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Post by patrick josef galloway on Sept 6, 2009 9:42:17 GMT -5
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -YOUR SACRED SILENCE, LOSING ALL VIOLENCE,
STARS IN T H E I R [/color] PLACE, MIRROR YOUR FACE. [/size][/font] ʻ i need to seek my innervision.[/center] H
[/color][/size][/font] e didn't venture to town too often. The middle-aged man preferred to keep the townspeople of Dublin guessing, he would often tell Aisling. Plus, he found his existence to be much quieter when he allowed himself to remain elusive. Dubliners never travelled to the far outskirts of the town, toward their neck of the wood, and Patrick was both thankful and cross about this: he certainly didn't have the local girl scout troops storming his door, but at the same time it meant that he had to travel to get his food, forgive him for being lazy. Keeping a low profile of one's self came at its costs and its advantages, but to Patrick the end result always seemed to tip in his favor. He was content with letting Aisling, Aidan, Aileen, and Connor take the town of Dublin by storm, and relished in the fact that it was very rare or on days of business that he ever travelled from the luxurious Galloway mansion. Granted, his funeral services never seem to stick to just one general area; as the only funeral director of Dublin, he had a decent business to himself, ironic as it were. He could always tell when any of it children had fed recently, because often his clients had meant a strange demise, one whose only proof of what became of the victim were two small bite marks in their necks.
Yet, it wasn't unusual for Patrick's clients to feel uneasy around him, though the lack of funeral homes and/or directors really left them no choice. Being the only funeral director for miles until one hit Cleary came at many advantages for Mr. Galloway. One, Patrick's feeding necessities were taken care of. It was so easy for Patrick to turn on the charm at funerals, because there were at least three beautiful, young women who were searching for someone to comfort them, and Patrick was their man. Needless to say, after the services, Patrick went above and beyond the call of duty when it came to beautiful women. He loved the sound that women made they moaned his name, out of ecstasy and some underlying tone of grief from their loss. At the same time, Patrick fulfilled his own sexual desires, though they only paled in comparison to what sex could be like with one of his own kind. Sometimes if he liked the girl enough, he'd keep her coming back; just because her moans entertained him, and he just loved to watch the human woman's veins popping in her neck, pumping with fresh thick blood, which was a main source in his orgasm later as the event drug on. And then, there were those unfortunate, who spent their last night of perfect ecstasy with him, Patrick preferring to feed on post-orgasm women because of their inability to make a struggle. He liked feeling powerful, Patrick did, and he couldn't think of a better way to be powerful than to have successfully pumped a human woman for what she was worth.
And then occasionally Patrick would take on services that occured only in the day time, because some clients had heard about the mysterious disappearances of funeral guests. But Patrick always knew that they'd find their way back to him, because they had no choice. They had to travel much too far to purchase a coffin, to begin with, too far to transport the deceased to be tended to and prepared for the viewing, and the whole process would have been far much more hassle than the family could afford. So, naturally, Patrick always won. Morturary science was such a great field to be involved in, because there would always be deceased, and Patrick personally could make sure of it. In a sick way, this is what made Patrick such a natural at his job. But it was the daytime services that he detested the most. One, because he had to schedule them perfectly, under cloud cover. Though he was sure the fact that his skin radiated like diamonds would only attract him more concubines in the end, it was the image of himself he were trying to preserve. His sex life would boom, no doubt, but working so closely with the Volturi, Patrick refused to risk any ill-gotten feelings with them, with something as simple as exposing his kind.
It was a daytime service, in fact, which brought him where he was now. Today was the first of many meetings to follow for the Cavanaugh family, whose sixteen year old son, had suffered the most common death here in Dublin. A death that only Patrick and his kind knew the answer to... Aileen, his youngest, required frequent feeding, so, naturally, most of his clientele were brought to him because of her, making Aileen his own personal little gold mine. The morning paper in hand, Patrick declined his waittress's offer on a beverage: Patrick preferred to people watch. He'd pretend to read his morning paper, sometimes grunting or 'ah-ha!'-ing randomly, just to signify that the man still had a pulse, no pun intended. But what he loved to do most was watch the way human females carried themselves. He didn't consider himself a womanizer, instead preferred to think of himself as a man who could appreciate a handsome woman when he saw one. He would even go so far to call himself a pervert, as well. The female body was such a beautiful, precious thing, and Patrick made sure that his latest fuck-buddy well knew that; else she wouldn't come back. It were the phrases of appreciation that melted women the most, turning them into putty in his hands. He chose his women well, often securing himself with a featherlight kiss or an earth-quacking shag... to the woman anyway. And let's face it: what woman would want other women knowing which men knew exactly how to please a woman? Not too many, and Patrick made sure of it.
Human news did not interest him, point blank. Humans as a species were far too whiney, far too wrapped up in themselves that they oft overlooked the real problems at hands. Therefore, Patrick tried to involve himself as little as he could, with the exception of getting what he needed out of them, of course. It was one of the main reasons that kept Patrick cooped up in the manor by himself, just so he did not have to listen to all of the whining that they did. At least when he was making love to a human, her thoughts were too fried to think of anything but the pleasure she was feeling. Patrick liked humans better when they were quiet. Quiet and off his back. He could tolerate them in very small doses, which was why the Avoca Cafe had been one of his favorite haunts. Cafes were regions of reflection, and fine literature, fine art. Patrick rarely heard any whining hear, leaving him no distractions for his people watching that he so loved. Patrick's blood-red eyes loomed over his newspaper, surveying the townspeople of Dublin, judging. He wouldn't tarry too much longer in the public eye, he decided. Low profiles meant only giving the public a taste of him every time he ventured outside. It's what kept them so intrigued about the Galloway mystique, and Patrick loved to keep them hooked.[/blockquote][/blockquote] my pupils dance, lost in a trance ,1222 WORDS | CLARISSA | STYLIN' | AVOCA CAFÉ | LYRICS by SYSTEM OF A DOWN. |
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Post by clarissa lucille o'bryant on Sept 6, 2009 11:16:30 GMT -5
*LISTEN WHEN I SAY [/color] when I say it’s real
real life goes undefined
why must you be so missable?
everything you take
makes it more unreal
real lies are undefined
how can this be so miserable? How it was that Clarissa had gotten stuck with tour guide duty, she wasn't really sure, especially considering the fact that she'd only been in Dublin again now for what... a week? Maybe her mother just assumed she would remember the way everywhere the guests might need to go from the tender age of four, or maybe it was just mother's intuition, or trusting that she would be able to get directions easily enough to get the American couple where they needed to go without too much trouble. Or maybe it was her mother's way of trying to encourage her to 'mingle'. Apparently, in Patricia's opinion, Clarissa didn't do enough of that, the thought of which had caused Clarissa's nose to wrinkle upwards, and a forcible biting of her tongue to keep from retorting about just how much she didmingle, rather in point of fact had to make a concerted effort not to mingle.
So, rather than launching into a tirade of explosive and unspent teenage-encroaching-upon-adult rage, she had offered a smile and nod to her mother's request to see the newlyweds into town. They were cute, in a sickly sweet sort of way, and she had to admit it was sort of romantic, the way that they seemed quite literally incapable of thinking about anything other than each other. Of course, when their thoughts had turned to why it was that they wanted to know where the ruins of one of the Irish Catholic churches were, she had been quick to interrupt, offering random bits of useless information that she had learned about the route she took them on to their destination. She was fairly certain that what they had in mind for 'consecrating' the ruins wasn't what the builders had had in mind, and was more than a little relieved when the two had assured her that they were quite capable of finding their way back to the bed and breakfast, or wherever they might need to go next, on their own.
