Clay had been having the most wonderful dream when he was jarred awake by the fire alarm!
"Shit!" he shouted, as he ran out the door... and then ran back into his room to put some sweat-pants on.
Walking as fast as he could, he followed his fellow students outside.
((OOC: The following post is inspired by an event that happened when I was in residence. I'll leave it up to the GM to decide if there was a real fire, if [like in my school] it was a drill, or if it was a prank.))
He hasn't woken since Maggie and Collin dropped him off on Tuesday. At some point, his glasses managed to find their way onto a stack of nearby books, and he kicked off his boots and socks as well. Otherwise, Thomas has been outcold. Attempts to rouse him have pretty much proven futile (and cold water dumped on him just would have produced a cold and wet mortal boy.) But he's been sleeping a deep, seemingly dreamless sleep.
Then suddenly, without warning of any sort, he jerks himself upright. His eyes are wild. Flailing around, he manages to find his glasses. He then does something he almost never does:
Frantically, he starts to push books and magazines off of his desk. "Where's a pen?! I need a God-damned pen! Jesus fucking Christ!"
Grasping a pen and a sheet of paper, he starts to write.
Thomas sits in his truck, hands resting on the wheel. The engine is idling. He has the vaguest reollection of, just a few moments ago, his hand pushing the column shift into Park. Slowly, as if gathering his bearings, he looks left and then right through the cab windows.
**Oh. I'm back at school. All right, then.**
He sits there, absorbing this fact, for quite some time. Finally, Thomas turns off the engine, opens the door and slides out from behind the wheel.
**Ok, I left... Friday. Something about a party. And today is... today is.... You know, that's a very good question.**
There's obviously something different about him at the moment. He's totally clean shaven and it looks as if his hair has been trimmed as well. At the same time, his clothes are somewhat wrinkled and askew; his sneakers are on the wrong feet. His patchwork coat is nowhere to be seen. Thomas stands there in button down shirt and jeans, not quite aware of how cold it is. His bookish features are paler than normal, and there are bags underneath his eyes.
**I should ask someone what today is. That could be very important. Or not.** He considers asking one of the nearby maple saplings that surround the parking lot. **Nope. No good asking them.**
In a rather distracted manner, eyes unfocused and head bouncing loosely, Thomas looks about the area. **What... what was I doing again?**
Rosilyn stands in front of a punching bag, his eyes narrowed as he beats on it, making no noise other than a low angry hiss as his gloved fists and bare feet contact the soft foam. His clothes are just black shorts and a black tank top, showing how thin he is... and just how angry. Every muscle is tensed up as he hits the bag furiously.
I know damn well why someone would post that poster... but why blame the sidhe who would have, or had raged against that deed? the Liam thought as he poured his anger into the inanimate object. Especially where mortals would see it. I wish Shauna was here... She always got Shoklok and Barel to cool it on Beltaine..
"Dammit," punch, "why," kick, "do," punch, "people," kick, "use," punch, "guilty," punch, "by," kick, "assocation?" punch. He stops, taking deep breaths, and rests his head on the then-gently swinging bag.
((Everyone and anyone is welcome and encouraged to jump in))
Jonathan, who has certainly not been a mainstay at the Student Union building, or it's cafeteria, stops by in the afternoon to grab a quick early bite to eat, settling down at an empty table by the window.
Why on earth am I eating this crap, he ponders, thinking of the stack of ingredients he and Nathan have back in Rowan Hall and of what better-tasting and likely healthier grub he could cook up. Oh, right. Aside from my mood, I'm getting a bit tired of cooking. What a laugh Nate would have at that.
The meal drags on interminably as Jonathan gazes out the window and picks at his food, lacking much by way of appetite at the moment. His posture gives away a certain tension. He mutters a few words to himself and keeps staring out the window.
"I am going to get extremely drunk tonight," he declares to himself, loud enough to be overheard at any of the neighboring tables, which he hasn't been paying attention to since he arrived.
((OOC: Open thread for any changeling who's on the ground or any changeling who can also fly.))
Clayton finally finished memorizing his notes for the day, closed his book, and stretched. He fluttered his wings for a moment, stretched his neck, and seemed to come to a decision.
"I'm tried of being cooped up in here all day," he said. "I'm going to stretch my wings for a bit."
And with that, he put on a warm, flease sweatshirt with strategically placed slits in the back, and walked to the open window. He looked outside. It was a cool night, with a bit of fog. Unusual weather, true, but perfect for a stretch.
After making sure there were no mortals around to see him, he climbed onto the landing, and flew.
Between dinner and the eight 0'clock hour, the first floor boys wing has fairly quite. Few students seem to actually be about, having left for an evening of entertainment of one sort or another. It's that dull, quiet haze that makes one think that this area is deserted.
A door is wrenched open with a loud crash, and from Sir Quiran's/Dante's room a yong girl bolts down the hallway. Long brown hair, straight and fine, streams behind her. Her sobs are loud and uncontrolled, her chest and throat heaving with the effort is gasp in air. One hand is furiously wiping away at tears, while the other hand clutches closed a leather jacket, beneath which is an open blouse. Her sneakers seemed to have been jammed onto her feet in a hurry. She is pretty enough, for a mortal girl, and looks to be in her late teens or early twenties.
Sir Quiran appears in the doorway, his face a mixture of exasperation and frustration. Dressed in jeans of darkest blue and a long sleeved t-shirt of black, he follows after her on bare feet.
"Gwen, will you please wait a moment? I'm sorry!" His shouts are clearly audible.
The mortal girl, her complexion and makeup ravished by her weeping, does not stop. Out of the boy's wing and into the main lobby she flees. Anyone there is ignored as she makes for the main doors. Sir Quiran's long legs shorten the distance between them, but too late. She bangs through the glass and steel doors and into the night. Sir Quiran slows to a stop. His indigo eyes watch her through the glass panes as she runs off into the night. In a most un-Quiran like way, he slams a fist against the door frame.
"Oh to sail a sunless sea," he mutters.