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Below are the 5 most recent journal entries recorded in
St John Allerdyce's InsaneJournal:
| Tuesday, February 23rd, 2010 | |
| 11:15 am | Chapter Four: Dancing with Disaster St John nodded and, every once in a while, allowed himself a smile: signing copies of his latest best-selling book for the wealthy elite had quickly become boring over the course of half an hour. He reminded himself that things could be a lot worse, which wasn't particularly hard to do, as he felt the tugs on the magic leash as his "niece" chatted and sometimes danced with the other guests. He had to admit that he was surprised at how well Megan had been keeping up the facade so far, especially seeing as how he'd quite nearly sent his formal regrets and forced them to stay at the hotel, after the fiasco that had been finding, choosing, customizing, and purchasing a party dress for Megan. However, the potential that the Scarlet Sorceress would be at the gala, as well as dire threats from his agent (who had already planned, organized, and publicized the signing booth for St John) had caused him to spend an hour getting ready and, finally, grab his top hat from the dressing table and march out the door, accompanied by the pink menace. Megan was playing her part almost uncannily well. As his recently-orphaned niece, now his ward, she was free to come and go as she pleased but, of course, given the tragic circumstances of her parents' death, she naturally was not inclined to stray far from her beloved uncle at all - she insisted on always being in sight of him. St John had at first been surrounded by crowds of twittering auntie types inquiring after the poor wee girl's welfare and solemn gents giving their condolences for the terrible business of his sister's death. A few remarked on the ethereal, uncanny addition of wings to her dress; St John suspected a new trend in New Amsterdam fashion circles next season. Yes, all in all it was going well. Almost too well, but his hour of signing was almost over; he would soon be able to adjourn for the rest of the night until called on to read one of the less racy, more poetic passages from his novel. He planned to use the intervening time to seek out the Scarlet Sorceress, as he thought he might have seen a lady clad in her signature, sweeping red pass by earlier. It was hard to tell: the gala was packed with women and men wearing the most exotic, glittering garb imaginable that Megan might have almost blended in had her wings and hair not been so striking. |
| Tuesday, January 19th, 2010 | |
| 4:31 pm | Chapter Three: Fear and Loathing in New Amsterdam By the time that the horse's hoofs rang on cobbles, St John was ready to burn down New Amsterdam and everyone in it if they stood in the slightest way of finding the bastard shopkeeper who'd sold him the damned spell. His head was beginning to spin from all the songs the little harpy had been warbling in her surprisingly beautiful voice. It made him despise her all the more. Now, the shop had been tucked away in a little corner next to the book bindery... St John kept the horse at a fast pace as they trotted through the streets, more for the sake of the time than because of the looks they were garnering. Which, to tell the truth, weren't many: the streets of New Amsterdam saw the latest fashions in vehicles, cyborgs, clanks, and sorcerous familiars on a day-to-day basis. Beside a ten-foot, towering behemoth of rusting plate metal, Pixie's delicate wings and cotton-candy complexion looked all the more delicate: the only stares with which St John took issue were calculating, evaluating stares from men he could tell were in the trade business. He'd only been joking earlier when he'd mentioned prostituting Megan for money. Mostly. "Almost there," he said tersely, mostly to himself, the buildings growing increasingly taller as they made their way into the heart of the city, the afternoon sun throwing sharp shadows. |
| Sunday, November 29th, 2009 | |
| 10:27 pm | Chapter 2: Perpetual Morning-After Syndrome St John rose at nine, feeling little better than he had the night before. Accessing the telepathic network caused pain to lance through his temples and into his eyeballs; having breakfast delivered almost wasn't worth it. A shower, however, went a long way to making him feel more human; sitting down to eat his breakfast at his desk, St John played absently with the candleflame. It was comforting, cleared the fog in his head, helped to wash out the last vestiges of grogginess that the shower hadn't cleared. The curtained corner was still silent, and St John couldn't focus on the morning paper due to its nagging presence. There was nothing of interest in the news, anyways - he threw it in the bin and put his head in his hand, resting his elbow on his desk. He'd heard her last night, and though he hadn't cared at the time, something wretched was rising in his conscience: he spent a few moments squashing it firmly. It wasn't his bloody fault. Even if it was, it certainly wasn't his fault that she was being so contrary and downright bitchy. She was only making it harder on herself; she'd brought it down on her own head. Besides, odds were she'd faked it in hopes of making him feel horrible anyways. St John sighed and pushed his plate aside, dislodging a few papers. Anger flared in him as the ones that Megan had ripped last night caught his eye; as he picked them up and smoothed them out, a card dropped into his lap at the exact same time that a knock came at the door. "Come in," he called, setting the card back on his desk for the moment, and rising to meet whomever it was who - "St John," the Lady Jean Summers murmured, looking up at him through long lashes as she leaned against the doorframe, one crimson-gloved hand lingering on the door as she pushed it wide. St John smiled narrowly, and paused a few feet away from the door. He did not want to have to deal with this. Not this morning, of all mornings. "You slept well, I hope?" Lady Summers had no problem closing the gap between them, her red hair spilling over her shoulder as she inclined her head to the side, smiling with ruby lips. St John felt the familiar electricity go through him as something about her aura spoke fire to his gift. "Well enough," he said, refusing to be drawn in. He knew that - at any moment - she could rake through his mind like coals, to find whatever it was that she wanted at that moment in time. He had no shields to speak of. "What brings you here this morning, my lady?" He inquired, as politely as he could. He could hear rustling behind him. Current Mood: resigned |