She had taken advantage of the early morning silence, then, though glad that she had thrown the red hoodie on over the slacks and baby tee / vest combo, the wind still carried a nip to it. Well, a nip to her, though apparently more than that to the Americans, with their three or four layers. She had dug out her music player, nestling in one of the earbuds to let the selection of jazz, as the mood had struck her, slip through her thoughts and offer an upbeat and relaxing distraction from the dull and murmured buzz of the city's occupants and their morning plans.
She had, in fact, become quite lost in the beat, even kicking up something of a languid jig, of sorts, twisting along the outer edge of the sidewalk in time to the rhythm and blues. Mostly, it seemed to amuse the pedestrians, or the clerks still setting up the sidewalk and window displays, and all in all she had to admit the refreshing spree of youthful exuberance had lifted her own spirits. Even, then, the splash of instant rainfall did not dampen them entirely, but still not in the mood for a second shower, she slipped beneath the eaves of the shops nearby, eyeing the hanging signs for the one that would be the most comfortable for a stay, as gauging by the low rumble of thunder approaching this wasn't going to be a two-minute shower, but likely a longer and heavier storm then had been predicted for the day.
The cafe was hardly a difficult choice, the obvious aside she had heard wonders about their banoffee pie and she could do with something to tide her over til lunch, early morning tea (or in her case coffee) and croissants with Mr. Stephenson had come... well, early.
The bell over the door jangled with a mildly merry tone as she slipped inside, one hand raising to brush the hoodie of her jacket back, and fussing briefly with the few damp mahogany strands that had tangled around her face during the instant rain and wind, flipping them back behind her as she pulled the ear bud from her ear to let both of them dangle loose around her neck as she took in the cafe.
It was quiet, and not overly occupied, to her mild relief. A couple of waitresses, a cook behind the gleaming counter, and perhaps a half a dozen customers scattered around the interior, warm and inviting with bronzed and autumn colors. Taking a moment to brush her plaid boots against the carpet in front of the door, and then Clarissa was off, cutting a path towards the middle of the long counter, aiming for one of the red patent leather barstools.
"Coffee, please, honey, no cream. And a slice of the banoffee pie, if you've got it in?" She calls, offering a smile to the just-going-slightly-silver-haired waitress as she unzips her hoodie and shrugs it off, draping it over the stool to her right to let it dry off during her respite. The uniformed waitress gives a somewhat despondant nod in return, and moves to shuffle off to get the order, but not without casting an even more despondant, and perhaps slightly disgruntled look past Clarissa, over her shoulder towards another occupant.
The thoughts were muffled, heavy, worn down from routine day after day, year after year, leaving only a few that rose in actual clarity of the waitress' thoughts, but undertaker and 'just not right' were somewhere in the mix, and were more than enough to peak Clarissa's curiosity. A brief glance was thrown, cast over her shoulder towards the source of the woman's discontent, easily ruling out a few of the other occupants; teenagers, mechanic, college student... leaving, eventually, the one in question, the man who sat with a near untouched cup of coffee, one leg crossed over his knee, newspaper propped in front of him.
Was this, then, the source of grumbling from the waitress? she wondered. He seemed... all right, he seemed a little strange, perhaps, his skin an ivory pallor relatively uncommon among the Irish ruddiness, at least when taking into account the lack of freckles. And sure, he was... what was he, exactly, with the dark hued eyes that stared through the newspaper and above it, a stillness about him that could prove... unnerving, maybe, but what did one expect from an undertaker, then?
this is the fall; this is the long way down, and our lives look smaller now, and our lives look so small leave me here crying this is the fall; this is the long way down and our lives look smaller now, and our lives look so small [/right] -------------------------------------------------------------- [/color] status: complete | word count: 1100 | outfit | lyrics: summer shudder by AFI | tagged: patrick! |
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Post by patrick josef galloway on Sept 6, 2009 17:18:46 GMT -5
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -YOUR SACRED SILENCE, LOSING ALL VIOLENCE,
STARS IN T H E I R [/color] PLACE, MIRROR YOUR FACE. [/size][/font] ʽ i need to seek my innervision.[/center] I
[/color][/size][/font] thought I told that woman that I didn't want coffee[/i], he hissed to himself, watching his salt and pepper haired waittress slink off somewhere into the cafe. For a moment or two, Patrick laid down his newspaper after having folded it neatly together onto the polished surface of the table he was occupying. Patrick wrinkled his nose at the steaming hot liquid that sat in front of him, the smell rising off the unpleasant beverage making his insides ring themselves out several times. What use did a mature vampire have for coffee, honestly? Patrick's levels in adrenaline swung so violently that it could cause the earth to split, so it was apparent that the man had no real need for coffee. He imagined that their probably would be nothing left of Dublin, if he ever felt froggy enough to consume the beverage. This made Patrick frown, the woman having an obvious disregard for the desires and wants of her customers. He would remember to have a word with the woman's superior, but until then, had discontentedly picked up the saucer of which the hot mug of coffee sat, delicately between his index finger and thumb, and in one fluid motion, set the saucer on the table behind him, which was occupied by a woman that he took to be in her forties, with dark reddish brown hair. The woman's nose was in the book she was reading, but it wasn't her eyes that he'd been watching. It paid him great amusement when he saw these middle-aged women trying to dress themselves as though they were teenaged girls again. It was a bit disgusting, when thought about it. At a certain age, a woman's breasts began to seemingly sag, from years of breastfeeding babies and whatnot. Not only that, but they would begin to pucker and age with wrinkles, which made them even less appealing. This was why Patrick liked the ones in their twenties better, they were ripe for the picking, yet weren't virgins that could attach themselves to him. Every once in a while, he'd go to bed with a woman who looked like they would be his age, but for the most part he preferred them young. The woman looked handsome enough, in her features, he admitted. He'd make a mental note to inquire her name, later, shouldhe ever be able to detract her attention from her book. Subtlely he pushed the saucer and mug onto her table, pushing a wry smirk onto his face, the corner of his lip curling up to reveal a pearly white set of teeth. " Do you like Irish Roast, malady?" he asked her softly, pointing to their mugs of coffee. " It appears that my waittress must be partially deaf because I explicitly requested no coffee. It seems an awful shame to go to waste, would you like it? I've not touched it," his voice came out in more of a purr as the woman's face shifted into a soft, melting expression. Ahh, the face that Patrick could never get tired of. Maybe he'd be able to get some use out of this one, he figured. With this in mind, Patrick tilted his head angelically as the woman flushed, thanking him for his generous offer, but sadly had to decline. What Patrick did get out of it, however, was a business card with her phone number and name on it. Far too easy, Patrick, he cooed to himself, watching the woman disappear out the door. He'd give her a ring later, he promised himself, the temptation becoming almost too hard to waste.It was only after the woman left that he became aware of a pair of eyes watching him. This was nothing new, as Patrick was used to being stared at. Whether it was because the infamous Patrick Galloway had left his cave, or because women who appeared his 'age' found him desireable, being stared at was something that Patrick had grown accustomed to. Still, he'd amused the poor soul, he figured, and turned his crimson eyes upon a young brunette. The first thing that this young woman (he wasn't sure whether he'd call her adolescent or adult at the present) reminded him of, was Aileen shortly before he turned her. She had that same naive look about her that Aileen had before he'd soiled her, molding her into his