It had been two weeks, three days and four hours since 'the meeting', which meant that Etta had approximately four months, one week, three days and twenty hours left (give or take a few) of her life; who's counting, right. Ever since the c-word entered her life, it seemed that time had taken on a whole new meaning for her. Two years ago, after a different meeting with her doctor, time had become a marker for the amount of her life spent in remission. If she had known that her respite was to have been short lived, she would have done more with those two years. Time,it had once again turned into the enemy; a countdown.
"Are you sure?" Her mother moved forward in her seat as she looked into the eyes of Dr. Gilford. The two of them spoke as if Etta wasn't even in the room. She hated that.
"Yes, I am sorry. Mrs. Tremblay, you are welcome to get another opinion, but I have had a couple of my collegues go over the results and they have all agreed with the prognosis." Dr. Gilford pulled a pen from his pocket and pushed on the end of it, causing it to click. Etta noticed that his brown eyes seemed to do their best to avoid her blue ones. As he spoke again, he started to push the point of the pen into a pad of paper and write. "I am going to write you a prescription for..." his words paused as he looked up, making a quick glance in Etta's direction. "Pain."
After that meeting, her mother had insisted that she moved back home. It was sort of a peace offering from Etta to her mother that she had agreed to do so, since she had refused to go the chemo route again. No, not this time. She had decided she would take her pot prescription and live out whatever it was she had left to live, besides who wants to grow old and wrinkly. Etta did her best to hide from the fear of not reaching her 25th birthday from herself.
"Tell me again why it is I am doing this, mom." Etta leaned her head against the cold glass of the window. Her bright blue eyes darted back and forth as she watched the world rush by, turning the streets into a blur of lights and buildings. Her mother had somehow talked her into going to a support group for cancer patients.
"It will be nice for you to be able to talk to other people that are going through this. Your Doctor recommended it and said it could help with the depression."
Etta rolled her eyes and started to chew on her thumbnail, or atleast the nub of what was left of her nail. "I don't see how sitting around comparing cancer diagnosis is going to be uplifting."
"Oh, Etta. Just give it a chance." The corner's of her mother's eyes wrinkled as she gave her daughter one of her fake reassuring smiles. Etta wasn't sure if the smile was for her or if her mother was reassuring herself. "Your hair looks good. Did you do something different?" Her mother reached over and stroked a lock of Etta's blonde hair.
"I washed it." She gave her mother a playful wink. Looking back out of the passenger window, she saw the imposing Gothic structure of the St.Agnes church. She started to point it out to her mother, but before she could,the voice from the GPS confirmed it.
"Arriving at destination, on the right." The disembodied voice spoke from the dashboard.
Her mother pulled up to the curb at the front entrance and the breaks on the white Volvo gave a little squeak. "Here you go."
"Wonderful." Etta's voice was imbued with sarcasm as she opened the door and stepped out on to the curb.
"I will see you in a couple of hours. Please Etta, try to be open to this."
Etta shut the car door without saying what she really felt about being there. She didn't want her mother to hurt anymore than she already was, she knew that her mother had a lot more hurt going her way.
Once inside and settled on one of the yellow plastic seats, that had been arranged in a circle, Etta let out a small sigh and pulled a book from her purse. It was her favorite, Animal Farm by George Orwell and by the look of the wear on the pages and cover, it was obvious that she had read it many times. Licking the tip of her index finger, she turned the dog eared pages and started to read while the other yellow seats around her began to fill.
With the buzzing of the florescent lights overhead and the sounds of the chatter filling the room, she found it hard to concentrate on the words but in the stubborn ways of Etta, she continued to try to read. Then after reading the same paragraph twice, she set the book down in her lap and looked over to the chair to the right of her and watched as a man sat down beside her. From the looks of him, he definitely wasn't there for just the bad coffee and stale cookies. The whole cancer patient aura seemed to ooze from him. Etta tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear and gave him a soft nod of a hello. She did her best to ignore the chill that went running up the length of her spine every time she caught a gaze from the pool of deep blue in his eyes.
