“… You’re a demon.”
He lowered himself to the ground, retracting his dark-feathered wings. His coat was tattered, but then, it had been already. And at least the angel seemed prepared to listen, however uncomplimentary the mingled fear and anger on his face were.
“I’m not a demon.” He pointed. “See? No horns.”
Andre stepped forward cautiously, shoes scuffing against the pavement. Fortunately, this street seemed to be deserted. Midair battles tend to clear out civilians pretty fast.
“Not an angel. Not with those wings.” He took another step forwards.
Not-an-angel brushed a strand of pale hair out of his face. His eyes gleamed like obsidian.
Andre’s own eyes widened. “Lucy?”
“Luficer, if you don’t mind.” Lucifer coughed. “I mean, honestly. What the hell kind of nickname is that?”
Andre automatically winced at the casual swear. It was the opposite of blasphemy, really, but he winced all the same. He tilted his head to one side, and closed up the remaining difference in a half-dozen steps. “Luce!” he cried, shaking his hand heartily. “I thought you’d gone!”
Lucifer seemed a little fazed by this reaction. “Not gone. Just fallen. You know how it is.” Andre released his grip, and Lucifer’s hand continued to move up and down for a few seconds out of habit. He glared at it until it stopped. “I was going to go back to the Realms,” he continued quietly. “But there wasn’t a place for me there anymore. And I can’t really get used to the demons in this city. They’re just nasty.”
“Well, you’re angel blood. That’s a natural reaction. Want a coffee?”
Lucifer smiled and fell into step behind him. There was a slight tension in the air, as of mistrust, but anyone seeing them could have mistaken them for old friends. Certainly not old enemies.
The bell over the door rang.
“This is a great place,” Andre said enthusiastically. He sipped delicately at a cup of coffee a-swirl with cream, completely oblivious to the admiring look the serving girl gave him. Lucifer grinned.
“Same old Andre.”
“Eh?”
“Nothing.” Lucifer shook his head, the grin gone. It wasn’t as if they’d ever really known each other anyway.
“It’s great to see you and all, but this shirt is ruined. Do you know how much it cost?”
Lucifer suspected that Andre was feigning vices to put him at his ease. If so, it was working. Though perhaps that was simply all the sugar in the air. He glanced at the plain black shirt that would have bordered on boring if anyone else had been wearing it. “… I can’t imagine.” He sipped at his tea. It tasted like slightly sugary water, which was what it was, after all. “Oh! Here.” He tossed across a coat.
It was black. Andre slipped it on approvingly, after brushing a few stray feathers off his shirt. “Thank you. Why are you here?”
The question was spoken in exactly the same tone as the rest of the conversation, but it was cutting, somehow. Lucifer automatically cringed, and then straightened himself, annoyed. His eyes gleamed.
“Don’t take that tone with me, angel,” he snapped, braided hair flouncing. “You couldn’t possibly know enough about the circumstances to take the higher ground, so—”
“Then tell me.” Andre shook his long, dark hair back. A few tables away, a teenage girl swooned.
Lucifer swallowed his anger. “Right.” He sighed gustily. “Not really much to tell. I made a few … wrong choices.”
Andre snorted into his coffee. Lucifer eyed him suspiciously. “Sorry,” he spluttered. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. Really. It’s just, if there was a competition for understatements, that would make someone saying ‘it’s getting a little warm in here’ just before a volcano erupts get them second prize.”
Lucifer reached out to swat him on the head. Andre ducked, laughing. Lucifer sighed, resigned. “And then … well. Of course I’m not a real demon, any more than you’re a real angel, but my nature is dictated all the same. I came from the rift but I couldn’t go back into it, not with what waited me there.”
“What waited you there?”
“Use your imagination.”
“…Oh.”
“So I figured I’d hang around. The mortal world ain’t too bad. There are some good things.” He waved a croissant vaguely to illustrate his point. It shed crumbs. “And maybe I can be redeemed, or something.”
Andre looked troubled. “If you were thinking I’d put in a kind word for you, you’re wrong. I don’t know you that well. And frankly, from what happened last time …” His fingers drummed against the tabletop. There was a faint latticework of scars on his hand, slightly paler than the surrounding skin. “I can’t honestly say that I think you’re a good person.”
Lucifer glanced up at him, surprised. “I wasn’t going to ask for anything.” He looked a little insulted. “I just … well, it’s a little embarrassing, but I’m tired. I wanted to see one of the old faces again.”
Andre smiled slightly. “Even if it was the face of one of the ones you betrayed?”
Inwardly, Lucifer winced. Outwardly his voice was calm. “Even so.”
“Well, I’m not going to turn you in. I suppose I owe you for the coat.” Andre finished the coffee and stood. “Even if you almost exposed me.”
“You almost exposed yourself. I just wanted to talk.” Lucifer also stood, licking pastry from the corners of his mouth. “And now I have. There we go. Good to see you again … friend.”
Andre hesitated just a moment before answering. “Likewise. Friend.” He smiled brightly. “But you’re paying for the coffee.”
“Evil angel.”
“Muahaha.”
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Post by Rikku on Oct 31, 2008 16:16:17 GMT -5
Exactly five thousand words and I am completely exhausted. xD Been writing for like ... three hours. Gah. Good start, though - I'm so glad it's a Saturday, even though I won't be able to write tomorrow. (Dangit.) I ought to go write more now, because I won't get much chance during the week.
...
I think I'll go eat some sugar.
