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Father and SonEvery once in a while Shawn hopped by in Boris' quarters. Both would tell each other stories then, stories the others couldn't enjoy. Boris was much like Thor at that point. They both loved Shawn's stories. Both men would enjoy musing with a glass wine. Boris was two years ahead of Shawn, and in front of him, Shawn still sometimes felt like a wraithling. Last time they mused about their childhood. About how it was in the old days to be really young. Shawn noted on how many times Boris compared himself to his young son or how many times Thor played a role in his stories. It got him wondering. Why was their bond as tight as it was? Why wasn't he equally as proud of his daughter or why didn't his daughter pop up in his stories like he did.
"It was not long ago." Boris said. "Maybe it was even too short ago to remember it well. As I'm usually better in remembering stories from long ago." He looked at Shawn. "You are not the only one I hear this ask or think. There are more people who think
Child musings RPThor crawled trough the ducts. Bob's lessons sure had their effect. He had found Erik's lab in no time. He even didn't knew anymore how he got there. It sort of went natural. He dropped the grate and jumped out. As the kind of guy he was he also placed the grate in place right after that. He looked around. Erik was not around. He would probably in the den or in the worshippers room. It was all for the best. He didn't need them anyway. Gently, as if he were scared to wake it, he walked to the pod where Incy's baby was in. The dark dot of newborn life stood out in the gleam of orange light that came from the pod.
Thor didn't even knew why he was here, why he longed to the child so long. He didn't even knew wether this life would be a young queen, a blade or a cleverman like him. But the child remembered him of his own life as a child. From the earliest awakening as a baby wraith, from the time when he was a toddler or a child playing in the woods or around the hive, even from the time wh
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
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