Crappy coffee and life everlasting (Whit and Peter)
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Etta (DELETED 6022)
- Posts: 9
- Joined: 02 Feb 2015, 13:25
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Whit
- Registered User
- Posts: 204
- Joined: 16 May 2014, 12:45
- CrowNet Handle: centipedeDREAMER
Re: Crappy coffee and life everlasting (Whit and Peter)
“Still ain’t sure why yer goin, boss.” Sophia Cervantes was a woman in her late twenties. Her naturally tan flesh hinted of something ethnic in her history. Based on her surname, Whitaker assumed she was Spanish, though she didn’t have an accent, and the topic had never come up in conversation. Seemed to Whit that it might have been inappropriate for a workplace relationship to begin with. He caught sight of her pink bubble gum even as air began to fill it and then there was an audible pop before the woman’s plump lips were covered in the substance. She used her tongue to clean the evidence away and resume chewing.
“I have cancer.” He answered simply.
“You had cancer.” An observation perhaps.
“I had terminal cancer, and though it was cured, I never quite came to terms with what happened.” The statement betrayed how introspective Whitaker naturally was. Recently, he and Peter had come to terms in a manner of speaking. His sire had agreed not to just walk out of his life, and Mr. Concord had agreed to try and listen to his mentor. Since that point, the Necromancer had come to realize just how heavily he relied on Peter’s opinion. This was not inherently a bad thing, because the man provided a valuable point of view. He wondered, though. If that feeling was reciprocated. He had always been a fiercely independent creatures with walls around his feelings higher than most would have considered tolerable.
The feelings he had on the subject were not intolerable, but he wanted to delve more deeply into the events surrounding his death, the nature of his departure from the land of daylight and the living. He wanted to understand more than anything. That had been one of the facets of his personality that had grown more developed since he had taken on the visage of death. He found himself unable to leave anything alone. He had this deeply seated need to understand as he had never understood before. Much the same, he had grown indifferent to most of the world. A paradox perhaps, or maybe he just got tunnel vision and refused to lose focus.
“Close the shop for me, please.” He said as he made his way to the wide glass double doors. Graphical Bibliophilia was a comic book shop he had owned for a short time, but in the few months since he had purchased and re-purposed the space – it had become a wildly profitable business. A good front for the thing that happened in the back. Things that Peter did not entirely approve of. Sophia nodded to Whit as he exited onto the street so that he could lift his phone out of his pocket.
His thumbs tapped across keys as he slid it into view. He texted as he walked. Going to St. Agnes for a cancer support meeting. Would appreciate you showing up. He sent the words to his sire, and long-time friend before his phone was closed and put back where he’d retrieved it from. Peter would likely find something queer about the idea of going to one of those meetings, but he was a dependable creature all the same. Whit would explain it later.
The distance was short enough that he covered it fairly quickly and let himself inside. Moments later, he was seating himself next to a woman who appeared to be reading a book. He briefly scanned over the title and a brow lifted slowly. His mind flashed back to the last time he’d re-read it, only a couple of years before with him seated on a bench in the night. He had been waiting for a bus that would take him ‘home’ to visit his adoptive parents. The line had been running late, and rain fell like shining shards of glass to plunk against his umbrella. He’d sat with as much of himself under the cover a he could, one leg tucked under the bench, the other crossed at the knee over its twin to tuck close. There had been a street lamp to one side with a flickering light, just enough to illuminate the page so that Whit had something to do while he waited.
It was a brief flash through his brainspace.
“Good evening.” He said, immediately showing affinity for what might have been another voracious reader. Whitaker loved literature, loved the flow of words, the way that certain phrases seemed to have power over the mind and soul. He extended a hand towards Etta then. “I am Whitaker, Whitaker Concord.” His flesh, when grasped, was cold. His features were naturally pale, and pulled gaunt. He looked stick thin, tall with long limbs. Willowy. His hair would have been dull if he had not taken care to coif it with styling gel that gave it a professional look. The only trace of vibrant life on him were his eyes a chilling and intense steel blue.