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Post by Kathleen on Oct 31, 2008 19:25:44 GMT -5
Exactly five thousand words and I am completely exhausted. xD Been writing for like ... three hours. Gah. Good start, though - I'm so glad it's a Saturday, even though I won't be able to write tomorrow. (Dangit.) I ought to go write more now, because I won't get much chance during the week. ... I think I'll go eat some sugar. Five thousand?! Rikkuku must write like madrikku. :3 *hands marshmallows* |
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Post by Rikku on Oct 31, 2008 21:30:28 GMT -5
And now I've written another thousand or so, which is enough that I won't freak out about not being able to write tomorrow. *phew* I can't wait to read whatever fragments of NaNos people post ... and it's nearly Fireworks time, which is, of course, what this whole lumpy NaNo of mine is about. I think I love this time of year.
I just really hope I don't reach the end of the story before I reach the end of the wordcount. It's looking possible. Ahwell. Too early too tell.
*chews on madrikku marshmallows*
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Post by Rikku on Nov 3, 2008 0:50:27 GMT -5
Eleven thousand now, and that's with not being able to write yesterday. ^_^ I have 1337 writing skillz. ... Most of what I'm writing is complete rubbish, of course, but still.
It was a cool evening. Not many people were out and about, even though the weather was relatively calm (windy, bordering on gale). Perhaps it was some special occasion, or the day before a special occasion. Or perhaps people are just really strange.
Not even evening yet, really. More like afternoon bordering on evening. Afternoon with a hint of evening just to make things more interesting and make it just dark enough for people to trip over their own feet and fall down stairs and the like.
The not-evening-yet, really, light glinted in the windows of a bakery. It was a perfectly normal bakery, and completely insignificant, by and large, in the overall scheme of things. (If scheme is the right word. That sounds more like plotting, something no sane person would do. Cough cough.)
Above the bakery, on the brick of the apartment above it, a word was spray painted with white … spray paint. It wasn’t particularly significant either, despite the fact that spray painting on brick is darn hard. The word was ‘PYRATECHNIX’, a word that means very little. It had been spray painted (in white spray paint) one night when the denizen (occupant was far too tame a word for this one) of the above-bakery apartment was very very drunk. And it, along with a few burnt marks on the pavement, were the reasons why the denizen never drunk again. Ever.
A few other people were marginally drunk, or thought they were at least. Because no one sober could ever see that … thing.
The building’s occupant’s name was Cameron Julian Harcort, known as Cameron to his friends, who were very few. Not much was known about him. He’d turned up one night a number of years ago and forked over the cash to rent the apartment, and kept on turning it out vaguely regularly every month, so the bakery dwellers learned not to ask questions. Even when he burst into the shop at a time no decent person would be about (though the amount of people still about showed the general indecency of Wellington’s human population) and demanded a croissant.
“A croissant?”
“Yes. A croissant. Sort of a moon-shaped thing made out of pastry, lots of butter. Happiness made into pastry.”
“Yes, I know what a croissant is, thank you.”
“I’m the one meant to be thanking you. You’re the one who’s giving me the croissant.”
“Giving? I think not!”
“Look, I really need bait!”
Cameron Harcort was tall, even for his age, which was not-quite-twenty, but he walked with a slight stoop in order to get through doors and not be a target for any of the city’s malevolent pigeons. He had an oil slick of dark hair, and his skin was reddened and chaffed – burnt by the sun, or the wind, or by … something else. Or a combination of all three. He was wearing jeans, a t-shirt, and a yellow rain jacket with the sleeves hacked off just above the elbows. The plastic of the jacket was torn and burned in places. Various items jingled in his pockets, including, rather oddly, a protruding wooden spoon. All of which was rather unusual, but not unusual enough to merit the look that the shopkeeper gave him.
“Bait? You’re going fishing?”
“… Something like that, yeah.” Cameron coughed. He was lucky that the bakery owner (whose name was Dennis, though that is also mostly insignificant) was so very unobservant. (Ruder people than Cameron might have used rather stronger words than ‘unobservant’.) Anyone more perceptive might have actually noticed the fire stains on his rain jacket and wondered whether it had been raining meteors lately.
“You’ll have to pay for it.”
“I pay rent!”
“Not enough rent.” Dennis coughed.
Cameron fiddled with the wooden spoon in his pocket. The same pocket also contained a book of matches (actually a box, but ‘book of matches’ sounded a lot more scholarly) and a cigarette lighter, though they weren’t really needed. They made him feel better. He would have liked to include a blowtorch as well, but people seemed reluctant to sell him one, for some reason. He considered showing this ignorant plebeian what he could do, but the ignorant plebeian already knew perfectly well as much as he would understand. Cameron’s unique skills were very popular at parties.
He glanced outside. A large (scratch that, huge), hulking black creature with a serpentine body and a mouth full of fangs was slinking down the road, keeping as close to the ground as possible, evidently in the hope that it wouldn’t be noticed. Fortunately the people that did notice it were either drunk or delusional, or convinced themselves that they were at any rate. That wouldn’t last for long.
Cameron considered pointing and yelling “THAT IS A FRIGGING WYVERN YOU UNOBSERVANT IDIOT!” but that would probably make his landlord-come-shopkeeper annoyed at him and he didn’t want to be evicted.
“Put it on my tab,” he said hurriedly, snatched a bag from the day-old-buns section and darted out the door (which was made of strings of beads, but ‘door’ sounds better than ‘odd curtainy thing, what the heck is that meant to be anyway?’).
He ran after the wyvern, ignoring Dennis’s yells. Had he been someone else he might have fallen into an old, familiar lope that ate up ground without tiring him. As it was he just tried to keep up. Without overtaking. He didn’t want those teeth behind his back when it was only protected by a layer of thin yellow plasticy material.
