Give a little, get a little. Give a little more.
November 2011
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Tags
- !application
- !contact post
- !ooc
- 'tis the season
- anonymous gentlefolk
- archie valerian
- dominic munroe
- edward belville
- eli csontos
- ephraim sullivan
- erica knight
- gray adams
- hold that thought
- holiday shopping
- jamie is jamie
- jamie ward
- jim chatterjeee
- jocelyn makepeace
- joss makepeace
- leo gryffiths
- liam is on edge
- nives gagliardi
- not quite a rip deal
- tali is tali
- talia sullivan
- temeluchus
- the downside of way-stations
- the to-do list
- toby randall
- tomas riley
- v-day of days
- victoria breen
- wren shelley
Page Summary
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Nov. 13th, 2020
Nov. 28th, 2019
Feb. 14th, 2018
Nov. 19th, 2011
The clock's ticking. The calendar counts down. As winter begins to make itself better known, Liam looks north -- back home. He counts the letters of his last name, thinks of abandoned aging parents and little brother not so small anymore. And Liam, who ducked and dived around set responsibility, feels it creep up his spine and settle along the muscles of his back. He carries himself more carefully with every passing day: with a raw, nerves-exposed kind of tension which knots his shoulders. And the clever hands of this man the thief, they hold on a little too tight; not enough to make most of his people think twice, but every now and again between clasping hands or clapping shoulders or moving in for a hello-goodbye embrace, someone senses that their Liam seems distracted. Christmas is coming, and with it his annual ride right off the rails.
(Somewhere in a shabbily-lit corner of Liam's mind, Devon sits with forearms braced across his knees, cigarette hanging from his lip, and grins.)
Right. So. The flat appears to be missing a sofa, and is host to 6 kitchen tables, 47 chairs, 3 altars, 1 broken crystal ball & enough candles to summon half the afterlife. Who did what?
(Somewhere in a shabbily-lit corner of Liam's mind, Devon sits with forearms braced across his knees, cigarette hanging from his lip, and grins.)
Right. So. The flat appears to be missing a sofa, and is host to 6 kitchen tables, 47 chairs, 3 altars, 1 broken crystal ball & enough candles to summon half the afterlife. Who did what?
Apr. 12th, 2011
Liam's plans invariably come together. Sometimes with a bit of gentle nudging, occasionally with a well-placed shoulder to the metaphorical spine, but they do not unravel into disarray -- not when there are others involved, not when it's more than just him (and once Devon) doing the dirty work. But things are different now. Awkward and tense, resulting in tightly-held stance even as Liam smiles on for all and sundry; Liam's smiles, those familiar and comforting things, rarely falter even when the rest of him may potentially skip ever-important beats.
So he has offered to help Talia find a place for herself even as his own flat went unmentioned, and he has left a stack of potential positions for Jamie on said flat's kitchen table -- minding, of course, that they are all mundane work, that none of them are even remotely related to the magical other-world, and thus his baby brother continues to be kept out of things as best as Liam can manage. (Never you mind that Jamie's already encountered a ghost and gone a-Marketing. That horse is long out of the barn; now it's down to damage control.) With murder circling a corner of the city -- and Liam is a caretaker, yes, but he's not anything approaching a detective -- he's making an executive decision for that little long-reaching network of his, that spiderweb thing which stretches out paper-thin. A delay on illegal activities until he can get a proper feel for what in fuckery is going on.
Moratorium on work for a bit, my all and sundries. More market research is required. We'll be in touch.
So he has offered to help Talia find a place for herself even as his own flat went unmentioned, and he has left a stack of potential positions for Jamie on said flat's kitchen table -- minding, of course, that they are all mundane work, that none of them are even remotely related to the magical other-world, and thus his baby brother continues to be kept out of things as best as Liam can manage. (Never you mind that Jamie's already encountered a ghost and gone a-Marketing. That horse is long out of the barn; now it's down to damage control.) With murder circling a corner of the city -- and Liam is a caretaker, yes, but he's not anything approaching a detective -- he's making an executive decision for that little long-reaching network of his, that spiderweb thing which stretches out paper-thin. A delay on illegal activities until he can get a proper feel for what in fuckery is going on.
Moratorium on work for a bit, my all and sundries. More market research is required. We'll be in touch.