His jacket was tweed, a nondescript brown to match his slacks. He wore a vest under it with a black and green tartan print – a chain of silver across his abdomen to denote a pocket watch (one of his obsessions). His clothing was pressed, buttons polished, and intentionally immaculate. But he felt like death. Quite literally, he made most people uneasy with his presence. Some described it as feeling like they were getting tired. Others said that he just plain depressed them. Or made them upset for some indiscernible reason. Whatever the case, he didn’t feel natural.
He looked beyond the girl’s face and caught sight of something. His attention briefly lingered there, before he righted himself in his seat, one leg crossing over the other.
“I have cancer.” He answered simply.
“You had cancer.” An observation perhaps.
“I had terminal cancer, and though it was cured, I never quite came to terms with what happened.” The statement betrayed how introspective Whitaker naturally was. Recently, he and Peter had come to terms in a manner of speaking. His sire had agreed not to just walk out of his life, and Mr. Concord had agreed to try and listen to his mentor. Since that point, the Necromancer had come to realize just how heavily he relied on Peter’s opinion. This was not inherently a bad thing, because the man provided a valuable point of view. He wondered, though. If that feeling was reciprocated. He had always been a fiercely independent creatures with walls around his feelings higher than most would have considered tolerable.
The feelings he had on the subject were not intolerable, but he wanted to delve more deeply into the events surrounding his death, the nature of his departure from the land of daylight and the living. He wanted to understand more than anything. That had been one of the facets of his personality that had grown more developed since he had taken on the visage of death. He found himself unable to leave anything alone. He had this deeply seated need to understand as he had never understood before. Much the same, he had grown indifferent to most of the world. A paradox perhaps, or maybe he just got tunnel vision and refused to lose focus.
“Close the shop for me, please.” He said as he made his way to the wide glass double doors. Graphical Bibliophilia was a comic book shop he had owned for a short time, but in the few months since he had purchased and re-purposed the space – it had become a wildly profitable business. A good front for the thing that happened in the back. Things that Peter did not entirely approve of. Sophia nodded to Whit as he exited onto the street so that he could lift his phone out of his pocket.
His thumbs tapped across keys as he slid it into view. He texted as he walked. Going to St. Agnes for a cancer support meeting. Would appreciate you showing up. He sent the words to his sire, and long-time friend before his phone was closed and put back where he’d retrieved it from. Peter would likely find something queer about the idea of going to one of those meetings, but he was a dependable creature all the same. Whit would explain it later.
The distance was short enough that he covered it fairly quickly and let himself inside. Moments later, he was seating himself next to a woman who appeared to be reading a book. He briefly scanned over the title and a brow lifted slowly. His mind flashed back to the last time he’d re-read it, only a couple of years before with him seated on a bench in the night. He had been waiting for a bus that would take him ‘home’ to visit his adoptive parents. The line had been running late, and rain fell like shining shards of glass to plunk against his umbrella. He’d sat with as much of himself under the cover a he could, one leg tucked under the bench, the other crossed at the knee over its twin to tuck close. There had been a street lamp to one side with a flickering light, just enough to illuminate the page so that Whit had something to do while he waited.
It was a brief flash through his brainspace.
“Good evening.” He said, immediately showing affinity for what might have been another voracious reader. Whitaker loved literature, loved the flow of words, the way that certain phrases seemed to have power over the mind and soul. He extended a hand towards Etta then. “I am Whitaker, Whitaker Concord.” His flesh, when grasped, was cold. His features were naturally pale, and pulled gaunt. He looked stick thin, tall with long limbs. Willowy. His hair would have been dull if he had not taken care to coif it with styling gel that gave it a professional look. The only trace of vibrant life on him were his eyes a chilling and intense steel blue.
His jacket was tweed, a nondescript brown to match his slacks. He wore a vest under it with a black and green tartan print – a chain of silver across his abdomen to denote a pocket watch (one of his obsessions). His clothing was pressed, buttons polished, and intentionally immaculate. But he felt like death. Quite literally, he made most people uneasy with his presence. Some described it as feeling like they were getting tired. Others said that he just plain depressed them. Or made them upset for some indiscernible reason. Whatever the case, he didn’t feel natural.
He looked beyond the girl’s face and caught sight of something. His attention briefly lingered there, before he righted himself in his seat, one leg crossing over the other.