Maybe it would be alright. Maybe it was a herbivore.
The wyvern grinned gormlessly, though there wasn’t much room for any other expression on its face, and snapped at a pigeon. It managed to catch it, though it spat it out again a few moments later due to general hygiene and in principle. The pigeon was a bloodied mess of slivers and feathers.
Ah. Not a herbivore, then.
Cameron cursed under his breath (which was short enough that the undertaking was kind of difficult) and careered wildly after the wyvern. He couldn’t let people get hurt, not when this monster and all the other strange things that plagued the city were his fault.
The wyvern emerged into a crowded square that immediately became quite a bit less crowded. Cameron stopped and wheezed for a few moments while he figured out a plan.
A slim white cat was watching from across the square. One of its black ears moved a fraction. It blinked its red eyes at him in that nonchalant way that cats have.
Cameron straightened and concentrated, though it barely took any concentration for this. This was second instinct. First instinct, even.
A small purple spark appeared in the air in front of the wyvern’s nose. It glowed and spun decoratively. The wyvern eyed it acquisitively. Cameron gnawed on his lip, hoping that the creature was as childish as it seemed.
The wyvern yapped happily and dived at the spark, which immediately darted out of the way. Leading the wyvern away from people. Cameron glanced around the square. Tile Avenue ought to do well, or Straight Street. Anything but Weaver Street.
The spark hovered alluringly in front of Tile Avenue. The wyvern stared at it and took a few hopping steps forward. Its huge clawed feet shook and scarred the pavement.
The cat stood, elegant and graceful as only cats can be. It meandered towards Tile Avenue. The wyvern glanced at it and backed away hurriedly, ignoring the spark.
Cameron made the hovering flame do the caramelldansen, but it didn’t help. The wyvern looked around, sniffed, and lumbered towards where Weaver Street opened out into the square.
Weaver Street was quiet and residential. At the end of it lay Weaver Street cemetery. Filled with nice, ripe, rotting bodies. Human bodies that would give the wyvern a taste for them, no doubt.
Cameron cursed and ran to head the wyvern off. He couldn’t let that happen. Particularly not when his parents …
He cut short the thought as he skidded in front of the wyvern. It blinked at him enquiringly. Its eyes were bloodshot and evil-looking, in a happy kind of way.
“Look, I’m sorry, but I have to do this,” Cameron said. Or gasped, really, but it was the thought that counted. One couldn’t be a dragonslayer if one wasn’t dramatic.
He spread out his arms and made fire dance, flickering between his clenched fists, sparking and shining. This was real fire, too, not some pyrotechnical spark of colour meant as a distraction. The raw forces of the Universe were held between his hands.
The wyvern’s jaw gaped stupidly. It lunged forwards, thick tail beating its sides in happiness. It wanted to play.
Probably had wanted to play with the pigeon, too.
Cameron stood rock-steady while it came at him. Then he remembered the bread. The plastic bag was sort of melted and oozing from the heat of the flame, but he salvaged an old bun and tossed it at the wyvern, which gulped it down delightedly.
Cameron could see its brain whirring into gear like a really old rusty bicycle. Nice food. Man gave me nice food. Therefore … maybe not ‘therefore’, but whichever equivalent wyvern used … therefore man is nice food. And shiny! Yay!
The wyvern lunged and scooped him into its mouth. Its teeth bit into his shoulder and he yelped in pain and surprise. The wyvern yelped as well, thinking this all a wonderful game, which meant it loosened its bite a little. Cameron formed flame in front of his hands and forced it down the wyvern’s throat, into its stomach. He flinched, feeling guilty, but gritted his teeth and made the fire expand and spread, withering everything it touched to ash. He rolled out of the way, adding a bruised shoulder to match his bleeding one, as the wyvern collapsed, belched a little flame and died.
Cameron sat on the spot for a few minutes and then sat up cautiously. Nothing appeared to be broken, which was good. His shoulder twinged painfully, but he’d dealt with worse. All in all that had been quite successful. He’d managed to stop the Rift creature before any people were harmed. Except for him, of course. And the pigeon. Poor thing.
“Idiot. Would it have killed you to go down Tile Street?” Well, it might have, but it wouldn’t have been as messy. Tile Street led to a shabby little fountain with a grate next to it, and the grate led down into darkness quite a bit deeper than could really be expected. It was the gateway to the Rift, which Cameron had sometimes heard called the Darker Realms by the things that came out of it. Though he wasn’t sure how something as big as a wyvern had managed to crawl out of a hole he would have difficulty fitting through. Maybe it just grew really really fast.
Enough thinking. He had an appointment to keep.
Cameron stood and swayed on the spot a bit. Maybe he should get cleaned up first.
He tottered back to the bakery. When he reached it, he tossed the bread bag onto the counter. Dennis stared at the twisted, melted plastic, then at Cameron’s bloodied shoulder and seriously annoyed face, and decided not to ask.
There was a little set of stairs leading up to Cameron’s apartment. He took them two at a time, then one at a time when he almost fell over. His apartment had a back door with a little balcony, but getting up there would involve climbing up a fire escape, and he didn’t particularly fancy his chances at that.
It wasn’t a bad apartment, as pretty darned bad apartments go. The wallpaper was tattered and peeling here and there, with noticeable burnt patches. There was an old-fashioned telephone sitting on its own little desk, worn carpet, a small, grubby TV with assorted consoles and games scattered in front of it and a couch that was in serious danger of losing its insides. A fridge, bench and slightly superfluous oven sat in one linoed corner, which were helpful in his cooking experiments. What might have been a bathroom and laundry sat behind a door on one side of the room. A door on the other side led through to his bedroom, which was slightly larger than some broom closets. Another door led through to his workroom, where the original brick was still intact. Once it had been a kiln, and now it was used for a similar purpose.
