autumnshowell

[autumnshowell]

@lcveyearned @photoaria

Autumn isn't exactly an old, practiced hand at this level of social gathering. There's a non-zero amount of edge on every sound, ever movement in the corner of her eye, like she's expecting something to happen, and who exactly can blame her? Memories she's not thought about are dredged up by the sheer similarity of the event and venue, visions of bruised, wrenched shoulders and a bloody, glass-pebbled palm.

She chases that doubt away and lands on something more mundane as she makes sure her dress isn't slipping too far down her arms.

"Oh!" She says, catching the gaze of somebody from across the room just as they come out of a group of other mingling attendees. "That's Ash! The old friend I told you about, that I met at school? The writer one. Who iiis apparently knows magic." Still not quite sure how she feels on that one.

She waves Ash over, her hand leaving Aria's as she offers a careful hug to her friend. "I wondered if I'd see you." She puts her hands together, points them at Ash first, then to Aria. "Ashlyn; Aria, and Aria, Ashylyn. "

[autumnshowell]

She doesn't know what it is about Laure Stephens that still intimidates her. Maybe it's the fact of just how distressingly familiar this whole scene is to the last time she saw Laure Stephens in the flesh; so much has happened since then.

A room full of fancy dresses and monsters. But this time there's a few key differences; Autumn's not just off the map, she's one of the monsters drawn at it's edge to warn off the overly curious. So many tiny moments have happened between them, but it's only here that Autumn realizes the last time she spoke face to face with this woman she was just one of the cattle.

Aria's mingling with somebody she doesn't quite recognize and Autumn, thumb and forefinger anxiously rolling a molecule of air between them, decides to go for a moment. They're not that far apart from eachother, really, but it feels like it takes ages to close the space. Laure's alone, which is perfect, because she doesn't want Aria, or Morgan, or Kiri around for this.

"Can we talk?" She asks. It feels alien, asking that, like she shouldn't have the strength for it, but she does now, and it doesn't come out timid or uncertain, or even pleading. It's even. Measured. "I know you're probably busy, but I'd like to."

—

@laurestcphens

[autumnshowell]

There's something to it, in feeling like she has something to show for the past six months of turbulence. Ups and downs, hills, valleys. Storms, real and figurative, and oh, so so much blood, sweat and tears. The dress is far more daring than she'd usually allow her to get, but the expression it draws out of her lover's features dispels any doubtful air.

AUTUMN HOWELL arrives, arm in arm with her partner, @photoaria, representing the CERBERUS PACK among her fellows, foot forward, spine steeled. She comes to the gala not the unaware, confused prey she'd been a year ago, but somebody who is awake and aware and ready to see real examples what her future holds, and to let go of what she was and embrace what she's becoming.

[autumnshowell]

Autumn's fingers tap along her mug, coming to the realization - frustratingly so - that Romy's dug in here, refusing to believe her. It's maddening, the lengths the mind goes. She wonders, in the moment, how many times she'd bent herself into twists to justify things she'd seen as Port Leiry tourism. She sets her mug down, rubs her palms over her knees in antsy idleness.

She wonders, for the thousandth time — if she'd have let herself see what was right there all along, would Olivier still be alive?

The frustration's there though, already starting to simmer and boil. What does it take to be believed? Kevin had been primed by knowing about Aria. Morgan had believed her because Autumn'd nearly eaten her alive.

"It's not a metaphor!" She growls, and in the snap of it her eyes flash ambergold in the snapping moment of temper, her brows furrowing.

She remembers doctors telling her it was in her head. Telling her that it was stress, anxiety. That it was a trauma dream. That it was just the mind making up things for her to cope. "It's real." She says, upset, through gritted teeth, her eyes already faded back into their steely blue beneath an expression of incredulous frustration, and its impossible to hide that in the pleading notes of her question; "How do I... convince you? Because this happened to me, and if you know about it, maybe it won't happen to you."

Romy didn’t move at first. Not when the footsteps padded back downstairs. Not even when two mugs clinked gently onto the counter like peace offerings wrapped in steam. She just kept her eyes trained on the table, chin resting in one hand while the other curled in her lap, picking at the skin around her thumbnail like it owed her an apology.

But then the towel sling moved — and so did the very tiny, very orange puffball — and Romy’s eyebrows did a confused little tango before one arched upward like it had just heard the plot twist early.