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Etta (DELETED 6022)
- Posts: 9
- Joined: 02 Feb 2015, 13:25
Re: Crappy coffee and life everlasting (Whit and Peter)
Their palms pressed together as their fingers coiled around each other's extended hands. Etta had to fight the urge to pull her hand back as the warmth of her flesh was siphoned into the coldness of his hand. However, she managed to hold out until she felt the loosening of his grip, which cued her that it was okay to let go.
"Hello, Whitaker Concord. I am Etta Tremblay." Her plump lips parted slightly as their corners tugged them into a cordial smile. Her brain immediately went into a game of 'guess the cancer' as her blue gaze took in the whole of him. Leukemia? Maybe. The absence of a portable oxygen tank gave her reason to cross out the chance that it was lung cancer. Before she could think of anymore types, Etta felt a since of uneasiness when she noticed the way his eyes seemed to penetrate her being. She nervously chewed on her bottom lip and looked around them, taking in the faces of the others. By the time she scanned the circle and her eyes landed back onto Whitaker, her uneasiness had lessened and she ventured into more conversation with him. "So you come for the coffee? The twinkle in her eyes were a clue to the humor she was attempting.
Just as her sentence had ended, a middle aged man with black curly hair and a touch of gray at the temples, walked into the middle of the circle of chairs. His presence brought a hush over the chatter in the room. The man's attire wasn't far off from what her new acquaintance, Whitaker, was wearing. The both of them looked as if they had walked out of a college brochure; not just any college but one of the ivy league colleges.
Self consciously, Etta tugged a bit at the crew neck of her navy blue sweater. Where they looked like professors, she felt as though she could be a walking billboard for the Gap with her jeans tucked into her black leather boots that zippered up the back of her calves.
When the man started to introduce himself as Dr. Ben Sheffield (insisting that they called him Ben), Etta began to feel a little light headed. She reached up and ran her fingers through her shoulder length hair, scratching lightly at her scalp.
"I would like to start us off by going around the room and giving everyone a chance to introduce themselves and to say what has brought them here tonight." Ben smiled as he spoke.
Etta sunk down into her chair in some kind of vain attempt to camouflage herself as Ben's eyes scanned the room. It reminded her of the ball on a roulette wheel. Thought she didn't have the luck of picking the winning number, but she did get the opportunity to go first. His eyes had settled on her.
Instantly her cheeks were warm and she sat up a little more straight while licking her lips. Her blue pleading eyes moved toward Whitaker as if to pull some kind of strength from the knowledge that she at least knew someone's name there, already. "I am Etta Tremblay, This is my first time here at my mother's insistence." Her eyes moved back to Ben's as she continued. " I am on my second battle with Leukemia. This time though it has changed from chronic to acute. I have what is known as Acute myeloid leukemia; AML." Her smile was imbued with the contempt that she felt for the diagnosis. Just as Etta started to go into how it had moved into her brain, she felt a warm sticky wetness roll down from her nose to her lips. Her nose was bleeding. Tilting her head back, she pinched her nose and started to look around for a bathroom. Just as she stood up, her book dropped from her lap and onto the floor. "Um..."
"Hello, Whitaker Concord. I am Etta Tremblay." Her plump lips parted slightly as their corners tugged them into a cordial smile. Her brain immediately went into a game of 'guess the cancer' as her blue gaze took in the whole of him. Leukemia? Maybe. The absence of a portable oxygen tank gave her reason to cross out the chance that it was lung cancer. Before she could think of anymore types, Etta felt a since of uneasiness when she noticed the way his eyes seemed to penetrate her being. She nervously chewed on her bottom lip and looked around them, taking in the faces of the others. By the time she scanned the circle and her eyes landed back onto Whitaker, her uneasiness had lessened and she ventured into more conversation with him. "So you come for the coffee? The twinkle in her eyes were a clue to the humor she was attempting.
Just as her sentence had ended, a middle aged man with black curly hair and a touch of gray at the temples, walked into the middle of the circle of chairs. His presence brought a hush over the chatter in the room. The man's attire wasn't far off from what her new acquaintance, Whitaker, was wearing. The both of them looked as if they had walked out of a college brochure; not just any college but one of the ivy league colleges.
