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Post by shawn hadley bard on Apr 4, 2012 0:36:43 GMT -5
When Shawn had gotten home from work late last night, something was very, very wrong.
There was... There was someone else living in his apartment.
He'd been told someone had recently moved to Memory, and his apartment was next on the list to be shared. Shawn wasn't opposed to this: he knew he'd have to share eventually, and he was a friendly guy who was used to close quarters from his time in the army. So really, a housemate was the least of his worries--or so he thought.
Shawn must have gotten in around 2 or 3 in the morning, it having been a Friday night, and comm support wasn't required of the majority of the town on the weekends. People stayed late to drink and talk and eat (and drink and talk and eat), and Shawn could barely walk a straight line by the time he and the cooks and all had closed up. He remembered how he struggled to keep his eyes open, remembered opening the door to what he thought was his apartment at West House, remembered seeing things lying about that were definitely not his. Wait. This was his place, wasn't it?
He'd paused, hand still clutching the doorknob as he took in the scene. Shawn never kept his apartment strictly clean, but there was a definite order to things that was certainly lacking now. It looked distinctly like his bookshelves had been rifled through, his piles of sheet music were all over the god damned world, and Shawn definitely did not keep his guitars squeezed half under the sofa. But it was late. Maybe he was seeing things. He'd rubbed at his eyes and blinked hard, but the mess was still there. Someone had certainly made themselves at home.
Shawn had taken a moment to collect himself, calmly closing the door and rescuing his guitar from the ground to return it to its stand. The rest of the mess... Phew, but he was just too tired to deal with it now. He couldn't quite fathom the type of stranger to so blatantly go through his things like that, and in a moment of boldness, Shawn decided he'd like to meet his gracious new housemate. Obviously the guy was a thief at worst or a slob at best, and damn his fatigue, right now they were gonna have words.
But when Shawn threw open the door to small bedroom he had thus far been neglecting (keeping it open for just such a someone as his potential housemate), having every intention of waking this guy up none too gently--well, no one was there. The sheets were rumpled and there were clothes about, so someone was, in fact, moved in. So where the hell were they? If they'd only just gotten here--? Shawn had looked around the room a little before starting back down the hallway, his brows furrowed in annoyance and pure tiredness. "Hello?" He'd called into what was now apparent was a very empty house, and, frustrated, turned on the spot to stalk into his own room. He promptly fell on his bed, still fully clothed, and was asleep practically the moment his head hit the pillow.
The next day didn't bring any answers to the questions raised last night. Shawn's guitar, he noticed on his way to the kitchen that morning, was now propped up against the sofa, so the elusive housemate was back on the prowl. Shawn quickly darted back to the spare bedroom and cracked open the door, but still--empty. This only served to confuse him more (it didn't help that he only got about two hours worth of sleep--Alan-a-Dale had this nasty habit of waking just before the sun rose), but he was running late for his full day at the tavern, and couldn't spare it any more thought at the moment. He'd resigned himself also to just grabbing something to eat that morning at the Hearth (he was sure one of the cooks would let him steal something), which ended up working out since he hadn't stocked the fridge or cupboards in weeks.
The day progressed pretty normally after that, and Shawn was able to put it out of his mind as he chatted with people at the bar (generally yet too early to drink, but Shawn was a chatty person). Around lunchtime things started picking up and Shawn started getting progressively busier, serving both drinks and food to those who chose to eat at the bar counter rather than a table or booth. Things went pretty smoothly for a jam-packed Saturday, and Shawn was just wiping down the bar to get ready for the evening crowds when in the brief lull, he thought back to his apartment.
Who on earth was his housemate, anyway? He'd never heard of something so strange in ways of housing, let alone have something like this happen to him. When it came to be his turn to take in the newest resident of Memory, Shawn figured he would have at least been present to meet the guy. Show him around, get to know him, something--but this, this random moving in and disappearing to parts unknown was more than disconcerting. Shawn ran a hand through his rooster crest and sighed a little, his other hand working the same steady circle over the bar counter. The bell above the door jingled then, though, announcing the arrival of a small group of people already loud and obnoxious, and Shawn smiled at their arrival. A welcome distraction--Shawn's mood already improved with their infectious laughter, and he was starting again to be in good spirits.
Shawn just wanted the high to last for the whole night.
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Cora Odette Rossz
SLEEPING BEAUTY
MALEFICENT
She shall prick her finger on the spindle of a spinning wheel...