own little puppet of distraction. Needless to say there was a reason why the girls were his favorites... and it wasn't for their home cooking. When Patrick selected his 'children', he selected the ones that he felt could satisfy him the most, and boy was his Aisling talented at it. Then again, Aisling was roughly about fifty years to his junior, and had plenty of time to know what he liked. Aileen was young yet, and her fiery and vivaciousness was what he admired in a woman. She'd grow to be a strong vampire, and even better mate when she knew the way things worked under Patrick Galloway. Unlike the Cullens, Patrick treated his 'daughters' more like his personal slaves, slaves of pleasure. Pleasure where he couldn't get from humans. Human women were great, yes. Sometimes a few of 'em were as fiesty as his Aileen, but he preferred his daughters much better. Since the day he'd turned Aisling, he'd had the girl wrapped around his finger, telling her how much he 'loved' her, just as he had done with Aileen, who would learn the ropes soon enough. Perhaps he could make this one that way. She did have a kind of magnetic pull about her, but he'd felt was slightly stronger than his Aisling and Aileen had to them. In fact, Patrick probably would not noticed it, had he not become aware that her eyes were on him. She was a dark individual, dark in features, rather. Her hair was a chestnut color, that seemed to compliment her honey eyes superbly. Patrick watched her, watching her, as though he dared her to make so much as even a move. Patrick was quite an intimidating man after all, even when he was not trying to be. He smiled oddly at her, at the same time his hand sliding toward his folded newspaper once more. " Miserable out there, isn't it?" he asked her, motioning to her plaid rain boots, before giving the newspaper a swift flick with his wrist to open it once more. Silly humans, were they taught not manners? Didn't this human girl know that it was impolite to stare? A few moments passed, and Patrick stole another glance over his morning paper again, only to find that this girl was still looking at him. A frown crossed his face, his eyebrows sinking lowly to blood-red hue of his eyes, which seemed to resemble slits the deeper his expression became. The girl wasn't even that attractive to him, so it wasn't as though the mademoiselle was an object worth pursuing to him. It had donned on Patrick, however, that maybe polite manners were not something taught to human children growing up, anymore. Even as newborns, Aileen and Aisling had impeccable manners when they were dealing with their creator. For Patrick was a man who valued fine manners, and anyone who disgraced him by conducting themselves otherwise would have quite a situation on their hands. A low growl rumbled in his chest, rattling his rib cage violently as though some beast were fighting to break out of his chest. In this moment, Patrick decided that something needed to be done to put this girl in her place. The newspaper came so swiftly down onto the table, that the table was nearly thrown off of its balance. Obviously disturbed, he took his smooth, alabaster hands and folded them together quietly, a slight twitching in his lip being the only tip that Patrick was about to have an episode. A moment passed, before he turned his expression back onto the brunette, one of his eyebrows raising sharply. " Do I have something on my face, fraüline? Or is there something that interests you? I do hope you're inclined to share, else would you kindly remember that it is impolite to stare."[/size][/blockquote][/blockquote] my pupils dance, lost in a trance ,1362 WORDS | CLARISSA | STYLIN' | AVOCA CAFÉ | LYRICS by SYSTEM OF A DOWN. |
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Post by clarissa lucille o'bryant on Sept 6, 2009 18:13:01 GMT -5
*LISTEN WHEN I SAY [/color] when I say it’s real
real life goes undefined
why must you be so missable?
everything you take
makes it more unreal
real lies are undefined
how can this be so miserable? "Yes, quite." Her initial reply was near automatic, almost distracted as she watched him. Studied him, maybe, she had to admit would have been a more accurate assesment of the situation. There was just something... she had to default to the waitress' description, after a moment, of just... not right. It was something even more than his looks, it wasn't just that he seemed to have been painted with a different color palette than the locals, or the stillness, the preciseness of his movements when they occured, the admittedly distractingly somehow handsome looks. There was something, what, in the way his thoughts flew by. Not only were they muffled somehow, and not just from weariness or depression like she had come to expect of the elderly, the weary, the ailing, this was... like an entirely different frequency, a radio station that she hadn't quite tuned in to correctly.
At first she thought maybe that was the only thing, the only thing that kept her glancing back over towards him despite the coffee and pie that was set with a harsh clank in front of her, in a manner which she knew was distinctly meant to distract her from what the waitress believed to be just generally bad news. Static, maybe, just someone whose frequency was off, or maybe just some kind of language that she couldn't deciper in the random bursts that she managed to catch ahold of.
But no, it was more than that, it was something else, it was like.... like trying to watch a movie in three times fast forward, she realized, faces blurred, words jumbled in on themselves. Only every once in a while did a fragment reveal itself at a pace that she could snatch, and even then, the thoughts didn't quite make sense, but then for once she wasn't getting the book jacket to read first before turning to the prologue. She was picking up somewhere in the middle of the book, and somewhere in a conversation that she wasn't even sure whether or not it was beginning, or ending.
It was obvious that the man fancied himself a Casanova, that much she could determine from his demeanor in action with the mousey-featured woman who fluttered out into the rain, her own thoughts turning to just what exactly she would do to get a second date, should the man ever call the number hastily scrawled upon the business card, causing again the slightest wrinkle of a nose from the youth at the counter, though she did her best to conceal the reaction behind the first sip of her coffee, two, three dollops of honey stirred into the brew. And then again, her gaze had turned, sliding back to him, to watch him over her shoulder, her chin tucked into her chin as if that alone would conceal her curious interest.
She had so rarely tried to actually exert her talent, so often she was trying to swat away the random passing thoughts of others, but even when she had found the need to go looking for something in particular, it had never been too much of an effort. She was rarely one to go prying for secrets, after all, she had her own and did her best to leave everyone else's to themselves, and as much as she might have been tempted now and again to declare someone's secret fling, or kleptomaniacal impulses to just get them to shut up and leave her alone, such spitefulness rarely ended well. So why was it, then, that she couldn't shake the feeling that there was something... something she needed to know. Wanted to know, maybe, in truthfulness, the one cookie jar that was on the top shelf and just out of reach was always the one that had the favoritest cookies, right?
She knew his name, knew his occupation and where his place of business was, she could even place at least... one face, perhaps, a blonde, the same family name as his that he had been seen around town with, the same face that she could pick just so out of the blur of thoughts that raced by. But those were second hand, and that knowledge frustrated her, the slight purse of lips, the line of her jaw twitching ever so faintly as she stared at him. He was just... strange. She almost rolled her eyes at the thought. Strange, the word that a fourth grader would pick for such a cause, and that was all that she could come up with?
Clarissa came to realize that he realized she was staring about two seconds before the irritation became apparent, the low growl not so much heard as... felt, echoed in his thoughts and clearly in hers, an almost grating stop to a stream of consciousness on his part as he shifted, yet somehow still the abrupt shift in posture and demeanor caught her off guard, a twitch of her hand that threatened to send the sweetened coffee spilling over the side of her mug. The result was a low and sharp intake of breath on her part, as she deposited the cup of coffee onto the saucer with a brittle clatter, her head snapping back to stare at the counter for a moment in hopes that he would forgive the infraction in manners.