Self consciously, Etta tugged a bit at the crew neck of her navy blue sweater. Where they looked like professors, she felt as though she could be a walking billboard for the Gap with her jeans tucked into her black leather boots that zippered up the back of her calves.
When the man started to introduce himself as Dr. Ben Sheffield (insisting that they called him Ben), Etta began to feel a little light headed. She reached up and ran her fingers through her shoulder length hair, scratching lightly at her scalp.
"I would like to start us off by going around the room and giving everyone a chance to introduce themselves and to say what has brought them here tonight." Ben smiled as he spoke.
Etta sunk down into her chair in some kind of vain attempt to camouflage herself as Ben's eyes scanned the room. It reminded her of the ball on a roulette wheel. Thought she didn't have the luck of picking the winning number, but she did get the opportunity to go first. His eyes had settled on her.
Instantly her cheeks were warm and she sat up a little more straight while licking her lips. Her blue pleading eyes moved toward Whitaker as if to pull some kind of strength from the knowledge that she at least knew someone's name there, already. "I am Etta Tremblay, This is my first time here at my mother's insistence." Her eyes moved back to Ben's as she continued. " I am on my second battle with Leukemia. This time though it has changed from chronic to acute. I have what is known as Acute myeloid leukemia; AML." Her smile was imbued with the contempt that she felt for the diagnosis. Just as Etta started to go into how it had moved into her brain, she felt a warm sticky wetness roll down from her nose to her lips. Her nose was bleeding. Tilting her head back, she pinched her nose and started to look around for a bathroom. Just as she stood up, her book dropped from her lap and onto the floor. "Um..."
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Whit
- Registered User
- Posts: 204
- Joined: 16 May 2014, 12:45
- CrowNet Handle: centipedeDREAMER
Re: Crappy coffee and life everlasting (Whit and Peter)
He could feel warmth in her, though it was not as pronounced as it might have been should the woman have been healthier. Whitaker had regular contact with mortals, an irony considering how non-social he was by nature, and how frequently he outright avoided the community he had been brought into. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Tremblay.” Unfortunate that she was likely to degenerate over the coming months, potentially die. She seemed, at the very least, to be a pleasant individual. She was well-mannered, a trait seemingly uncommon in an age where one’s self-worth could be based solely on thing as trivial as scoring in video games or sharply worded commentary on websites such as Tumblr or Facebook. People in Whitaker’s generation seemed to correlate a person’s intelligence with their ability to obnoxiously nit-pick at things like grammar or obsess over political movements in the form of hollow internet arguments.
Children. Caustic children they were.
His cheeks were seemingly empty of life, nearly concave, and his eyes were faintly sunken, with purple brushed under them as if the capillaries had burst under the skin. His lips were tinged with the same colour, pink and purple in a way that said that they did not properly get the oxygen that they needed. Or would have needed should he have been alive. “I have always been more of a tea man.” He replied a short time later. He spent several moments watching her, as opposed to the other people in the room. He was like that. Something of a scientist by nature, he liked to observe the social mannerisms of others, but he had never been good at doing so en masse. He favored being able to devote his attention to one person at a time, which could be unnerving because he lacked the tendency most people had to blink or show expression whilst holding conversation. “Specifically, I like breakfast tea and earl grey.”
They didn’t have much time after that to continue their conversation before the man leading the meeting stepped into the room and Whit felt obliged to turn himself in his seat so that he could face the good doctor.
He listened to Etta’s introduction, carefully filing away facts about the woman. Her mother? Did she live with her or were they just close? He found himself wondering as to the woman’s age. There were a large number of people in their position who had been forced to move ‘home’ after diagnosis. Between the care required when they were undergoing chemo-therapy and the sickness itself, living alone was not only impractical, but could be detrimental in effect to their progress. Not that Whitaker himself knew much about that. He’d told his parents one night and hadn’t really bothered much with their concerns or input. He had not been intentionally callous, but the illness had been his. No theirs.