“…Okay,” she said slowly, watching Thoreau unfold like an origami spell someone forgot to teach her how to read. “Well that’s... a cat in a pouch. Not the weirdest thing I’ve seen today, so that’s refreshing.”

She reached out a cautious hand, letting the small creature sniff her fingers, and her shoulders dropped just a fraction. The smell of coffee helped too — some primal part of her brain interpreting it as a signal that maybe, just maybe, the apocalypse had been rescheduled. She looked up finally, eyes finding Autumn’s, and though the panic had ebbed into something softer, her expression still held the kind of skepticism usually reserved for mall psychics and group project partners.

“Okay. So. You’re not covered in blood anymore, which is a definite upgrade,” she said, trying for lightness but still sounding like her vocal cords were running through molasses. “And I guess if you were gonna murder me, you probably wouldn’t have done it with coffee and... an anxiety-support-cat named Thoreau. I respect the branding.”

Romy took the offered stool with the cautious weight of someone still waiting for a trapdoor. She wrapped both hands around her mug like she might wring comfort from it, eyes narrowing faintly as she looked Autumn over again — this time not for wounds, but for tells. Honesty. Cracks in the weird, storybook logic of whatever this was.

She didn’t find any.

“I’m not saying I believe the whole... whatever-this-is,” she started, gesturing vaguely between them like the air itself was glitching. “But I’m here, right? I stayed. And I didn’t bolt, even though my brain did a full PowerPoint presentation titled Reasons We Should Flee Immediately. So. You get, like, partial credit.”

Her voice softened then — not much, but enough. Just a half-step out of her usual armor. “But Autumn… if something’s going on, really going on? You don’t have to turn it into mythology. You don’t have to hide behind monster metaphors and magic excuses. If you’re in trouble, or sick, or scared, or... I don’t know, unraveling in some way? You can tell me. Like, actually tell me. I’ll listen.”

A pause, small but sincere.

“I’m not great at a lot of things, but I am very, very good at showing up for people having a weird time.”

[autumnshowell]

"It's not... it's not really about, well.. I guess it is... about— being one."

She reaches - slowly - into the satchel at her side, and fishes out a set of photos she's had Aria take of the basement of the bookstore, clutching them in her hand, hesitant to jump right to that.

"When I was first... figuring it out, I used my girlfriend's perfume to sort of... control where I went? I don't... I don't control anything when I'm like that, or I do but... I don't know, it's all really weird and... my question is... do you think ... given time and the right... tools, I guess. Do you think it could be taught? Tamed? Have you ever heard of anything like that?"

He looks up and towards Autumn, a question very clearly written in his eyes -- she doesn't know much about werewolves, despite being one? New, then. He hums, keeping his hands in his pockets. He'd retired the gloves a few days after being turned, not needing the subterfuge of hiding his tattooed hand any longer.

"What questions, then? I can't promise I'll know everything." He gestures for Autumn to continue, and then to follow him, so they're not out in the open in the gallery. He leads her to the office at the back, and sits at the edge of the desk, waiting for her to choose between the chairs provided or the couch he would sometimes sleep on.

[autumnshowell]

Autumn works her way into a seat next to Camila, and as Aria speaks, she tries to scoot closer to Camila, as close as she can really stand to be; the bigfoot retort makes her expression crack a bit, but it's not humor, it's more condolence, sympathy.

"We keep the building cool. For the books," she says. She doesn't notice, because she runs hot.

"But yes, change. you're already changing, you just haven't noticed it yet. Think about it. Things are louder, right? Lights brighter, you're a little more jumpy than usual, right? Everything, smells... stronger? You feel like maybe you're a little more clumsy? Like you don't know your own strength? Think, any of that sound familiar?" Her tone's soft, gentle.

"We've got a bit of time before the next full moon, that's a good thing, because you're going to want time to prepare yourself for what's coming. And I need you to hear me when I say this. There is no stopping it. It's already in you. I'm not trying to scare you," her words break away and she tries to take up Cami's hand, which feels awkward, but sometimes she finds touch grounding. Sometimes. "I'm really sorry."

She looks from where her hands lace with Camila's, her own knuckles scuffed up with the knicks and cuts that etch the tribulations of the past few months into something tangible, and over to Aria, and then to Camila. "My partner here, she's also different. Last year somebody murdered her, and then... she came back. I know this is all insane and I can hear you boiling over right now, but we're telling you this so you know you're not alone—that you don't have to be alone in this, okay?"