The realization that he had no intentions of doing so, and the fact that his comment that followed was rightly deserved brought a flush of color to her cheeks, though in the same moment, her posture changed as well, a stiffening of spine and squaring of shoulders as she pressed her palm to the edge of the counter, swiveling the stool to bring her about to face him as he speaks.
"No," She begins, her hand falling away from the counter's edge to brush briefly against the still visible blush that she tried to cool, and then her fingers continued on, to fidget with a strand of hair and tuck it away behind an ear as if that had been her intend all along. "To the.. something on your face question, I mean." The comment had faltered, she registered, though it had been for a good cause at least, to try and come up with something that didn't sound quite as... lame.
She cleared her throat quietly, her hand falling to her lap to bring the back of her fingers of one hand against the other, before they separate and intertwine loosely, resting just shy of the bend of her knee as she brings her gaze up to meet his more directly. "I... I'm sorry, I really didn't mean to stare. It's just that I'm relatively new to town --" A moment's pause, a slight purse of her lips once more. "Again." She adds. "But you seem... familiar." Not the best excuse ever, and far from truthful, but it was difficult for her to get a read off of him, most people had a half dozen replies that they expected to hear already drifting in the foreground of their thoughts, almost like a preprogrammed dialogue, a script that conversations should follow, but she couldn't quite catch hold of his.
Fascinating.
this is the fall; this is the long way down, and our lives look smaller now, and our lives look so small leave me here crying this is the fall; this is the long way down and our lives look smaller now, and our lives look so small [/right] -------------------------------------------------------------- [/color] status: complete | word count: 1238 | outfit | lyrics: summer shudder by AFI | tagged: patrick! |
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Post by patrick josef galloway on Sept 6, 2009 20:41:59 GMT -5
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -YOUR SACRED SILENCE, LOSING ALL VIOLENCE,
STARS IN T H E I R [/color] PLACE, MIRROR YOUR FACE. [/size][/font] ʽ i need to seek my innervision.[/center] "O
[/color][/size][/font] h?" a disbelieving eyebrow arched, nearly touching the streak of white in one of his chunks of hair that fell just to center of his forehead. "Well if there's nothing on my face, then what do you find so interesting, my dear?" Not that Patrick really cared what had peaked this human's interest. Unless maybe a ray of sunlight had somehow crept into the cafe, then that might raise concern, especially if this young lady had noticed his abnormality. As though it would pause time around him, Patrick lazily raised his index finger, as he turned in his chair to scan the vicinity for any trickles of sunlight. To his knowledge, not one single ray of sunshine had penetrated the dimly lit cafe, but just so that he wouldn't take any unnecessary risks, Patrick quietly shifted to the opposing seat, away from any rogue rays of sunlight that could creep in.
Just as he seemed to be settling back into his chair, and rather comfortably he might add, the young lady managed to speak. Her response was about as generic as a birthday greeting card, and Patrick was appreciative for the young woman's dull sense of humor. His laughter rumbled in his chest, enough to shake the table that he was sitting at. His hand curled into a loose fist, which he brought slowly down to come to a rest on the tabletop. His eyes, formally shut from the light chuckle he was having, now reopened, at first coming into focus at the folded newspaper in front of him, then flitted to the young woman. She couldn't have been any older than eighteen, twenty at the most. Her face lacked tell tale age lines that would suggest to him otherwise, making her look very youthful. Her cheeks, he'd also noticed (now that he took the time to actually concentrate on the young frauline) were quite rosey, he could hear the sloshing of the blood as it raced to her face. Patrick had seen the way blood moved throughout the body far too many times to recognize it, but it something in the way this girl's blood moved throughout hers that him so intrigued. Call him crazy, but Patrick could almost see the blood, each tiny droplet flooding to her cheeks, individually. Her face even seemed to glitter, much like his skin in sunlight, when all the blood came rushing to her cheeks. Contradicting himself, he could almost allow himself to think that this girl was quite beautific... for a human, that is.
Compared to his Aisling or Aileen, she would have looked quite ordinarily, standing next to the pair of them. Aileen and Aisling were such perfect picks he'd made, the two of them already quite impeccable before their transformation. He could see promise for this girl, if he were so inclined to change her for himself, like he did the other two. This time, he allowed to examine the girl's profile much more in depth. Beneath the baggy red sweatshirt, he pictured a slender, boney body frame, completely pure of freckles or other beauty marks that made him take in a sharp breath, despite the fact that he didn't need to breathe. Her face, he noticed, was a perfect heart shape, with a prominent jaw and forehead that he saw in Aisling, a perfectly place mole on the left side, right above her lip, much like his Aileen. The more Mr. Galloway studied the young girl, the more he noticed a faint, delicious smell eminating toward her. The source of the magnetic pull he felt toward her, though he begged to differ. There had to be something more to this young woman than simply a tantalizing scent (although the more he breathed her in, even from across the room, the more he wanted to take her as his own); no, this woman was more, he suspected. Something more that Patrick Galloway was bound and determined to figure out.
"Do you have a name, fraüline? Names can tell us much about a person. They can tell a man's character, and what kind of man, he is," he coaxed the young woman, whom he was inwardly pleased to see had taken quite a fascination with him. Patrick didn't need a supernatural ability to know when he was being studied intently like an object to sketched. "I'll tell you mine first, if it makes you feel better. I am Patrick Galloway... tell me, fraüline, what you think my name says about me? I do not bite... hard. But I assure you my bark is far worse."
Then Patrick shifted in his seat, to allow himself to fully face the young woman. She gave him the impression of a rebelling teenager, having dressed herself head to toe in angry red and black, and an assortment of skull related paraphernalia. A couple gothic crosses, and a metallic rose or two stuck out to him the most. Was the girl religiously confused, or did she simply throw the outfit together simply because she thought it looked... what was that word the human kids were tossing around nowadays... cool? His Aisling would have a field day if she ever got to meet this little masterpiece; his daughter who saw no problem in exposing as much of herself as she could. Which was all find and dandy with Patrick, as long as she remembered in whose bed she slept at night, so long to keep her under his thumb. The girl was obviously confused: a walking contradiction, a painting with no brushstrokes, like a photograph with no flash. Maybe once Patrick was done with her she'd have a much better understanding of herself. Patrick had a way with doing that with humans, making them see their own imperfections by forcing himself to act as a comparison to his own.
Patrick had everything he could have ever wanted out of his human life, and the insatiable appetite for more was his lady. He was a handsome man, with great thanks to the vampire's venom that coursed through his veins, and had a large sum of wealth to the Galloway name, accumulated over two centuries. The Galloway manor was grandiose and decorated only in the most luxurious, most expensive furniture human money could buy. He could make people want what he had, want the trophy that was Patrick Galloway and his four beautiful 'children'. In a twisted sense, Patrick Galloway served as the idyllic man, the kind of man who had everything, that every Dubliner so desired. To him, Patrick was Dublin, and Aisling, Aileen, Aiden, and Connor were the first children. A royal family, of sorts. And that's how Patrick liked it.[/blockquote][/blockquote] my pupils dance, lost in a trance ,1109 WORDS | CLARISSA | STYLIN' | AVOCA CAFÉ | LYRICS by SYSTEM OF A DOWN. |
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Post by clarissa lucille o'bryant on Sept 6, 2009 21:49:35 GMT -5
*LISTEN WHEN I SAY [/color] when I say it’s real
real life goes undefined
why must you be so missable?
everything you take
makes it more unreal
real lies are undefined
how can this be so miserable? "No, it's all right Frankie, I'm fine." She murmurs, a hand rising to wave away the silver haired waitress who had been approaching behind her in hopes of offering another refill, or another slice of the banana pie, to distract the young girl from the ongoing conversation with Patrick. The waitress' displeasure was fairly evident, even without being able to read minds, but even the mental lashing she was casting Clarissa's way didn't make much of a dent, the young woman's attention had been well arrested towards the undertaker even before the conversation had sprung up between them.
