[Sodium_noir] Gods of Fire, Saints of Ireland

[Jennie Teakle]

Christine
Orphan Mage

A woman huddles in a dark lee of a desolate square,
territory claimed by the shambling and the half-dead.
She stays as far from these denizens as she can, not
because she despises them but because she can't stand
to See another death or be the reluctant observer of
yet more private pain and misfortune. Events in
unknown lives she has no godamn *right* to be
witnessing let alone any desire to. She isn't afraid
of what might happen to her here and now. For
Christine, it isn't the Present that holds any fear in
spite of the obvious dangers of being alone and addled
this late at night in Cardboard City. 

Somehow she got here from the Industrial District.
Someone gave her a ride part of the way - she can't
remember what the guy looked like but she remembers
that he will lose 3 fingers on his right hand to a
printing press in an accident at work. She had Seen
that when unasked, he had parked in an unobserved
alleyway and reached out with his right hand to stroke
her red hair. And, because he touched her, he had Seen
it too. Fortunately, maybe. He had not tried to detain
her when -her own pallid shock mirrored in his
stranger's face - she had wrenched open the passenger
door and scrambled out of his car. 

But he had done Christine a favour. She was only a
short way from this debris strewn Square and a long
way from Iblis Petrochemicals. Christine still
flinches from the memory of the rescue attempt at
Iblis. Some shredded part of her still cares about an
urgent task abandoned; allies she failed. Mostly,
though, she has no space free to give a damn about
anything other than her need for refuge from the
destinies of others. Her 'gift'.

Christine blurts out laughing suddenly and this isn't
a reassuring sound. The desperate timbre of it scares
her. She wraps her arms tighter around herself, trying
to contain her welling hysteria. She lifts her stare
from the formless debris that decorates the cracked
pavement she stands on. The Square is home to a slew
of Reality's shipwrecks but it also boasts two
sentinels of light, opposite each other, almost. One
is the Chaste Dragon Hotel, the other is St Bridget's
Church. 

Christine doesn't think she can face Panic's place nor
Panic himself no matter how drawn to him she feels.
Barely born, yet to Christine that already feels like
a loaded relationship - as in dice, as in gun. A fool
already for dangerous liaisons with damaged, dangerous
people, Christine needs to stay in Panic's orbit like
she needs to douse herself in petrol and drop a match.
But Father Bellamy's domain and Father Bellamy are
uncomplicated by the same savage, seductive currents
that run through the Dragon and at this moment the
lights of St Bridget's glow like a beacon. 

When she reaches the church doors they are, as usual,
partly open, a wedge of light falling across the dark
street. Hoping to be unobtrusive, Christine slips
inside the church. It all looks much as it did last
night, more settled, perhaps. Except, she sees that
there is someone else here - someone standing near the
church's altar. It looks like he is wearing a fur
collar - wait. The 'collar' just moved, rippling about
the stranger's shoulders so fur, right, but fur still
attached to its living owner. There is no sign of
Bellamy and the church's nightly occupants, the
homeless,  are lost in their own private worlds of
sleep as far as Christine can tell. 


Tag


OOC - ST, possible paradox increase for Christine for
sleeper witnessed Time/Mind effect? 





		
___________________________________________________________ 
To help you stay safe and secure online, we've developed the all new Yahoo! Security Centre. http://uk.security.yahoo.com