Posts: 10
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Post by Cora Odette Rossz on Apr 4, 2012 3:18:19 GMT -5
NOTHING SEEMS AS PRETTY as the past though She had to share an apartment.
Out of all the things that she could fixate on about Memory, Cora really just couldn’t stand this one. She hadn’t shared a room since her freshman year at college, not even when she was a child. Her bedroom had been more of a closet, but it had a door and it was her own space. That first year at university had been difficult, to say the least. Cora had spent a lot of her time in the library or the labs, trying to avoid the cloyingly sweet, naïve girl that had ended up as her roommate. Cora didn’t want to stay here, so the very idea of getting an apartment was grating on her nerves. But, apparently, the fine script on having the spirit of a Disney movie possessing you was that it was incredibly hard to leave this little town once you were here.
She would’ve left if she had the option. Unfortunately, she really didn’t. There wasn’t much elaboration from the people she’d talked to in the past week or so, but apparently the process for leaving was much more complex and dangerous than arrival had been. She couldn’t just call up a taxi and head home, or so she’d been told. So Cora had stayed with the other newcomers for the first few nights, until her confused and slightly disappointed parents had done as her recent letter had requested and sent her books and clothes and beakers in the mail. When three big boxes had arrived, Cora was assigned a home. She’d debated endlessly with the woman in charge of housing about the benefits of letting her live alone. She’d cited evidence of both her own effectiveness and the amount of personal problems they would save themselves if she had her own place. No one listened. However, she had managed to wheedle her way into a smaller housing complex. That much, at least, she could be grateful for.
In the back of her mind, M’s anger was starting to seep into Cora. M didn’t like not getting her way, and, although she was making no attempts to speak or rise to the forefront of her host’s mind, Cora could feel the dark resentment M was putting off. It was making her cranky. When she finally managed to find her new home and drag all her boxes inside, her roommate wasn’t there. She was grateful for the lack of chatter, but couldn’t help but feel curious.
Later that night, when her roommate—or, more correctly, her housemate—still hadn’t returned, Cora took the opportunity to browse through the apartment. Or at least the common areas. Nice collection of books. Lots of sheet music and a guitar, which looked to be in good shape and not just for show. So long as the girl didn’t play “Kumbayah” or “Wonderwall” things should be fine. When the things in the living room ceased to interest her, Cora took off and wandered the streets of Memory for a while, trying to commit the streets and shops to her mind. She didn’t want to get lost here. People were friendly, but almost too friendly. A stop for directions might just turn into being chattered at by an old woman who was really a chipmunk, or something comparably absurd.
Cora didn’t sleep much that night. It was a new place, and her brain wouldn’t turn off for more than two hours. She woke up obnoxiously early to walk over to the Apothecary for her first day of work, which was something she was unabashedly giddy about. The man who showed her around looked wary about leaving her alone in the shop, but he did. Probably for the same reason Cora had gotten the job so easily: it was hard to argue with a girl who could dust the entire shop with a wave of her hand and a few muttered words. Her first day had been exciting, maybe due to the fact that only one person had come in to buy something. The Apothecary wasn’t usually open—only one other person worked here, and when they took a day off the shop closed. So Cora had spent a glorious day cataloging all the ingredients and products, and taking excessive notes for her later experimentation.
Disappointingly, the time came when work ended, which meant that she had to return to her apartment and meet her new roommate. When Cora got there, though, there was no roommate in sight. Odd. Unfortunately, neither was there food. Any food. Cora didn’t eat much or often, but she tried to have one meal a day. After searching every cupboard and every shelf or the fridge and finding only half a stick of butter, Cora had to work herself up to venturing into the outside world. And it was late on a weekend, which meant that people would be out. Not her favorite.
Regardless, she headed towards the Tavern. She’d just order her food, eat, and get out. She could handle this. She walked through the door right behind a group of people that smelled strongly of Malibu rum, and wrinkled her nose. She headed towards the less-crowded bar, trying her best not to bump into anyone or make eye contact. Get in, get fed, get out. When Cora’s hand made contact with the bar, she let out a little sigh of relief. Step one, accomplished. She raised a hand to flag down the redheaded bartender, but then a broad-shouldered man wedged his way into her line of vision and grinned. This one smelled like vodka. She could feel M bracing for confrontation, but ignored her. Cora had taken no pains to look nice—she was wearing high-waisted, wide-legged slacks and a loose red shirt (tucked in) from work—it was far from revealing. Her dark hair hadn’t been combed since that morning. And Cora knew that she hardly looked approachable, even at her best.