He had to be... twice her age, at least, she calculated, though she had the impression it was more than that. As he raises a single finger to pause the turn of conversation, or the turn of the world on its axle, maybe, she mused with the slightest of a smirk, her brow arched upwards in a mirrored reaction to his as he took the careful and measured sweep of the room in its entirety. Her gaze slid from him, a smoother and quicker turn around the room itself, and out towards the windows that had gathered his attention, and then back to him, not seeing anything that might have caused him concern. The sky still held its overcast gray, the storm clouds still lingering and casting their shadows over the city, though somehow she received the impression that this pleased him, or reassured him, even as the low grumble of thunder echoed on the horizon as he slipped from one seat to the other in a smooth, languid motion, like a cat that slides from one perch to the next without any real thought or decision behind the movement. Instinct.
She wasn't sure entirely how to react to his terms of endearment that he bantered about so easily, not even her father, or her one beau, if that could be considered the proper term, had referred to her as 'dear', and there was... something, a lingering possessiveness, or taunting, in the words.. No, not so much in the words, she had to admit, but in the stream of thoughts between them, behind them. Even still, she met his gaze as steadily as she could, even as his gaze traveled over her, following each feature of her face to the next.
That, she could see, could pick out of the stop-motion images that flurried through his mind, perhaps it was because it was familiar, or perhaps because he seemed intent on taking his time, analyzing each portion of her in its individuality before moving to study the whole. Her hand rose again from where it had fallen to rest intertwined with the other, fingertips brushing lightly against the soft hollow of her collarbone, edging up the scoop neck of her shirt self consciously, the smallest shift of weight as she endured the analysis, while trying not to react, or move more than most girls did under a normal scrutiny, as if she couldn't feel the lingering avarice that tinted his mood. "I... I thought I might've known you, but I am afraid that I was mistaken." She says, with a half smile, as she pulls her gaze from the tip of her plaid leather and canvas boots, up towards him once again.
Images, comparisons, piece by piece, as his gaze travels over her, the impossibly dark eyes that sear through her clothes as if she was as bare as the day she was born, faces with the same, gleaming gaze, pale and beautiful, breath takingly beautiful, one with the hair of spun and liquid gold, the other near jet black, but with such richness to the colors... flickers of memories, fragments of sound that even in fast forward she could translate quite well, and again her gaze slides away from his as the color slips darker over her cheeks, another soft clearing of her throat as one hand slides behind her to gather her coffee. A long series of swallows, barely noting the near lukewarm temperature of the brew.
Her thumb shifts, rubbing against the rose-engraved ring upon her left hand as he speaks again, her smile creeping again over her glossed lips as his voice fills the distance between them, the coffee cup perched now between the palms of her hands that rest on the bend of one knee as her leg crosses over the other, her foot wrapping around the calf of the other, hooking her ankle around her leg as she leans back slightly, the small of her back coming to rest against the cool metallic lip of the counter behind her. "And which, then, should I fear, your bite or your bark?" She banters, as her smile lingers, a low chuckle drifting from her at his last words.
Still, she could not shake the impression that he was not nearly as harmless as he might want to appear, but in the same moment she could not resist the air of challenge, of superiority that made itself evident in the undertone of his introduction, her smile growing ever so slightly more.
"What would I make of a man with that name?" She questioned, echoed, her head tilting again to the side as she studies him. "With the name of Patrick Galloway." She says, again, the name spoken carefully, articulated, an almost thoughtful, musing tone. "For most... I would say that he and his family likely were long descended from Ireland, the family name lending itself to as being from the city known as Galway, in the Anglo Saxon tongue. I would say that such a family might have been, or be of some noble descent, but either way that his parents probably had high hopes for him, given that Patrick most often means patrician, or noble, when derived from its Latin Patricius. Or... possibly named after the Saint, though the irony of all of the Irish boys and girls being named after someone who wasn't even from Ireland hasn't escaped me all these years."
"For you, though?" There comes another slight pause, her gaze studying the man before her once more, trying even still to find some pattern, some gait to his thoughts that she could catch onto. "I would guess that you are a man of either extreme practicality, or one with a great appreciation for irony, given that your family name is that of Galloway, and your given profession. By the way of the gallows? There is... a symmetry, in that, I would have to concede." She says, as her words trail away, her gaze focused on him even as she drifts into silence without really having registered it.
Silence lingers, perhaps only for a moment, perhaps stretching into a minute, or two, before she forces a slow breath in, blinking at him briefly like a doe caught in the headlights, a flicker of confusion teasing at the edge of her features before she shakes it free, shrugging at him slightly and offering a light hearted smile. "I, on the other hand, am Clarissa. Clarissa Lucille O'Bryant, though I would consider it a personal favor if you would forget I have ever mentioned the middle part there, I am not certain I shall ever forgive my mother for that, though I shant ever admit so to her face." She says, her head tilting up as she glances towards the other occupants of the cafe briefly, and then back to him once more.
this is the fall; this is the long way down, and our lives look smaller now, and our lives look so small leave me here crying this is the fall; this is the long way down and our lives look smaller now, and our lives look so small [/right] -------------------------------------------------------------- [/color] status: complete | word count: 1207 | outfit | lyrics: summer shudder by AFI | tagged: patrick! |
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Post by patrick josef galloway on Sept 6, 2009 22:50:19 GMT -5
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -YOUR SACRED SILENCE, LOSING ALL VIOLENCE,
STARS IN T H E I R [/color] PLACE, MIRROR YOUR FACE. [/size][/font] ʽ i need to seek my innervision.[/center] H
[/color][/size][/font] is attention flickered to the waittress with speckled hair again, the gaze he tossed her almost owl-like, with the almost demonic angle of his neck sloping toward the ground. It was obvious that the woman was trying to distract the young woman from making further conversation with him, and if the old bat was trying to hide, then she was going about it arseways. A bemused sort of grin worked its way onto his face, as his neck resumed a normal position as he leaned back into his chair and slid about a quarter of the way off of the cushion. One of his hands slid down, off of the tip of his nose, making his discomfort quite clear to the waittress. If this old bat thought she was getting a tip off of him, she was sadly mistaken. "But I would love a scone, frau, if you'd be so kind," he implored of the older woman, her antics to distract the younger woman causing him to grow weary.
Aside from his occupation, Patrick understood why some humans were naturally weary of him. These were the humans of whom Patrick would consider "gifted", of possessing a heightened sixth sense, a natural firewall to keep viruses out. It was these kind of humans that entertained Patrick the most, with the exception of the select women that he deemed fortunate. This waitress, Frankie... was it, seemed to be one of those kind of humans. Luckily enough for him, the brunette didn't seem to be too concerned with her desperate attempts to warn the brunette about Patrick. He shooed the waitress away with a lazy flick of the back of his hand, wishing the silly woman away. The bright side to a wish like this, was that Patrick really could make the woman disappear, if he wanted her gone bad enough. He wouldn't touch her however, because as weary as her games of distraction began to wear on him, she amused him. Silly woman...