The scent of blood hit the air, and the man’s pupils inflated in size until the blue of his eyes was nothing but a thin rim. His fangs threatened to extend, and likely would have if not for the way that he clasped his hands together, and tightened until he was just to one side of snapping his own bone. He had fairly decent control when it came to that sort of thing, but the sudden appearance of the red fluid had been near startling. Whitaker actually did not feed often. A Necromancer, he usually healed himself daily so as to avoid the need entirely. He had seen CrowNet. Getting spotted feeding could get a guy sent to the Shadow Realm, and he didn’t have time for that nonsense.
“Here.” He said as he withdrew a kerchief from his jacket so that he could hand it over. And then it was his turn to introduce himself. Or so it appeared, when the person to Etta’s other side seemed unwilling to continue. He chewed for a second at his lower lip. “I am Whit, and I am here because I suffer from a very rare disease that causes repetitious and severe osteosarcoma growth.” Specifically, it had completely destroyed his skeletal system, riddled it with malignant tumors that had effectively destroyed his body’s ability to even attempt to heal itself. He was not honestly sure if being a vampire had eliminated them or if he still had dozens of little growths inside of him, dormant from their true nature – of eating their way through his body.
The prognosis had not been good.
“I attended because I thought it might be good to meet others with similar affliction.” He replied honestly, before the next person after him continued on. By the time that the last person had gone through their introduction, a good fifteen or so minutes had already passed, and Dr. Ben was glancing to his watch. The doctor finally dropped into a seat and began to glance around.
“Today I want us to focus on making connections. As some of you know, it is not just the treatment of your respective conditions that determines a healthy outcome. You need a strong support system in place so I am going to have everyone pair off to get to know someone else in the group a little better. We will remain here, but you guys have…thirty minutes before I’m going to call the group back together to share a few more thoughts before it’s time to go.”
Whitaker looked faintly skeptical of the method, quite honestly the only real expression he had worn the entire evening, which probably did not bode well for anyone that ended up with him. None the less, once Ben had finished their little in-house assignment, the vampire’s attention turned again to Etta. They had already been introduced, so it seemed reasonable… “You mentioned coffee. Perhaps you’d like to go and get some?” The table was far enough away to offer them a little bit of privacy from everyone else.
Children. Caustic children they were.
His cheeks were seemingly empty of life, nearly concave, and his eyes were faintly sunken, with purple brushed under them as if the capillaries had burst under the skin. His lips were tinged with the same colour, pink and purple in a way that said that they did not properly get the oxygen that they needed. Or would have needed should he have been alive. “I have always been more of a tea man.” He replied a short time later. He spent several moments watching her, as opposed to the other people in the room. He was like that. Something of a scientist by nature, he liked to observe the social mannerisms of others, but he had never been good at doing so en masse. He favored being able to devote his attention to one person at a time, which could be unnerving because he lacked the tendency most people had to blink or show expression whilst holding conversation. “Specifically, I like breakfast tea and earl grey.”
They didn’t have much time after that to continue their conversation before the man leading the meeting stepped into the room and Whit felt obliged to turn himself in his seat so that he could face the good doctor.
He listened to Etta’s introduction, carefully filing away facts about the woman. Her mother? Did she live with her or were they just close? He found himself wondering as to the woman’s age. There were a large number of people in their position who had been forced to move ‘home’ after diagnosis. Between the care required when they were undergoing chemo-therapy and the sickness itself, living alone was not only impractical, but could be detrimental in effect to their progress. Not that Whitaker himself knew much about that. He’d told his parents one night and hadn’t really bothered much with their concerns or input. He had not been intentionally callous, but the illness had been his. No theirs.
The scent of blood hit the air, and the man’s pupils inflated in size until the blue of his eyes was nothing but a thin rim. His fangs threatened to extend, and likely would have if not for the way that he clasped his hands together, and tightened until he was just to one side of snapping his own bone. He had fairly decent control when it came to that sort of thing, but the sudden appearance of the red fluid had been near startling. Whitaker actually did not feed often. A Necromancer, he usually healed himself daily so as to avoid the need entirely. He had seen CrowNet. Getting spotted feeding could get a guy sent to the Shadow Realm, and he didn’t have time for that nonsense.