A couple of cupboards and cabinets and benches were scattered around his workroom. They were wooden, which was a bit of an oversight, but none of them had collapsed into ashes yet, so maybe not. On every surface were rows of tins and packets and powders in all the colours of a rainbow and a few colours no self-respecting rainbow would ever show.
Cameron Harcort was a pyromancer, and had been since he was five and his parents died. Though since his parents had died in a fire that also burned his house, he might have been a pyromancer a little while before then. Just maybe.
He earned his bread, stale though it was, in pyrotechnics – making fireworks and shiny flames, powders that made fire burn brightly or burn green or burn horizontally. People sort of assumed that he made them with magnesium and phosphorus and other such things, and he let them think that. ‘I play with fire, let it dance between my hands, and turn and dry it into something that resembles sand, fire made solid’ was a little hard to swallow and he had few enough friends as it was.
Cameron also worked as a waiter in a little restaurant. His suit was hanging up in his wardrobe in his really cramped bedroom. But it was only a part-time job, Saturdays, Mondays and Wednesdays. Today was a Friday, and he had an appointment to keep.
After extracting some bandages from a cramped little closet in the cramped little bathroom and spinning them around his shoulder in a careless kind of way, he leaned against the wall and looked out the small, poky window at his slowly corroding balcony. If he thought about his parents he would be overcome in a wave of melancholy and guilt. Instead he thought about the innocent animal he had slaughtered. Oddly enough, it didn’t help much.
Then he remembered something else about the day, and frowned. He poured milk into a saucer, went out on his balcony and carefully laid it down. Then he took a few steps backwards and waited.
He didn’t have to wait long. In a matter of moments a white cat with black ears and red eyes leaped sinuously onto the railing, and lithely onto the balcony. It looked at the milk, and then up at Cameron. There was something like contempt in its eyes.
“Then show me what you really are,” he said, more than a little annoyed.
The cat hissed and walked past him, back into the apartment. Cameron rolled his eyes and followed, carefully closing the door behind him. It was a windy day, as per usual.
Cameron leaned against one of the walls and crossed his arms. The cat turned into a man, or something like a man.
He was quite tall, with white hair, pale skin and eyes like a blood dawn. Small, neat black horns poked out of his hair. They were very sharp. In fact, all of him seemed sharp. He looked handsome, even beautiful in the way that a knife blade is beautiful – slim, and sharp, and deadly.
“Don’t be condescending, please. It’s not beneficial to your health.”
“You’re a demon,” Cameron said, utterly terrified.
“Aha! I see nothing can be hidden from you, Cameron Julian Harcort.” The demon inspected his fingernails and gave a smile, sharp as a razor blade.
“And what can I call you?” Cameron didn’t bother asking for his real name. Demons weren’t stupid.
“Sephri. I’m here because you rather annoyed a friend of mine, and I can’t allow that.”
Demons didn’t come through the Rift very often – it seemed to produce things out of people’s imaginations, so vampires, werewolves and Pokemon were more common – but from the ones Cameron had met he could judge them as a race fairly well. “And because you’re bored.”
“And that,” Sephri agreed amicably.
“So … um. You know all about me, then?” Cameron clicked his fingers, a somewhat ostentatious and unnecessary action. Flame puffed above them, curling with smoke and singeing the roof.
“Yes indeed. All your sordid circumstances. I must say I’m impressed. You’ve caused a lot of chaos and pain.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“That really was a compliment.” Sephri looked taken aback.
“That’s kind of what’s worrying me!” the pyromancer snarled, immediately regretting it. You don’t lose your temper with demons, not if you particularly want to keep all your limbs.
Sephri laughed. “I like you, Cameron Julian Harcort. It almost makes me regret what I have to do.”
Cameron considered asking what the demon had to do, but decided against it. It was hard to serve food with no arms and no eyes in a city that had been razed to the ground because one of its occupants had got cheeky to a demon. “Please, call me Cameron.”
“Alright then, Cameron. I want you to come with me.”
“Where are we going?” Cameron said guardedly.
Sephri brushed his hand against his shirt to buff his nails. He was wearing a suit that must have been expensive, but looked like the height of taste and fitted him perfectly. His nails were sharp, like claws. Exactly like claws. “To a place of pain, of torment, of horrors unimagin – oh, hey! I love Jonathon Coulton!”
Cameron stood slack-jawed and gaping as Sephri dived at the pile of games and CDs on the floor, humming under his breath.
“All we want to do is eat your brains … we’re not unreasonable, I mean no one’s going to eat your eyes …”
The problem was that Cameron found himself warming up to a guy who wouldn’t be terribly troubled if he was ordered to carry out the actions he was singing about, and probably would act so out of his own volition if he was bored. That was the annoying thing about this fellow. All demons and Rift creatures were capricious to an extent, but Sephri gave the impression that he could be slapping someone’s back one moment and stabbing it the next.
“Want to brawl?”
“Please don’t kill me!” screamed Cameron, until he realized that Sephri was offering him a controller, not trying to stab him. “Oh,” he said, somewhat lamely. Sephri laughed.
Half an hour later the demon threw the controller to the ground. “Well, that was fun.”
“I still don’t believe you beat me playing Jigglypuff,” Cameron muttered, his pride wounded. Sephri rolled his eyes.