Patrick decided that he liked this girl, whatever her name was. She was clearly educated, else she would have simply gotten up and walked away by now. The question presented however was difficult to answer, even for Patrick. Taking a finger along his jaw line before bringing it to rest at the cleft of his chin, Patrick clapped his free hand onto his right knee. Which was worse? Patrick's bite had proven deadly in the past, clearly. Sometimes his bite was for the better, sometimes for the best... well, in his best interests, anyway. And there was the salvation in the bite, to have the ability to give one new life, if he saw proper use for them. His bark, he weighed, was not quite as deadly. Patrick was an intimidating man, even more intimidating when one became bold enough to try to cross him. But when he weighed his options, his bark did not have the ability to kill nor cause permanent change, so he saw two possibilites laid out on the table. Lie, and tell the young charmer that his bark something more to fear, but then he'd have to come up with a horrific enough excuse to reinforce it. Or, be somewhat truthful and let her know that his bite was truly his worst quality.. though he'd spare her all of the necessary details.
Finally, a smile worked his way onto his face, and his hand disappeared to the newspaper next to him. "Well then, I'm sorry, but it seems I have mislead you. I'm afraid that my bite is much worse. Much, much worse... but you needn't worry, fraüline. I've been, how do you say, housebroken...?" he replied, his answer becoming much more drawn out toward the resolution of the statement.
"Your assumptions, you'll be pleased to know, are half correct. My surname, sorry to disappoint, did not arouse out of my occupation. It was derived from a brother of the Church, a man who left the woman he loved, three months pregnant with child." Bitterly, Patrick said quite lowly, now leaning forward in his chair, so that his hair streak birth mark now flopped down into his eyes. "But that, fraüline, is not a story for the sick hearted so allow me to make a few changes: my name, Patrick Josef-" he placed an obvious emphasis on the pronunciation of his name: Pah-trick Yo-sef, throwing in the German accent that he had been born with, "tells me that I was born in Germany, and came to Ireland under circumstances far beyond human comprehension. Yours, Fraüline Clarissa, suggests fascination. A thirst to understand what is unknown and foreign to you. It is also telling me, also judging by your choice in... attire," he tried to murmur these words as decently as he could, "suggests maybe that other people don't quite understand you. Like you're a puzzle, even to them. But judging by the still of the silence, and seeing as you've made no protest thus far, I imagine that my presumptions are correct?"[/blockquote][/blockquote] my pupils dance, lost in a trance ,834 WORDS | CLARISSA | STYLIN' | AVOCA CAFÉ | LYRICS by SYSTEM OF A DOWN. |
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Post by clarissa lucille o'bryant on Sept 7, 2009 9:43:58 GMT -5
*LISTEN WHEN I SAY [/color] when I say it’s real
real life goes undefined
why must you be so missable?
everything you take
makes it more unreal
real lies are undefined
how can this be so miserable? Patrick might be surprised, or amused, perhaps, to realize that it was not, in fact, any sort of wise sixth sense so much as the fruit of the gossip vine and good old fashioned haughtiness, for the most part, that had set the waitress whose name tag dubbed her Francine off on her internal dialogue and crimped expression. Rather, it would seem, that her sister had a ... what was it, bridge partner, did people actually play bridge? that had attended a funeral last year for the Nichols boy, and had heard from one of the ushers that the young widow has found comfort, so to speak, in the arms of the 'gallant' Mr. Galloway, with that husband of hers not even in the ground yet, even!
Clarissa fought the smirk at the tongue lashing that never quite reached the woman's tongue, reminding herself that it wasn't her place to judge, and a few other lines of biblical rhetoric that Clarissa had become more than overly familiar with in the last years. Everyone always had plenty of excuses to keep their thoughts to themselves, though in her opinion it pretty much boiled down to no one would ever like anyone if they really knew what wheels and cogs turned their friends, and family... Shaking the thoughts loose, having proved themselves not very useful and more distracting than anything, her hand rises, fingers brushing, kneading slightly against the nape of her neck, working against the tension that she could already feel growing, the pressure rising in that soft hollow at the back of her head.
Usually, the dull ache didn't start til later, much later in the day, or after she'd been in a crowded space for far too long, and she held back a grimace at the realization that it was still in the early hours of morning. Fingertips press, coaxing the nerves to settle, to try and curb the ache before it grew too strong, but even still her attention shifted, drawn back towards the man with whom she conversed. "Housebroken, is it?" She echoes, her fingers sliding from the nape of her neck to rub briefly against the junction of throat and shoulder, a slightly amused smile tugging at the corner of her lips. Even still she did not miss the ring of... merit, truth, to the words that had preceded his housebroken comment, the moment's pause and consideration not having gone entirely unnoticed either.
"Ah, I would hope that I had managed to get something in all that right, or I would have rather looked the fool, wouldn't I?" She replies, a low chuckle slipping from her lips, though it faded as his words sank into a quieter, almost hissed tone, the mention of his history, of the situation of his father and mother drawing a small furrow of her brows, the hint of a frown tugging at her lips.
"It's all right, Frankie, I'll take it." She murmurs, half turning away from Patrick long enough to scoop up the plate with scone and the side of butter and jam that were set onto the side of the plate that the waitress had set down to refill Clarissa's coffee. "Thank you," Clarissa adds, more out of repetitive instinct rather than genuine appreciation, as her fingers wrap around plate, and the saucer of her own coffee, drawing to her feet and moving to cross the distance between her previous seat at the counter and the table where Patrick sat.
Perhaps it was her own appreciation of privacy, or the lowering of his own pitch that had urged her closer, but regardless of the reason, she crossed towards him with an easy, almost loping gate, settling the plate with his scone just to the side of his seat, and gesturing slightly towards the chair that he had abandoned not that long ago. "May I join you?" She inquires, waiting the moment or two before his acquiescence before settling into the chair, her coffee set aside for the time being. "I am sorry," She offers quietly, but refraining from expounding upon her sympathies, the causes for them, or the reasons that she could relate, seeing as he didn't seem inclined to linger on the subject she opted to follow in his footsteps, as it were.
"I had thought you from Germany, of all the languages that people around here tend to drop in casual conversation, German is one of the... less common, most of them opt for American slang, or French, if they are attempting to display some chic elegance." She says, a measure of her own distaste sliding into the words, though she does her best to temper it to a minimum, she found the Americans as a whole crude and harried, and did not find any reason to try and mimic their behavior or their crass terminologies whenever she could avoid it. But then, that was her.
The reintroduction on his part, including the comment of human comprehension, gathered another upward slant of a brow as she watches him, studying the features as he leans closer, able to make clear distinction of the crimson eyes that focused on her, the streak of white that teased through the feathered bangs that drifted forward, her fingers itching to reach up, and tuck the strand back, to brush the hair into place... the realization brought of itself a soft flare of nostrils, as her hands shifting to curl actually underneath the bend of her knees at the edge of the chair.
And then his words turn to her, to his assessment of her, her name, her clothes, the brief pause before the specific word bringing a tilt to her head, a self-conscious glance down to her clothes, her jewelry, her shoes, the wings of cloth that hang from her t-shirt / vest, the pale grey pin stripes along the legs of her wide legged slacks, the metallic glitter of roses and skulls, and her fingers curl inwards, pressing against the underside of her chair as he offers his opinion, his analysis. Turn about was fair play, and all, but she could not help but frown ever so slightly at his words, though she did her best to conceal the initial reaction.