“Here.” He said as he withdrew a kerchief from his jacket so that he could hand it over. And then it was his turn to introduce himself. Or so it appeared, when the person to Etta’s other side seemed unwilling to continue. He chewed for a second at his lower lip. “I am Whit, and I am here because I suffer from a very rare disease that causes repetitious and severe osteosarcoma growth.” Specifically, it had completely destroyed his skeletal system, riddled it with malignant tumors that had effectively destroyed his body’s ability to even attempt to heal itself. He was not honestly sure if being a vampire had eliminated them or if he still had dozens of little growths inside of him, dormant from their true nature – of eating their way through his body.
The prognosis had not been good.
“I attended because I thought it might be good to meet others with similar affliction.” He replied honestly, before the next person after him continued on. By the time that the last person had gone through their introduction, a good fifteen or so minutes had already passed, and Dr. Ben was glancing to his watch. The doctor finally dropped into a seat and began to glance around.
“Today I want us to focus on making connections. As some of you know, it is not just the treatment of your respective conditions that determines a healthy outcome. You need a strong support system in place so I am going to have everyone pair off to get to know someone else in the group a little better. We will remain here, but you guys have…thirty minutes before I’m going to call the group back together to share a few more thoughts before it’s time to go.”
Whitaker looked faintly skeptical of the method, quite honestly the only real expression he had worn the entire evening, which probably did not bode well for anyone that ended up with him. None the less, once Ben had finished their little in-house assignment, the vampire’s attention turned again to Etta. They had already been introduced, so it seemed reasonable… “You mentioned coffee. Perhaps you’d like to go and get some?” The table was far enough away to offer them a little bit of privacy from everyone else.
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Etta (DELETED 6022)
- Posts: 9
- Joined: 02 Feb 2015, 13:25
Re: Crappy coffee and life everlasting (Whit and Peter)
Holding the offered kerchief to her nose, she tilted her head back and waited for the nosebleed to subside. As she stared up at the tiled ceiling, she listened to Whitaker take up the reins and give his introductions. His voice was even and carried a since of calmness that she wasn't entirely used to. He seemed rather confident and straight forward; she liked that. It was something rare to come across when a person had those traits without the addition of self entitlement and egocentrism. Though she had to confess that something like staring into the face of your own mortality had a way of humbling even those with substantial egos; not that she felt as if that could have been the case with Whitaker.
After the others finished with their introductions, Ben had instructed them to pair off and get to know one another. This seemed simple enough and she was happy when Whitaker turned toward her and asked if she would like a cup of coffee. She lowered her blue eyes and then looked back into the intense pull of his. "I think that would be great." Her voice held a sense of relief and her smile only confirmed it.
The two walked toward the back of the room where the table that held all of cups and coffee maker, along with the plates of cookies, was located. Etta took a cup and poured some of the dark liquid into it and she proceeded to add two packs of sugar and three packs of cream into the cup. While stirring the mixture, she turned toward Whitaker. "I think they have tea. " Her eyes scanned over the table and settled on a basket that was filled with tea bags. The coffee maker had a handle on it that said hot water. "Yes. There you go." She looked back at him and smiled. "Now all is right with the world." She winked playfully at him. "Oh I almost forgot. Here...." She extended her hand and held out his kerchief that was now bloodstained. "I apologize it is a bit of a mess, but I must thank you for the use of it. If you want, I could wash it and bring it back to you next week?" She blinked realizing that she was basically committing to returning to another meeting. Interesting how that happens.
After the others finished with their introductions, Ben had instructed them to pair off and get to know one another. This seemed simple enough and she was happy when Whitaker turned toward her and asked if she would like a cup of coffee. She lowered her blue eyes and then looked back into the intense pull of his. "I think that would be great." Her voice held a sense of relief and her smile only confirmed it.