Mar. 31st, 2011
He's restless, is Liam. Visiting the flat more often than he's known for -- that can be attributed to his baby brother taking residence, and as though to compensate, the constant stream of people through its doors has slowed to a trickle. The elder Ward himself is well-hidden twitchy, testy, rarely spending a full night on any of his countless acquaintances' couches or spare mattresses. Liam climbs through the city instead, hops between haunts and boltholes and sits oftentimes by himself, shoulders hunched up tight while he scratches out game plans and pieces together blueprints. How to best deal with family (family, Jamie in need of reassurance, of a steady hand and a job and as little to do with magic as humanly possible) while soldiering on as though life has not changed in great, grand ways. That Talia's back -- pretty, fickle, dangerous Tali, second-worst reminder in the world of all things painful -- only furthers Liam's desire to shake off frustration and do something reckless.
Books for sale, parts for sale, swords for sale. What next, then?
Books for sale, parts for sale, swords for sale. What next, then?
Feb. 14th, 2011
Liam has traditionally been the type who leaves behind flowers and chocolates regardless of whether it's mid-February or midsummer -- he drops off little gifts here and there to all and sundry because he can, oftentimes because they are needed in their own small way. Valentine's Day... well, if he is not in a particular relationship, then he is in many, all of which require tending, and so the day is acknowledged without acknowledging it. No surprise, then, that Gray is recipient to a bottle of too-expensive wine (favor from a sommelier friend) and a request to attend the ballet, or that Riley receives something parallel -- wine and a request out, but dinner instead of dance. And the mundane, the necessary, that is where Liam puts forth his greatest effort, so it's seen to that Sully has groceries, Rook somewhere warm to stay. Whimsy is making sure Dot at London Diner gets a number of roses and chocolates, albeit by a proxy rather than Liam himself, and Toby a tin of jelly babies (even if he expects them to be binned straightaway; it's the principle of the thing).
The man himself celebrates a holiday revolving around sentiment and sex by scratching together the next job. Most of his people are safely tucked away, at home or out with their loved ones and their beloved ones (or just those which are worth casting eyes and hands over, and sometimes that's more than enough). It's a rare night spent in his own flat, place gone quiet and lit low not for the benefit of romancing, but because Liam's satisfied with a reading lamp, the light from his laptop and little more as he hunches bent-backed over blueprints. His glance over the journal network is cursory, more a brief checking over of others than anything else. When the Liam Ward block letters appear on a page, it is as a way to gauge who's out there and who may be drifting.
Better to be in and off with a loved one, out and carousing about with trouble at your side, or a mix-and-match combination thereof? Solo fliers are a whole other thing.
The man himself celebrates a holiday revolving around sentiment and sex by scratching together the next job. Most of his people are safely tucked away, at home or out with their loved ones and their beloved ones (or just those which are worth casting eyes and hands over, and sometimes that's more than enough). It's a rare night spent in his own flat, place gone quiet and lit low not for the benefit of romancing, but because Liam's satisfied with a reading lamp, the light from his laptop and little more as he hunches bent-backed over blueprints. His glance over the journal network is cursory, more a brief checking over of others than anything else. When the Liam Ward block letters appear on a page, it is as a way to gauge who's out there and who may be drifting.
Better to be in and off with a loved one, out and carousing about with trouble at your side, or a mix-and-match combination thereof? Solo fliers are a whole other thing.
Dec. 30th, 2010
Liam Ward: bold, boxy handwriting as distinctive as a fingerprint. His letters are line-perfect, straight in a row, as an arrow, easily read and occasionally understood. Liam gets playful when plans are afoot.
To our holiday benefactor: Many happy returns, and obliged for the haul. 'Twas put to good use.
Now! What does one get when combining an architect, a rip, a driver and antiques aplenty? Busy day tomorrow, busy day.
To our holiday benefactor: Many happy returns, and obliged for the haul. 'Twas put to good use.
Now! What does one get when combining an architect, a rip, a driver and antiques aplenty? Busy day tomorrow, busy day.
Dec. 2nd, 2010
Writing quick and boxy and immeasurably small, as though he needs to cram as much information into as little space as possible:
- Winter clothes (x7)
- Blankets (15+?)
- Odds & ends furniture (3)
- Toys (under-lined thrice)
- As much drink as humanly possible (∞)
(Ladies and gentlemen, Liam Ward's to-do list.)
We're going to need finances. Time to go fishing, my gentlefolk!
- Winter clothes (x7)
- Blankets (15+?)
- Odds & ends furniture (3)
- Toys (under-lined thrice)
- As much drink as humanly possible (∞)
(Ladies and gentlemen, Liam Ward's to-do list.)
We're going to need finances. Time to go fishing, my gentlefolk!