"A woman should remain a mystery unto all but herself," The words come after a lingering silence after Patrick's last words, a somewhat brittle smile coaxed onto her lips as her gaze rises to meet his again, forcing confidence into her words and demeanor even if it wasn't entirely genuine. "My father quoted the words to me when I was younger, and they stayed with me. He'll be pleased to know I've lived up to his expectations." She says, with a quiet and short lived laugh. "And what is the unknown, but something we haven't learned yet, right? An enigma is a frustration only to the lazy, or ill informed, and I would hate to think of myself as either."
this is the fall; this is the long way down, and our lives look smaller now, and our lives look so small leave me here crying this is the fall; this is the long way down and our lives look smaller now, and our lives look so small [/right] -------------------------------------------------------------- [/color] status: complete | word count: 1197 | outfit | lyrics: summer shudder by AFI | tagged: patrick! |
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Post by patrick josef galloway on Sept 7, 2009 11:10:06 GMT -5
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -YOUR SACRED SILENCE, LOSING ALL VIOLENCE,
STARS IN T H E I R [/color] PLACE, MIRROR YOUR FACE. [/size][/font] ʽ i need to seek my innervision.[/center] "T
[/color][/size][/font] hat's how one would like to consider it, yes." his lip curled in the corner, revealing a portion of the pearly white teeth that lay beneath. "Decent behavior is a rare quality to come across'd these days, I'm sure you're aware. Those who lack proper manners and decent public etiquette are muttst, in my eyes. If you're fortunate, some even do tricks, if you've the patience for them." Patrick spoke coolly, his thoughts comically turning over to that wolf Alpha... what was it, Keenan? Keagan? Kieran? Whatever his silly alias was, Patrick tried not to badger himself with the wolves, although they were increasingly getting on his nerves, when they weren't fighting among each other. It did his undead heart good, however, when Connor would bring home news that the American mutt, Jonathon or whatever the bloody hell his name was, and the Alpha in Dublin had frequent spats. How could the wolves expect to encounter them whenever the wolves couldn't even encounter their own conflicts with the pack. Weaklings, the whole pack of them.
Patrick acquiesced, and permitted Clarissa to occupy the spare seat next to him. It took a lot of self-control to keep himself by grinning smugly, however, he did flit his eyes quite often to the waitress, Francine, just so he could read her reaction. It wasn't pleasant, not many looks thrown by wisened humans ever were, but none the less if gave Patrick a good laugh. After all, whether or not the humans realized this, Patrick's happiness was the key to a somewhat quiet life in Dublin. Patrick cared little about the so-called treaty he had with the previous wolf Alpha, taking into consideration the sheer cheek and arrogance that the new Alpha (whose name still escaped him) paid to him. Patrick Galloway could be a decent adversary, and give plenty of warning before he made a dangerous choice, but lately he liked to make them randomly, because it kicked up such a fuss in the wolves. The wolves were all his puppets, despite what they may have thought. The ebb and flow of Dublin sat in the palm of his hand, and Kieran would have done well to remember that. Patrick highly doubted that the wreaking puppy would be able to down him all by himself, he doubted even three of them at once could touch him. Bloody hell, Patrick could have them all killed in their sleep if he really wanted to; had he not deliberately made an example of the last of Kieran's pack who tried to confront him? You didn't play with fire, because you would get burned, a favorite philosophy of Patrick's.
He accepted the saucer with his scone lightly from Clarissa, taking careful measures not to allow his skin to make contact with hers. Patrick figured he was already taking a gamble by allowing the creature to come into such close vicinity of him. But Patrick was willing to make this trade off, just so he could smell her even better. Oh, God, how scrumptious she smelled! To Patrick, Clarissa smelled of brown sugar with just a pinch of cinnamon, two spices that he dearly missed from his humanhood. The more Patrick took in the delicious scent, the more he agreed with himself that the scent was what tied the entire package together, beautifully, truly a masterpiece. Even his Aisling did not smell this delectible to him when she were human; Patrick was thoroughly intrigued by the girl, nonetheless. His intrigue and aching desire for the child was what was keeping her from becoming his next quick fix later in the evening. He was starting to formulate plans for this one, he knew already. This young tootsie roll, Clarissa O`Bryant, would stay alive, Patrick would make sure of it. At least, any way, until he decided what he wanted to do with (or to, would be more accurate) her anyway, which could always be a good or bad thing... depending on whether or not you managed to slide your way into Patrick's good graces. "You're acquainted with the woman, I assume? She seems to have taken a shine to you, I must say. Although I do not see why she thinks you ought not to be conversing with me--- I'm harmless enough, don't you think? It's not too often that I take conversation to a charming, handsome young woman, I thought I was being quite friendly... don't you?" He prodded, desiring to see what their desperate waitress would resort to.
He did not care for human food as much for humans themselves, but for sake of appearances, and to have the silly woman leave them be for a couple of moments, Patrick could stomach a sweet. In undeath, there were certain foods that he could almost taste that still tasted the same in his human days. He slid the scone closer to his person, taking a knife from his napkin and beginning to spread a tuft of jam across his surface. "Very good, fraüline, I must say that I'm impressed. " was about the only thing that he could muster at the moment, truly impressed that Clarissa had been able to zero in on it. It probably wasn't too difficult; Patrick, if one had not noticed yet, loved to utilize tiny bits and pieces of his first language quite frequently into his sentence structures. To give them more character and more finesse, again all adding the mystique that he was.
Patrick inwardly smiled at the flare of her nostrils. Humans: so entertaining to watch in midst of conversation. They tried to hide something obvious by simply doing another thing, but were often unsuccessful at doing so. He then followed her eyes to the streak of stark white that hung nearly right in front of his eyes, creating a horric contrast between something pure and evil. The man merely chortled, and pushed the strand stubbornly back into place, his hand taking a few additional moments to smooth out the tufts of hair along the side of his face.
"If I may be so bold, I feel that you're doing quite a job at it, rest assured. But you appear to me to be so full of life, that it seems almost tragic to wear the displays of skulls... the most-renowned symbol of death. It's almost heartbreaking to see such an ugly symbol, on a creature so fair and beautiful, if it's not crossing boundaries." he purred, reaching out to point at one of her skull earrings. Obviously, Patrick had no qualms with invading other people's personal spaces. In fact, he took great pleasure in it. He listened to her recount a memory, of which her father first relayed the lifestyle to her, and then her own philosophies of the unknown. The way she spoke it, and I'm going to be perfectly honest, made Patrick aroused. He couldn't put a finger, exactly, why he was even trying to make comparisons between Aisling and Aileen to Clarissa. After this being said, there were no other comparisons left to be made, except that this woman, so young and so fair, had somehow managed to make him actually want her... right then, right there. Patrick could care less who witnessed the event, so long as he could take the woman before she could slip away from him.