Still, the large man wouldn’t leave. He just kept grinning until she reluctantly made eye contact with him. ”What’s your name, gorgeous? Are you a model?” Cora raised her eyebrows. ”No. I’m Cora.” The man giggled. ”And did it hurt, when you fell from heaven?” Cora narrowed her eyes at the man. He must’ve been drunker than she thought. ”No, I’m from New York.”
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Post by shawn hadley bard on Apr 6, 2012 0:07:40 GMT -5
Shawn knew the party that barged in the door, smelling like booze already (and also maybe something like stale corn chips), weren't really trouble makers. Two of the guys he knew to be hosting card soldiers from Alice in Wonderland, and he had a sneaking suspicion one of the girls was a kid rabbit from his own Spirit's movie, Robin Hood. It was mostly a guess--but he liked her. Always had. He figured Alan-a-Dale had something to do with it, but smiled widely at her anyway when she came trotting in. The shy smile she gave him back made him laugh and stand a little straighter, his previous musings on his mysterious housemate temporarily pushed to the back burner.
A few more followed in after them and they sat themselves in a booth near the open (but not lit) fireplace. Shawn finished wiping down the counter as a waitress tended to them, and pretty soon the place started to fill up. Drinks were ordered and Shawn promptly started filling them, and he helped the servers and other wait staff when he could in the brief lulls. But soon even that stopped, as the dinner hour was passed--it was a Saturday night and they were the only joint in town. Shawn found that the tavern was pretty saturated with the male population tonight: he was mostly serving draught ale (and the cheap kind), with only the occasional martini or other mixed drink. That being the case, Shawn took a little more time with the quote-unquote lady drinks, because hell, he had the time and it was always good to practice. Eventually, due to the boredom and the sheer monotony of 1) grabbing beer glass, 2) filling beer glass, 3) sliding beer glass down bar, Shawn started pulling a couple fancy tricks with the fancier drinks. He wasn't necessarily any good at them, but for the most part he could spin the bottles and cocktail shakers in impressive enough ways to elicit a smattering of applause from the barflies, and hell, that was still pretty cool. At one point he accidentally got a cherry lost in his hair while really trying to catch in the glass, but hey. Can't win 'em all.
Also that seemed to make those preemptive drunks positively piss themselves in delight, and that was a good time.
The evening proceeded much in this same way: filling drink orders, entertaining drunks, chatting with the loners, making eyes at that one girl from before. When another girl walked in, skittish and making a beeline for the bar, Shawn didn't have time to think much of it as he focused on mixing the perfect Cosmo for the suspected Robin Hood Rabbit (who he'd affectionately named "Bunny" in his head).
The new girl with the dark hair flagged him down though, and Shawn had to quickly finish what he was doing. He'd just set down the glass (pink to Cosmopolitan perfection) with the intention of handing it off to the waitress, one eye on the dark haired girl, when a buff dude walked over and sort of sidled on next to her. Shawn cracked a grin when the girl turned curious eyes onto his glassy ones, vague as they were already with drink. He squeezed his way up to her and fairly reeked of booze that Shawn could smell from where he was (and considering he was surrounded by alcohol and had spilled a bit over the course of the evening, that was saying something). Shawn began walking over when he heard the not-so-subtle sounds of a pick up line: "What's your name, gorgeous? Are you a model?"
This was promising. Shawn loved drunks.
He pretended to busy himself with another order, watching out of the corner of his eye as the girl very frankly turned him down. "No. I'm Cora," she explained level-headedly, and Shawn filed away her name. Cora. Haven't heard that one before. Must be new. Her flat answer didn't deter Mr. Muscles in the slightest though, and Shawn nearly laughed when he saw him sway on the spot. "And did it hurt, when you fell from heaven?" Oh, that one was classic. Shawn had even seen it work once, though to be fair, both participants were absolutely smashed and practically ready to jump the first living, breathing person that blew in from the cold (sometimes things got desperate here in the winter). He half expected Cora to just ignore him, judging by the way she hustled it to the counter and wasn't exactly wearing that which one would typically wear should one be looking to respond to lines like did it hurt when you fell from heaven, but she surprised him when she promptly answered the guy.
"No. I'm from New York."
And then Shawn fell out.