“You kind of suck at Brawl, Cameron.” He stood and yawned elegantly. His teeth were very white and very sharp. “Alrighty then.”
He swung his fist at Cameron’s head, and Cameron slumped to the ground.
“You have an appointment to keep,” Sephri said.
***
(SUDDEN SCENE CHANGE OF DOOOM!)
A few weeks ago, it was full moon.
Of course, the clouds completely obscured the moon, so that it resembled a slightly glowy patch of slime in a pool of scum. But it was a full moon nonetheless. Witchery abounded, ideally.
In a little place called Plimmerton the waves were going back and forth restlessly, in a not-very-interesting kind of way. There was a little pub near the waterfront, creatively called the Waterfront Inn. It wasn’t really an inn, of course, but inns were in this year.
It was a rather archaic place that was very comfortable to outcasts and incasts alike. Alex Scott sipped his drink pensively. Of course, he couldn’t get drunk, but he enjoyed the atmosphere in places like this.
This place was smaller than most he visited, but he had woken up that morning and felt like wandering, and he had enough money to indulge that.
Scott was tall and slim enough to be described as ‘gangly’. He had fair skin and fair hair, and bright blue eyes. He smiled a lot and was a very happy person generally, and already was the best friend of most of the inn-goers.
“So your name’s Dennis?”
“Yup,” Dennis said drowsily. “Bread. I mean, I make bread. And sell it. Sell bread.” He burped, drunkenly.
“Really? Man! I’ve always wanted to be a bakery … baker. And bake bread.” Alex Scott was a good conversationalist, but even he was taxed by this one. “One time I bought bread from this shop and there were, like, these weevils in it. Crawling. And I’d already eaten half of it. When I told my doctor he said they were a good source of protein.” Alex grinned.
Dennis blinked. “Your teeth are … your teeth are ... what’s wrong with your teeth?”
Scott ran his tongue along the inside of his fangs. “Novelty. It’s almost Halloween, you know.”
“Oh. Yes. Hey! Pink elephants!” Dennis turned away.
Scott sighed. That hadn’t been too close – barely close at all, in fact, the baker was clearly an idiot – but he still wished he could find someone to talk to, someone who could understand who he was and not judge him for it.
The door swung open.
Scott swivelled on his seat and directed his usual bright smile at the man who entered, though for some reason it froze on his lips. Perhaps it was the gust of wind that followed him.
This wasn’t a man, though. Not really. He was tall, sturdily built, with untidy dark brown hair and a five o’clock shadow. His clothes were clean, certainly, but a little shabby. He had difficulty holding down a job, for a whole variety of reasons.
“I’m Matthew. Matthew Donovan,” he said to the barmaid, who smiled voluptuously and went to fetch him a beer.
Matthew Donovan indicated the seat next to Scott. “Is this seat taken?”
“No. No, it’s not.” Scott’s smile faltered, and he frowned. There was something about this man … something strange, something that made his skin crawl.
Donovan sat down and tapped his fingers against the counter. Scott froze as he realized something. There was something wrong with this man’s shadow, as silly as that sounded.
At the same instant Donovan glanced into the mirror. He saw the counter reflected there, and his own worried brown eyes looking back at him.
He didn’t see the blond-haired man sitting beside him.
Donovan breathed in deeply. The action had very little to do with calming himself. The smell confirmed it. Bloodsucker. Vampire.
Both men leaped to their feet in the same instant, stools clattering to the ground. Scott bared his fangs and hissed, his leather jacket sliding back as his arms reached out to clutch at the other man’s throat. Donovan threw him off, seeming to grow larger and stronger. The action was so forceful that Scott stumbled back a few paces, though he kept on his feet. He crouched down, ready to lunge again, to rip and tear –
And paused as he realized that the room had fallen silent. Everyone present was staring wide-eyed at the vampire and the werewolf.
Scott licked his dry lips and glanced around. The vampire command would have his head if he gave away his presence here. And from what he knew of the pack of werewolves that roamed the city, they would take similar action. None of them could stand the chance of being discovered.
“Um,” Donovan said. “How … dare you say that about my mother! You … mother-insulting … bad person!”
Scott stared at him. Their desperate eyes met. Truce. Very definitely truce.
“You are right, I acted unwisely and I absolutely regret it! Let me buy you a drink!” he said desperately, and gave a short, nervous laugh. This seemed to reassure the tavern-goers, for they all turned back to their respective drinks and worries. Scott sat down with a sigh. Now that had been too close.
The werewolf sat beside him, cautiously, nose wrinkled in distaste. His ears looked a little odd in the mirror, too high up and too pointed. He concentrated on breathing deeply to calm himself down, then switched to holding his breath when he realized that made things worse.
Half an hour passed, and the Waterfront Inn began to close down. Patrons staggered drunkenly away. Donovan practically leaped from his seat and out the door. Scott swigged down the last of his drink and followed, eyes narrowed.
It was quite dark. The buildings were great looming shapes, unidentifiable as the pharmacies and houses and warehouses that light would show them as. Donovan walked quickly, his bare feet barely hitting the ground. He wanted to get home before –
Scott barrelled into him and slammed him against a wall, one arm pushing against his throat. Donovan was lifted a little off the ground. Scott hissed, looking very little like his usual happy-go-lucky self.
“Dear lord I hate werewolves.”
Donovan struggled for breath, but his throat was slowly being crushed. That could probably be counted a blessing. At least the vampire wasn’t trying to drain his blood.