The two walked toward the back of the room where the table that held all of cups and coffee maker, along with the plates of cookies, was located. Etta took a cup and poured some of the dark liquid into it and she proceeded to add two packs of sugar and three packs of cream into the cup. While stirring the mixture, she turned toward Whitaker. "I think they have tea. " Her eyes scanned over the table and settled on a basket that was filled with tea bags. The coffee maker had a handle on it that said hot water. "Yes. There you go." She looked back at him and smiled. "Now all is right with the world." She winked playfully at him. "Oh I almost forgot. Here...." She extended her hand and held out his kerchief that was now bloodstained. "I apologize it is a bit of a mess, but I must thank you for the use of it. If you want, I could wash it and bring it back to you next week?" She blinked realizing that she was basically committing to returning to another meeting. Interesting how that happens.
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Whit
- Registered User
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- Joined: 16 May 2014, 12:45
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Re: Crappy coffee and life everlasting (Whit and Peter)
The trip across the room from the seating area to the refreshment table was a short one, and true to what the woman had said, there was a basket with tea bags in it, and the appropriate condiments for enjoying such. Of course, as a vampire (and not of the Allurist variety), he could not consume the tea without becoming violently ill. All he really had was the memory of his formerly favorite drink, because even if he had braved the land of sickness in order to enjoy the beverage – the truth of the matter was that it would have been hollow. His tastes had fundamentally changed after he had died. There were some people who acted as if they disliked the taste of blood. Or like it took time to get used to, but his kind were sanguivores. Just as humans were naturally adapted to a diet of meat and vegetation, being omnivores, his kind were adapted to the taste of hemoglobin and plasma.
Perhaps he was an oddity.
He grabbed a disposable cup and poured the hot water so that he could carefully dip the bag under the fluid, allowing the leaves inside to naturally diffuse their taste. The truth of the matter was that he had preferred it loose leaf when he had been mortal, but he could hardly hold that against the ones who had put together the spread for the meeting. A stick with wild flower honey was broken and the contents allowed to slowly drip into the steaming Styrofoam container before he stirred with the remainder of the stick. Just a hint of sweetness was all he needed. Prepared true to the way he would have liked it, had he the ability to indulge. “I would be most appreciative if you did, though I am happy to give you the address of my business or my personal phone number should you like to get a hold of me before then.”
He didn’t reach his hand out to take the kerchief, because the scent of congealing blood was on it, damp but solidly there. He instead peered into her eyes, or where they would have been, if she chose to avert them. He motioned then towards the area just to one side, if only to allow other groups to get some refreshments before he stepped around Etta. His hip came to rest against the wall, one arm folding low over his body, right over his abdomen. His other hand carefully held the his cup so that the hot contents did not slosh around too much. “Which I suppose leads us to the conversation portion of this exercise. I am a small business owner, a comic book shop to be exact. Up until about a year ago, I was a student of Literature at the local university. The abrupt nature of the change was due, in large part, to the diagnosis of my condition.” He actually owned a publishing firm and a software development company as well, though he didn’t really advertise for those.
“Tell me a bit about yourself?”
Perhaps he was an oddity.
He grabbed a disposable cup and poured the hot water so that he could carefully dip the bag under the fluid, allowing the leaves inside to naturally diffuse their taste. The truth of the matter was that he had preferred it loose leaf when he had been mortal, but he could hardly hold that against the ones who had put together the spread for the meeting. A stick with wild flower honey was broken and the contents allowed to slowly drip into the steaming Styrofoam container before he stirred with the remainder of the stick. Just a hint of sweetness was all he needed. Prepared true to the way he would have liked it, had he the ability to indulge. “I would be most appreciative if you did, though I am happy to give you the address of my business or my personal phone number should you like to get a hold of me before then.”
He didn’t reach his hand out to take the kerchief, because the scent of congealing blood was on it, damp but solidly there. He instead peered into her eyes, or where they would have been, if she chose to avert them. He motioned then towards the area just to one side, if only to allow other groups to get some refreshments before he stepped around Etta. His hip came to rest against the wall, one arm folding low over his body, right over his abdomen. His other hand carefully held the his cup so that the hot contents did not slosh around too much. “Which I suppose leads us to the conversation portion of this exercise. I am a small business owner, a comic book shop to be exact. Up until about a year ago, I was a student of Literature at the local university. The abrupt nature of the change was due, in large part, to the diagnosis of my condition.” He actually owned a publishing firm and a software development company as well, though he didn’t really advertise for those.
“Tell me a bit about yourself?”