| 10:22 pm | Chapter 1: How it Began St John Allerdyce leaned against the wall of the tavern and scowled darkly, making sure that the merrymakers who milled about its entrance could not see him. He'd been waiting for two bloody hours for his target to leave the alehouse and wend her way back to the room she was renting a few streets away. However, Megan Gwynn apparently rather liked sticking around bars when she wasn't busy dusting the inhabitants. He was here for a very specific reason. He fingered the small bottle tucked into one of the pockets of his cloak, his writer's calluses running over the smooth glass. He'd paid a pretty penny for it - especially with the modifications necessary to tailor it exactly to Megan's unique case. The time limit, as well, had cost: his contacts had confirmed that her ship, The Ragnarok, was lifting off tomorrow morning, and he'd had to be quick about revenge, if he didn't want it to be cold as the grave. That was fine with him. St John, unlike some, preferred to serve it as hot as it could get. It had been three days since the incident at Harry's. Three days since Megan Gwynn had waltzed in and single-handedly humiliated him, destroyed the almost-completed manuscript of his next novel, divorced him of control, burned down his favourite pub, badly injured several people he was fond of, and generally played havoc with some of the most important elements of St John's life. She would pay, the uppity little whore. And dearly. The door of the tavern opened, and warm yellow light flooded out into the street, accompanied by an increase in the volume of music and voices. St John drew into the shadows as a familiar pair of wings flitted down the steps, giggling. She seemed to have admirers who, after a dosage of dust, began to admire each other far more than their original object of affection. So much more, in fact, that Megan drifted off without them noticing - neither did they notice St John, who detached himself from the wall and began to follow his quarry. She took a turn halfway down the main street of the town; St John kept walking. He'd plotted this out carefully over the last two days. Ducking into an alleyway parallel to the route that Megan was taking, he speeded quickly to the back way into the house where she was renting. He knew she'd come that way. He'd watched her the night before, when the spell was still in the works, mind full of dark thoughts. St John crouched, now, in the same spot, partially hidden in the doorway of the next building. Any moment now... The hated pink head rounded the corner, and St John slipped on the gas mask - he wasn't going to mess this up. He'd learned the hard way, last time, and it had been a bitter lesson. She was three feet away. Swiftly, St John stepped out into the middle of the alley, drawing the spell from his cloak and smashing it on the cobbles in front of Megan in one fluid motion. Black smoke rose around the fairy girl as St John said the incantation to activate the spell, adrenaline rushing through him in anticipation of his revenge; the smoke began to coalesce and take the form of the spell-making spirit, and he stepped back, watching eagerly. Current Mood: vengeful |
| Saturday, November 21st, 2009 | |
| 8:36 pm | St John looked up sharply from his manuscript as the sound of shattering glass filled the air, then shook his head, refilled the quill, and kept scratching. Harry's was a decent place; the breaking glassware was almost like home, but without the hard feelings that came afterward. He wondered how his mother was doing, and resolved to send her a letter; she'd been missing him something dreadful lately, what with father burned and gone. Susie sashayed over, the train of her kimono dragging against the floor, and leaned over the table, grinning. "'Nother drink for the Saint?" She asked, poking at the sheaf of papers. "I think so, yeah," St John grinned right back, firelight reflecting in his eyes. "And what was that all about, lovey? Somebody lose their pay in the hay?" Susie made to smack him: St John caught her wrist and she giggled. "Lecher! I was just saying hello to my old friend over there," she jerked her thumb over her shoulder towards a fellow sitting in the corner, reading a paper as a cleaning bot buzzed away. "'Old friend,' eh?" St John lifted a ginger eyebrow. "I'm wounded, Susie my love. I go out savin' the world and come back to find you chuckin' things at other men." He leaned in, eyes dark. "That hurts, sheila." "Not as much as the tray I'm about to break over your skull," Susie mock-threatened, her free arm lifting her empty drinks tray, but there wasn't much conviction to her voice. St John grinned lazily, enjoying how Susie's breath caught in her throat, her hairpieces glittering prettily in the firelight. There was a yell from the kitchen; the moment was over. Susie wrested her hand away from St John's grip with a cheerful smile. "That's me; I'll be back out with your drink, Johnnie." St John winked as she turned and left, then studied the man in the corner for a moment. Blue-furred, tail, yellow eyes like a golem, pointy ears ... St John got up and walked over, to stand right by the man's table. "Wagner?" The man looked up: St John's face broke into a smile. "Wagner, you bastard, where've you been? It's been bloody ages!" |