“All of your kind. And I know this seems racist, but it’s true. I haven’t met one of you that’s anything approaching an actual sentient being. You have no decency, you have no taste[/I[, you have nothing even approaching a sense of humour …” Scott laughed, a little unsteadily. Violence wasn’t his normal way of going about things and it unsettled him. “And don’t get me started on hygiene! Or honour! Or kindness or compassion or—”
Donovan used both hands to try and push Scott’s arm away from his throat. It didn’t work enough to get him free.
“Knock knock,” he choked.
Scott stared at him. In the dim lighting his expression was difficult to read. He eased his arm back a little.
“Who’s there?” he asked guardedly.
Donovan greedily gulped down air. It scared him that the vampire had managed to render him so helpless. “Doctor.”
Scott stared at him some more. His fangs glinted in the clouded moonlight.
He threw back his head and laughed, taking a step back. Donovan, released, rubbed his throat guardedly.
“Okay, so, I was wrong.” Scott rubbed his eyes, weariness replacing some of his amusement. “My name’s Alex. Alex Scott.” He extended his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
Donovan stared at the proffered hand as though he expected it to turn into a chainsaw. This had to be a trick. Vampires were cruel and bloodthirsty and … and had no decency, or taste, or sense of humour.
“Matthew Donovan. Likewise.” He shook it.
Scott grinned hugely. Donovan eyed him, a little warily, and began to walk away.
Scott ran after him. “Hey, I’ve always wondered. What is it with the whole ‘full moon’ thing?”
Donovan paused. The inner showman in him cried for attention.
He swept out his arm as they emerged into the friendly golden glow of a streetlight. “See.”
The ocean chewed at concrete. Broken rocks and chunks of building material littered the shore. Donovan and Scott leaned over the fence-type thing, watching the waves. A whole bit of railway line complete with broken lantern led into the waves, a road to nowhere.
“The ocean contains all this water, and humans are made of water as well. People like me have more water than most, or a different kind, or it’s salt … I don’t really understand. It’s all to do with shadows, the shape and the sight of them. I’m not sure. We’re only what people think we are.” Donovan snorted bitterly. “People are idiots.”
“Amen to that.” Scott nodded in agreement. “How old do I look to you?”
Donovan took a step back and surveyed him. “I don’t know. Twenty-two?”
“Nineteen,” Scott corrected gently. “That was how old I was when that thrice-cursed Rift opened, and I don’t look like I’ve aged a day since. I’m thirty-four and people ask me for my ID in bars to make sure I’m not under age! It’s bloody annoying!”
“You’re a year older than me,” Donovan said, looking a little annoyed. “darn. I wanted to feel superior.”
Scott laughed. “Well you still can. I’ve killed, before. And hurt a lot of people. And I could argue that it’s not my fault, not my responsibility, but that doesn’t help me sleep at night.” His lip twisted in self-contempt.
“I hunt pigeons,” Donovan volunteered, wanting to brighten the mood.
“No way. Seriously? That is frigging awesome. Like, if you’re walking along the road and there’s this pigeon you just eat—?”
“Well, not if people are around. Kind of attracts attention. That’s how I’ve lost three of my jobs. And it’s more about hunting than eating, anyway. Pigeons taste horrible. All that grime.”
“You have difficulty holding down jobs? What, big responsible looking guy like you?”
Donovan shrugged ruefully. “People don’t trust werewolves.”
“They don’t trust my kind either, which is probably wise. And I’m glad that’s not a problem I’ve come across. It’s pretty easy to get funds if you’re merciless. I made my fortune a few years ago with some … rather unethical jobs. Stopped now, of course. Still.”
“What, you mean …” Donovan stopped, unsure of how to end the sentence.
“Literally blood money. I was paid to scare people, kill them sometimes.”
“Oh.”
“But that’s all behind me now.” Scott grinned. “Come on, let’s go into the main city. There are some gorgeous bars I’d like to show you.”
“Werewolves can’t get drunk,” Donovan said, soberly.
“Neither can vampires. This is for the look of the thing.”
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Post by Kathleen on Nov 3, 2008 1:03:06 GMT -5
*squees in utter delight* =D I will not even whine about your wordcount being so much higher than mine. I was laughing hysterically. :3 Rikku is awesome writer. Cameron is luff, and so is.. spray paint. <3 I like his middle name. Cameron's, I mean.
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Post by Rikku on Nov 3, 2008 1:58:37 GMT -5
Ah, see, Cameron's middle name is amusing because it's Julian and Bentasmal's given middle name would have been Miles and Julian Bashir and Miles O'Brien are characters from DS9. =D And I am such a geek! Yay!
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Post by Shadaras on Nov 3, 2008 11:12:01 GMT -5
=D ..awesome. I mean, I need to catch up to your wordcount now, but I like Sephri and Alex and Donovan too much to care. Not so much Cameron, though.
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Post by Rikku on Nov 3, 2008 13:40:08 GMT -5
Oh well. Cameron's almost meant to be boring, I think. To counteract for the silliness of various other characters. xD
Some distance away, a youth stared at the ceiling. It was going to be a long night. Always the same. Always. Every single night.
***
Cameron woke up with a blinding headache. Then he realized he was just blindfolded.
“Sephri,” he remembered. Wretched demon. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised. “Curses!”
“Did you …? Yes, I think you did. You just actually said the word ‘curses’. You’re very strange.”
He was sitting somewhere dry and cool. Neither his hands nor his feet were tied, which would have added to the dramatic atmosphere, but the atmosphere was clogged with plenty drama as it was. He sparked a fire on the corner of the blindfold, moments later realizing how utterly stupid that was.