He was awe-struck, but not in the mouth agape sort of way. No, no. Patrick Galloway did not gape, he did however have a tendency to grow very rigid and tense, his fingers began to knead into his knuckles, fighting for control of his undead body. "That, fraüline, had to be one of the most honest statements I've heard in... a very, long time. Long time, indeed. Tell me, my dear, how old are you? You're wise beyond your years, but you look as though you can't be any older than twenty, I admit." Clarissa, he decided, would be his, eventually. Such a sharp tongue, but coiled out spools of truth one after another, that twanged at metaphoric heartstrings, shaking the very foundations on which Patrick built himself. Clarissa was a marked woman. One way or another.[/blockquote][/blockquote] my pupils dance, lost in a trance ,1357 WORDS | CLARISSA | STYLIN' | AVOCA CAFÉ | LYRICS by SYSTEM OF A DOWN. |
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Post by clarissa lucille o'bryant on Sept 7, 2009 12:58:26 GMT -5
*LISTEN WHEN I SAY [/color] when I say it’s real
real life goes undefined
why must you be so missable?
everything you take
makes it more unreal
real lies are undefined
how can this be so miserable? His thoughts continued to spin, dancing by just out of reach, the proverbial carrot that kept her attention focused still, and for the most part, only upon him, as she worked at the outer edges, trying to find the end of the thread to catch hold of, all without trying to let any tangible sign of her concentration show. Forcing her brow steady, her breathing slow and regular, though again her fingers rise, delving and working against the knot of tension that continued to build at the nape of her neck. His inner voice, only slightly different from the murmurs of thought, but with that same rich timbre of his speaking voice, even if she couldn't quite snatch any thought in entirety, and she had to wonder, if it was maybe if he was thought in German. It would be a logical conclusion, admittedly, having determined that he was not in fact a native, then why should she assume that his thoughts would be in their mutually shared language.
For the moment, then, she let her own thoughts settle, paying attention for the time being only to what images she could filter, could snatch from the whirlwind. How much was he capable of, she had to wonder, with a mind that could possess so many paths of thought in not only continuity but in the same moment? And yet, he was an undertaker, why, then?
Her thoughts turned, pinwheeled in another direction for the briefest of moments, as she wondered if it was something else entirely, a far simpler explanation, that perhaps he was something like her... different, talented, gifted, whatever the terminology that someone might wish to label the oddities of human nature and development into, and the thought caused a leap of her pulse and a twitch in the pit of her stomach all in the same moment.
Sure, she'd had the thought that she couldn't be the only person on the face of the earth with something else, anything that had been fictionalized she guessed had some basis or another in reality, however small the grain of truth, and there'd been a time a few years back when she'd even done some research into it, into groups that claimed to have access to higher powers, or that had expanded their brain usage capacity, or what not, but she had not been able to find any that actually would hold water. But the thought that there might actually be someone else, in the flesh, had always seemed a distant impossibility.
"Hm?" She questions, almost distantly, pulling her gaze from Patrick's to cast a brief and somewhat unfocused glance towards the waitress, before looking back to him, offering a small smile and shake of her head. "No, actually, I've never been here before." She says, before a moment's pause has passed, and then her words proccess in their entirety, and she forces herself to pull her thoughts and focus back into the conversation. "My mum probably has her and all the other watchdogs of Dublin on high alert and playing lookout for me, though, she's known to be a little... overprotective." Clarissa counters, with another light chuckle, and a half-hearted shrug as she covers her slip up, reaching for and bringing the cup of coffee to her lips to take a small sip before the cup is again set aside.
There would be enough time to figure things out aplenty, assuming she didn't bugger the whole conversation in the meantime, she chided, looking back to him again. She couldn't shake the impression that he was, even now, imagining curves and lines of skin laid bare, and there was definitely something about his expression that implied that he had things on his mind other than the croissaint that he nibbled at, only reinforced by the occasional image that rose clearer and crisper than the others, which she had to admit made it very hard to continue in their quiet conversation and not blush eight shades of red, but for the moment her interest in him was worth the effort on her part.
"No, I would certainly have to agree that you have been quite --" An intentional moment's pause, one corner of her lips sliding upwards to mirror the outer edge of her brow that sneaks slightly askew. "Friendly." She settles on, her half-smile slipping into an amused grin. "Though I wouldn't necessarily vouch for the harmless, given our earlier topic of the danger of your bite, so I'm afraid you will have to defend your honor alone in that arena. You should likely take her discontent as a compliment, however, I would guess that she takes me to be some young, naive sheep to be herded out the door by the first relatively charming wolf in sheep's clothing that crosses my path." She says, her smile lingering as she lets her gaze flicker between waitress and patron, noting that the first had seemed to reach a point of frustration with the pair at the table, with the waitress' back pointedly turned towards them as she fiddled with register receipts and order tickets.
She had to hope, briefly, that her words of her mother and said watchdogs was, in fact, pure fabrication, as she could imagine the talking down that she would get if the events of this conversation and chance meeting did make it to her mother's ear, likely cast askew by however many lips and ears it passed through before then, ending with him having had his way with her right there on the floor of the cafe, or some such.
She was readily prepared to cast the thought aside in dismissal, a few words of protest and denial set away in ready in case the conversation would ever come to pass, when he speaks again, drawing her attention to him, and the images that she had guessed at as gossip and idle woman's chatter slip across his thoughts. Her eyes widen, however slightly, a flush of color that she couldn't prevent splashing over her cheeks as she tries not to stammer, hoping, praying that he would take the reaction to be to his drawing closer, to the nature of the conversation, to the gesture to her attire and accessories once again.
Her left hand rises, again, fingertips brushing against the earring that he had indicated, a shallow breath forced as she again clears her throat, her gaze dropping from him towards the table for a brief moment, a small and somewhat crooked smile offered as her initial reply. "I'm not... I'm not quite as lively as you might guess, Mr. Galloway." She manages, her fingers still playing over the earring before finally falling loose to her lap once more, her smile strengthened slightly. "And thank you, I suppose." Another moment's pause, as she weighed her reply, trying to focus on her own train of thought rather than the random incursions of his.
"I could offer a number of reasons of why I wear them, if I wanted to; I could offer the reply that most would call morbid, that death in its own way is the final enigma, not knowing what waits after we are nothing but dust and ash the final puzzle... or that the skulls are a way of reminding myself of my own mortality, to seize each day as if it were my last... But I suspect that you would find either reply trite, or hollow, and with good reason. The truth is, even as popular as the symbol may have become in modern culture in the last decade, or two, they still give people pause, and as a general rule, what gives someone pause creates distance, and as a standard, I don't find pleasure in the company of many people for extended lengths of time." Her reply was candid, frank, even to her usual standards, and she almost felt the need to offer some sort of apology for the somewhat lengthy and somewhat tart reply, however levelly she may have offered it, but she knew that that would only serve to undermine what ground she had claimed, and he had taken more than enough liberties with her, even if only in his head, to endure a few moments of honesty on her part.
She takes in another slow breath, finding that her little speech had left her slightly breathless, as her gaze again slides from his, to rest at his shoulder, up again to study the splash of white against the soft brown strands that framed his lean, pale features, before bringing her eyes towards his once more, feeling a little more herself after the tangent of usually bitten back commentary. "I'm... I'm eighteen, this last spring," She offers, a fact that she might have kept to herself in the course of any other conversation, but it seemed she was going to express quite a few things during this excursion that she might otherwise have kept to herself. " I just finished up school a few months back, and have come back here to settle with my mum for a while til I get things sorted out."
this is the fall; this is the long way down, and our lives look smaller now, and our lives look so small leave me here crying this is the fall; this is the long way down and our lives look smaller now, and our lives look so small [/right] -------------------------------------------------------------- [/color] status: complete | word count: 1565 | outfit | lyrics: summer shudder by AFI | tagged: patrick! |
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