He couldn't help it--that wasn't one he'd heard before, and it was priceless. Her serious tone, her suspicious eyes, the way she acted like a frightened sparrow when she first walked in. Shawn laughed hard when he heard her, grinning with an open mouth and sagging against the beer tap in an obvious way. Oh god. That was good. He had to take a moment to collect himself before he could even stand up straight.
"What can I get you?" Shawn eventually collected himself enough to ask her, leaning his hands on the bar and watching her with an amused look in his eye. His voice was amused but still soft, his southern accent taking the corners off his words whereas he noticed Cora's accent was sharper. He smiled widely at her and sort of glanced at the dude hitting on her (recognizing him now as Eric, a zebra from the Lion King--or was he an antelope? Some safari animal, anyway). Either way, Shawn could tell from Cora's body language that this chick was gonna be one to watch.
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Cora Odette Rossz
SLEEPING BEAUTY
MALEFICENT
She shall prick her finger on the spindle of a spinning wheel...
Posts: 10
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Post by Cora Odette Rossz on Apr 9, 2012 19:48:24 GMT -5
NOTHING SEEMS AS PRETTY as the past though Cora’s hazel gaze jumped from the bulky man to the redheaded bartender when he burst into laughter, leaning against the tap behind the counter. Although he wasn’t pointing at her, she felt uncomfortably sure that he was somehow laughing at her—had she done something wrong? The odds were high that she had, but she didn’t know what. She felt a twinge that told her she should just leave the tavern and return to her apartment, food or no food. Obviously this social situation wasn’t playing out the way she’d planned, and she couldn’t for the life of her figure out what she’d done wrong. Cora dragged her gaze away from the laughing bartender and back to the broad-shouldered man who was still next to her. He, too, seemed amused by something, although confusion was also tugging at his facial features. ”I’m Eric,” he introduced himself with a chuckle.
Cora turned away from him with a sigh, snatching a menu from where they were kept in a stack near her on the bar counter. She could smell the cleaning products on them, and the clean edges and smooth laminate told her that these menus were not often used. In a small town where you couldn’t ever really leave, she supposed that the locals knew exactly what they wanted without consulting a menu. It made her feel even more out of place that she had to skim it before ordering. She was in the middle of the sandwich section when a large hand covered the menu and pushed it down. Cora froze, not lifting her gaze as she felt the big guy move behind her, putting a hand on the bar on either side of her and leaning over her shoulder to squint drunkenly at the menu. Cora tersely turned her head to look at him, lips pulled into a tight line. She didn’t like being touched. Now, granted, the only place the drunk was touching her was his chin lightly grazing her shoulder (she was small enough to fit in between him and the bar without bodily contact) but she still didn’t appreciate it. She could feel her face heating up in an indignant flush as she realized what, exactly, Eric was doing. She was being flirted with.
Cora would’ve left the bar immediately, had she not been trapped against the bar by the man—what was his name again? Eric?—but escape was obviously not an option at the moment. Cora, although she was frozen, could feel M unfurling in her mind, reaching out to Cora and asking her to stop being opposed to human contact. Flirt with the man, Cora. Play with him. We’re smarter than him, we can make him do whatever we want. He’s an attractive man, just look at him. As much as Cora hated taking orders from M, she did turn her head slightly to look at Eric. He was, objectively, attractive enough. Tall, broad shoulders, a nice open face. And the smell of vodka was getting less overwhelming. But Cora wasn’t attracted to him—she never really was attracted to the people she should be. M used to tell her that it was such a waste when she was younger—such a waste to let such a pretty face go unappreciated. But Cora was just never interested. Except for one man, and she didn’t like to think about him. Just a little flirting, sweetling…
”What can I get you?” Cora looked up at the redheaded bartender (southern, probably Virginia or South Carolina, she noted), who had evidently stopped laughing at what she could only assume would be her social interactions. Ashamed, she automatically leaned back from the bar, but when her back made contact with Eric she sat up ramrod straight, balancing uncomfortably between the bar and the man behind her while trying to touch neither. She opened her mouth to order, but Eric interrupted her. ”Can I buy you a drink?” He slurred his words, and Cora frowned at him. Of course he could—he was capable of it, after all—but she didn’t want him to. He didn’t wait for an answer, and addressed the bartender. ”Hey, Shawn, can I getta vodka soda for th’ lady? And ‘nother beer for—“
Cora cut him off briskly because, thanks to M, she did know what “buying someone a drink” meant, and she wanted no part of it. ”No drink, thanks. Just…a burger. Or something else fast.”
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