“You actually want to be blinded? Definitely strange.”
The voice was haughty, feminine, and not on the top of his priority list. He clawed at the blindfold desperately until he’d pulled it off and thrown it, smouldering, to the ground.
“I can deal with it. Fire doesn’t hurt me.”
“Lies!” she said gleefully. “You have burn scars on your forehead. Your hair covers them.”
Cameron blinked, out of surprise and to clear sparks from his eyelashes. “Very observant, miss …?”
“Saffron. My name is Saffron.”
Saffron was short, but most people were short compared to Cameron. She had grey eyes, the colour of stones smoothed by a stream. And her hair was odd. Really, really odd. It alternated bright gold and shimmering grey, each strand one or the other. The end effect was something like sunlight shining through a storm. Doubly odd considering the darkness of her skin – she had some Maori ancestry somewhere, or Tongan, or Samoan, or something. It was hard to tell.
Her boots were brightly striped, yellow and black. They seemed a little out of place.
“And I’m a necromancer.”
Oh. Oh dear. Oh dear oh dear oh dear.
“I had an appointment to keep today,” Cameron said cautiously, trying to figure out how to get out of there.
“And you’ve kept it. Don’t you recognize this place?”
Cameron looked around with a sinking feeling that had nothing to do with any mysterious trapdoors. He recognized this place all right. It looked different from the inside, but he’d seen it enough times before, every week, to know it. It was a mausoleum, a solid thing of sombre stone, and it was in Weaver Street Cemetery. He knew because he went there every week, to lay flowers of fire on his parents’ graves. And he knew this girl, too, now he thought about it. She always seemed to be there, and he had wondered many times what her purpose was, who she might be mourning with such dedication. The girl in the graveyard. She was as much a part of the loneliness and melancholy that filled his heart as this mausoleum was, built upon the ashes of the house. It had taken many years for the bitterness and paint to fade enough for him to look at it with anything except hate.
“You live in a mausoleum? Cheery,” Cameron commented, noticing the overstuffed pillows and cheerful patchwork blankets strewn across a marble slab. This girl went way beyond the realms of ‘creepy’ and into ‘downright frightening’.
There was a fluttering from near the ceiling. It was a big mausoleum.
“Vatisin, stop it,” the girl chided, skipping forwards and tossing a stone. A large winged shape detached from the vaulted roof and flew off. It was dark in this place, and gloomy. Rows of stone coffins and little alcoves with urns lined the walls. Saffron had put a bunch of flowers in one.
Now that he concentrated, Cameron could see other things moving, deep in the shadows. Glowing eyes and bared fangs, along with the odd wriggling tentacle. He didn’t look closer.
She pushed her boot onto his chest and pushed him over. “You jerk!”
“Guh?” he managed to say, staring up at the ceiling and struggling to get up. She pressed her boot harder into his chest, making the ribs crackle, and he subsided.
“You killed one of my friends. I don’t approve of that.”
“One of your friends …? Um, sorry. I’m sure it was an accident.”
“It wasn’t. It was practically murder.” Saffron took a few steps back and crouched down so her eyes were level with his. She was glowering. “Zephyr told me.”
“Zephyr? Who in the blazes is Zephyr?”
A white cat slinked out of the shadows and regarded him coolly.
“Oh. That Zephyr.” Cameron returned the demon’s flat gaze. “Sephri, get rid of that stupid guise. I want to talk to you.”
The cat rolled its eyes, as much as that was possible, and stood, unfolding as it did so into Sephri’s slim form. “Yes?”
“Your horns look really stupid, you know that?” Cameron also stood, a tad less elegantly, to stop Sephri having the element of superiority that being the only one standing would give him.
Sephri recoiled. “What?”
“Dinky. Like the smallest Billy Goat Gruff. You look like a kid’s first Halloween costume, but without the sheet.”
Sephri continued to stare at him, as though wondering how anyone could possibly be that suicidal. Cameron wondered as well.
He spread out his arms in a dramatic gesture. Flame soared. Sephri glanced at Saffron.
“Can I kill him?” He clicked his nails together.
“Only if you’re the one who cleans up the blood.”
Sephri sighed. “Fine, fine.” He punched Cameron again, making him keel over, again. The flames sunk back down. Saffron stood, stomping her boots up and down.
“You shouldn’t’ve done that. I hadn’t even properly accused him yet.”
“Wait for him to wake up, then,” Sephri snapped.
“I will.” Saffron walked over to the marble slab and hauled herself up onto it. She crossed her legs and surveyed the unconscious man sprawled on the floor.
A creature that vaguely resembled a raven with too many wings swooped over to her and rested its head on her shoulder. She stroked it absently. Sephri slid back into his cat guise and leaped outside to prowl around the cemetery. It was Halloween, after all, and this particular white cat was quite a bit unluckier to see than any black ones.
The night grew colder. Saffron sighed, hopped off her carving slab and draped a patchwork over Cameron before wandering to a corner of the mausoleum. There she stood, gazing through a skylight into Weaver Street Cemetery. Her eyes were cool and hard, like flint.
The first light of morning leached into the mausoleum, chasing away the shadows. The creatures that lurked and scurried and crept slinked and scurried and crept back to their various hiding places. A sentient umbrella flapped lazily across the sky, fortunately remaining unseen by the Rift-unaware majority of people. It was the first day of November.
Cameron groaned.
Saffron scooted over to him, whipped off the blanket and returned as he was opening his eyes. She whistled innocently.
