» the city network

[Given the fantastic angle staring up the stem of a half-full glass of wine accompanied by a fat green bottle with a pair of gangly, denim-clad legs only partially in view, it's very clear this was probably meant to be an audio post. Crowley is outside somewhere - likely the park or graveyard given what little scenery is in focus, and the reason for his mistake becomes more apparent when he speaks with an evident, wine-drunk slur.]

Right. Summer is infinitely better when there aren't dozens of insects trying to eat you alive at any given time. Point in favour to the city. Well done. No idea how you're going to get any of these plants pollinated but I'm assuming it's the same way you get all the food here. Magic, probably, or something like it.

Still, nothing like going out and it's just you, the sun, and nice bottle of Tempranillo and an afternoon basking. There's a nice flat boulder in the park; catches the morning sun brilliantly, lovely and warm, 10/10, if that's anyone's particular vice.

[A hand comes into view and lifts the glass out of frame. There's a pause, and when it's returned, it's nearly empty.]

Of course there are still a boatload of points not in favour of the city; no art. No music. No shows. No actual nightlife to speak of. Not even books or programs on the telly! All those tubs of icecream for the taking and no re-runs of the Golden Girls to eat them to. Terrible.

[There's a rapid series of clicks that sounds like he's fiddling with a ballpoint pen.]

Anyway, those of you familiar with old Billiam the Bard; got a question. Taming of the Shrew -- is it 'methinks the lady doth protest too much' orrrrr 'the lady doth protest too much, methinks'? Sss'been a while and I'm a bit too squiffy to remember properly right now.

It seems that several of us have already located the keys to "our" personal safety deposit boxes, and found items of a very personal nature contained therein. Likewise many of you may also have discovered that these objects carry a curse most peculiar, which compels the person who recognizes them to speak of the circumstances surrounding these objects which weigh most heavily on their memory.

This one would like to take this time to remind everyone that we exist now in a new world, subject to no laws but those we make ourselves. It strikes this one as nonsensical to persecute each other for things we may or may not have done elsewhere, especially when those with shameful memories may struggle to convey the full context which lay behind their remembered actions. This is said not to justify or apologize for the crimes some of us may have committed in another world, but simply to promote harmony in this one. We have no allies here but each other; shall we allow our mysterious captors to turn us against each other so easily?

[no shen yuan doesn't have a guilty conscious shut the fuck up]

( cw; cannabis )

[ There is no softness to the voice that murmurs onto the network in the midst of the night when people should be sleeping. Those sweet souls are not her concern if they don't wish to hear. She offers no comfort, but a reminder of what's been lost—what can still be taken.

In doing so, the woman's raspy words creep out from beneath the shadows with a voice that drags—no, it crawls—over ceaselessly hot coals. In its shudder to whisper out a poem borrowed from home, there is a smolder always bordering on a choked gasp. But no hurry, no hurry. Where do you have to be? ]

Old Yew which graspeth at the stones...that name the under-lying dead; Thy fibres net the dreamless head, thy roots are wrapt about the bones.

[ To that, a pause that looms with omen. ]

The seasons bring the flower again, and bring the firstling to the flock; And in the dusk of thee, the clock beats out the little lives of men.

[ Now, a strange yearning nearly begins to dissipate the smoke that seems to scorch her throat.

Hush, take a moment. Take a breath; hold it. Feel the shiver of a fingernail at the nape of your neck, feel it trace the curve of your ear to borrow your attention. Only just. No, don't turn. Don't touch. Just listen; the whisper can still singe. ]

O not for thee the glow, the bloom...who changest not in any gale, nor branding summer suns avail, to touch thy thousand years of gloom.

And gazing on thee, sullen tree, sick for thy stubborn hardihood; I seem to fail from out my blood...and grow incorporate into thee.

[ For a time, it seems that may be all. Then, in the same hush she speaks with a more particular address: ]

I hear that we have been denied the ephemeral — to exist endlessly within a perverse mirror of God’s image. Here, nature should protest. Instead it menaces with its silence.

[ There is a silence of her own while Vanessa takes a drag to sigh out a thin stream of smoke into the evening air. Her voice now drops so low it grates and pinches too close, like gravel against tender feet. Tickling whispers are gone; they flee the weighted melancholy that persists. ]

We carry on within a dollhouse between worlds. Do not be tempted by its pretty trinkets, lest you truly be cursed to wander the demimonde forevermore.

[ Denial still rules paramount over the rumor of immortality, but the lack of bodies is an...unsettling implication. ]

...The graves lie empty.

[At first it's just an eyebrow with some muttering about stupid contraptions.] How does this thing work?

[He pulls it closer, but there's an eye now. You wanted to see an eye, right?] And just how are you supposed to tell if it is working?

[He sighs before holding it a little farther away.] Well, I do not know if it is working. This thing is unusual at best. I suppose I might as well make an introduction. Hello. [He goes to tip the hat that is not there before making an annoyed expression and moving on.] My name is John Henry, but you may call me Doc. If anyone is better with these things, I believe I may be in need of some instruction.

Unless I am talking to myself. [This is said softer and meant to be mostly to himself.] Perhaps I ought to stop this before I make even more of a fool of myself.

[ There's a blur of color and too-bright fluorescent lights before the camera stops abruptly in front of the frozen food aisle of a grocery store. ]

See that? [ She probably means the frankly alarming amount of eggo waffles, zooming in on a few boxes for emphasis. ] They keep getting restocked somehow. [ And she's taken a lot. So she'd actually know.

Switching the camera view, Sylvie's face fills the screen. She looks awfully stern, like she's about to launch into theorizing or even a warning about the validity of the food. But she doesn't. Instead, inexplicably: ]

All of those are mine—even the ones that aren't there yet. [ ... she's serious. ] Fight me if you want, but I call dibs.