Pain is a Demon Magnet
Sep. 4th, 2013 01:28 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rhiannon_lee in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
birthright_rpgTragedies left fingerprints on people and places. Death, pain, and sorrow all built up a psychic energy that outlasted any attempts at therapeutic intervention, any renovations made to physical structures. You could paint over smoke damage, tear up bloodied carpet, knock down an entire building and the atmosphere wouldn’t change. The ground itself pulsated with what came before. Such was definitely the case with the MGM Grand. No matter how many millions developers channeled into the hotel or what its new owners called it, the building remained the home of the worst disaster in Nevada history. Fire, smoke, and heights had pooled their resources to kill 85 people. The psychic juice was enough to bait the dead into spending quality time on the premises.
As Rhiannon sipped a drink in the lounge on the ground floor, she contemplated what she felt: A buzz in the top of her spine, a knowledge of otherness in the room, maybe a remnant of hell flexing its muscles, five years later.
And if the fuzzy police reports were to be believed, it was vampire central.
Just like them, she thought, to clamor over the echoes of tortured screams.
The outfit was a new purchase. Nothing in her duffel bag was up to the task. If you were going to hang out in a prime piece of Las Vegas real estate, you needed the right gear. She compromised on a tight pair of black trousers with a wide belt, a black top with lace overlay, a flared jacket, and heeled boots. An assortment of silver necklaces jangled when she stretched her neck.
Whistler thought he had whiplash?
You’re damn right, you’re paying the bill, she had grumbled upon finding the hospital costs covered.
Her elbow still felt like murder. Rhiannon hissed when she forgot and rested her weight on the bar.
[Thread: Open to Valerie]
As Rhiannon sipped a drink in the lounge on the ground floor, she contemplated what she felt: A buzz in the top of her spine, a knowledge of otherness in the room, maybe a remnant of hell flexing its muscles, five years later.
And if the fuzzy police reports were to be believed, it was vampire central.
Just like them, she thought, to clamor over the echoes of tortured screams.
The outfit was a new purchase. Nothing in her duffel bag was up to the task. If you were going to hang out in a prime piece of Las Vegas real estate, you needed the right gear. She compromised on a tight pair of black trousers with a wide belt, a black top with lace overlay, a flared jacket, and heeled boots. An assortment of silver necklaces jangled when she stretched her neck.
Whistler thought he had whiplash?
You’re damn right, you’re paying the bill, she had grumbled upon finding the hospital costs covered.
Her elbow still felt like murder. Rhiannon hissed when she forgot and rested her weight on the bar.
[Thread: Open to Valerie]
no subject
on 2013-09-08 05:54 am (UTC)“I’ve got an idea. When one of us decides to leave, the other goes, too,” she said, striking the bargain to remove any chance of argument. “That way, neither of us gets mysteriously offed.” Though in no particular hurry, Rhiannon retrieved a thin wallet from her pocket and counted bills to cover her drinks and tip. She didn’t desire a third and she wanted the flexibility to jump out of her seat and take off whenever. “I doubt we’ll get iced at the bar. It sounds like trouble happens on exit.”