Cameron groaned again, louder. “Okay. Alright. Sorry. For whatever I did, I’m sorry.” He half-sat up, one hand to his head. There really were burn scars, invisible behind his fringe. They traced across his shoulders and down his back, a macabre memento of what happened when he was five. “I’m Cameron—”
“Cameron Julian Harcort, yes. I know. Zephyr told me that, too.”
“Is there anything about my whole life that he didn’t tell you?”
“Well, no. He even told me about your brother.”
Cameron stared at her. His face looked gaunt, and quite a bit worse than the occupants of the coffins.
Brother. Brother. So it was a boy, after all. And I … I killed them all. Killed them all. Killed them all …
“What does ‘pyratechnix’ mean?” Saffron asked.
“Eh?” Cameron dragged himself with an effort out of the dark, angsty depths of his soul. “I don’t know. ‘Pyrotechnics’ in a bad British accent?”
“Interesting. You killed Winona.”
He blinked at the sudden subject chance. “I did?”
“Winona. The wyvern. You slaughtered her in cold blood. She wasn’t going to hurt anyone. Zephyr was even so kind as to head her off back here.” Saffron slid off the slab and started to pace restlessly. Cameron stood, a mite unsteadily, and watched her silently. “It would’ve been fine … you are such an idiot! There’s this great, magical thing in this city, with all these incredible creatures, and your first thought is ooh, let’s kill them all! Whereas I make them my friends and help as best I can only to have them murdered in front of me!”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“And I know some of them aren’t trustworthy – heck, look at Zephyr! He’s going to stab me in the back one of these days, but he’s still my friend and I at least try to keep him out of trouble, whoever his master is. And you go and … kill them all …”
With an effort, Cameron made himself callous. “You’re the necromancer. Bring them back.”
She glared at him. “I’m going to try to. But this is all your fault, Cameron Julian Harcort.”
“Call me Cameron,” Cameron said, hating how flippant he sounded.
She snorted, but didn’t respond, instead bustling around with various things. Cameron craned to see them, but couldn’t quite.
“Idiotic pyromancer,” Saffron muttered.
“I’m not just a pyromancer, you know. I can cook.”
She glanced at him, disbelief plain on her face.
“I’m a good cook!” Cameron said defensively. “Really!”
She sighed. “Whatever. I’m going to have to find a body vaguely like a wyrm’s to put Winona’s consciousness into … I’m suspicious, though, about Zephyr’s master. Maybe I should kill two birds with one stone. See what EyesInTheDark can figure out.”
“Whatever. Can I go now?”
“Eh?” she said distractedly.
“I get it. No more killing first and not asking questions later. But now I have to get home.”
“I think not. You haven’t learned your lesson quite yet.”
Saffron clicked her fingers, and a creature like but not very much like a raven swooped down and knocked Cameron unconscious. Again.
***
Several weeks after their first meeting, Alex Scott and Matthew Donovan were engaged in their usual activity, which was drinking.
(Not that there was any reason to, but then again, there wasn’t any reason not[/o] to.)
They were in the Waterfront Inn, a place so realistically archaic that at any moment you expected someone to be tossed out the swinging doors at the front. It hadn’t happened yet, but Scott kept n craning back on his seat to check, ever hopeful. He would have preferred one of the livelier nightclubs in Wellington, but Donovan stuck out like … well, like a not-quite-middle-aged werewolf who didn’t like nightclubs. It was irritating, but it was life.
The main thing that annoyed Scott was that there weren’t many pretty people to flirt with here. There was that Dennis fellow drowning his sorrows in the corner, but he was completely insignificant. In fact, none of the inn-goers seemed very outgoing. So when the swing doors swung open, he swivelled in his seat and gave the newcomer an approving look.
He was slender, pale-skinned and white-haired, with red eyes. Scott opened his mouth to try a pickup line, then closed it when he noticed the horns. Bad idea. Very bad idea.
Sephri meandered over to them. “I have a proposition for you, gentlemen.”
Donovan barely glanced at him. “I’m straight.”
Scott looked Sephri up and down. “I’m sober.” He shrugged and turned away.
Sephri cleared his throat slightly. “You seem to be fairly unique, both of you. Your kinds do not generally mingle.”
“Understatement,” Donovan and Scott said, in unison.
“And if either of you ever happen to be down on your luck, I am certain my employer will be able to help you.” He pulled a card out of the inside of his suit and flicked it onto the table.
Donovan grunted. Scott said, “Thanks,” because you have to be polite to demons. Sephri smiled blandly and wandered away.
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Post by Kathleen on Nov 3, 2008 16:32:59 GMT -5
Cameron is not boring; be quiet, both of you. >.>;
Erm.. I still like Saffron. =D The whole thing is so interesting. “I don’t know. ‘Pyrotechnics’ in a bad British accent?”
Yes! =D <3
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Post by Shadaras on Nov 3, 2008 16:45:55 GMT -5
I never said he was boring. I just said that I like the others better. Mainly Sephri. And probably whats-his-name. Bentasmal. Once you introduce him, anyway.
And I agree about that line, Kath. I really do.
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Post by Trilly (18426 words) on Nov 4, 2008 13:37:06 GMT -5
You are required to post this entire story somewhere when it is finished. I have to read it. ^^
Yo are crazy. 12000 words after three days of writing? You made me feel guilty about slacking off and only writing two pages on the first day, so I wrote 3000 words yesterday to try and make up for it.
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^_^ ..shiny story. I like Ben ((..unless you come up with a better shortening of his name, I will call him that)) and Scott.
Oooh. =D So they meet online? In a fan forum? How 
=D Shiny indeed! Your meeting scenes get more and more entertaining. Firefly fan forum FTW!