— @photoaria

"Nice to meet you, Camila." She says simply, quietly, with a hint of a smile. "Autumn's right, though, the apartment's yours as long as you need it - but." The hard part is coming, so she's trying to weigh exactly how to say it. It's clear on her feature that's she's struggling with what words to use. She quickly glances up to Autumn, offers her a smile when she pulls back her shirt, and turns her attention, then, fully to Camila.

She gestures for her to look at the scar. "My girlfriend had a mishap, I'm hearing somewhat similar to yours." She doesn't remember a lot of this, either, but she tries. "A month after, on the full moon, she started to change." Aria swallows.

"I'm sure you've heard stories about creatures, things that go bump in the night. Vampires, witches.. werewolves." She chews on her lower lip, "It's all real. And it's a lot to take in, so sit still, just focus on your breathing, okay?" Voice as gentle as possible.

"You were bitten, too. So next month.. you'll have the same experiences. Emotions run rampant, hair starts growing faster, in places you might not want it to. Aches and pains.. then the shift." She swallows. "Autumn can help describe it more."

@duskruins

[autumnshowell]

The prick of fang at her upturned hand stings, at first, but in a familiar way, a way that used to make her feel a little insane - and it still does, but in a different way, one that's not really quantifiable, or explicable, and Autumn manages to pull her face out of the dark pocket she's created between the two of them, shifting there so they're face to face, eye to eye.

Lips to lips.

Heart to heart.

Dirty soul to dirty soul.

And then there's the fucking cat, butting in like it's saying leave space for Jesus, poking between the two of them, as if to ask if they've forgotten somebody. Autumn scoffs, uses a free hand to push it's tiny little head down and out of the way, and she doesn't kiss Aria, not at first; just pushes her cheek into Aria's dragging her face along just so, just to feel her, and then there's another shift of moment and she does take up some deeper kind of kiss, loving, covetous, apologetic all in one.

And outside one storm rages as the storm between them seems to pass after months of battering at the shutters and chasing them from safety to safety, and suddenly even in this strange tempest, heaven's a place and she's been there because it's always been here, in the space between them, wherever the closest point is where they can meet. It's quite comfort, it's safety in a storm.

It's, for Autumn, wherever Aria is.

And its just the storm outside and the dark apartment, and she's not sure how long she dozes off for, only that its the most peaceful bit of sleep she's had in half a year; but it's interrupted by the clash of storms and sirens, and there's a bit of an alarmed scramble from the apartment, down to the store, and into the basement. And they don't come up until the next day, because they know that whatever's been broken can be fixed.

Curled up like this together, it's easier to listen and talk and know that from here on out: they're in this together, Aria and Autumn against whatever fucked up bullshit the world wants to throw at them. Memory loss or no. She can tell Autumn's close to tears, but lets her hide, work through how she needs to. Listens. Hears and understands. She turns her head to nuzzle against her, a bit of physical comfort to nudge her along. It seems to work, because Autumn peels away from her neck and explains.

She reaches for her hand again, grips it tight. Because shame or no, they have to be there for one another. "I want that." Because that's the important part, dark eyes shining under the candlelight and lightning. "I want you." The words come out with heavier emphasis than she expects it to. "I want you, troubles and all. I want you with all the love you have in your heart, and all the anger that you're afraid of, and the monstrosity that's just as much a part of you as it is me."

Aria kisses her palm, nibbles a little on the flesh of her hand with slightly elongated fangs. It's a promise for later, and a promise that she recognizes it in both of them - the want, the fear, the pieces of them that no one else is privy to. "I choose you. Here and now, with no memory of what we had before. And if I do get them back, I'll choose you again."

[autumnshowell]

Autumn's hesitant to go upstairs, but she does; and in the shower, which is extra lonely this morning, she wonders how this works, how she's spent the last five months trying to hide this from everybody only to get caught, literally red-handed, and have to fight to convince somebody.

It makes her realize that it was never about being stupid, the way she and Morgan and now, Romy, have lived here for so long without knowing what lurked in the corners just out of sight. It's more, she starts to think, about fear. About not wanting to know. About not being able to handle it. She was the same way about Aria, stopped from fleeing by compulsive authority. It's silly to say Aria never needed to do that, maybe, but she believes it at this point. It's part of why she thinks maybe she was always meant to wind up here, skeleton aching the morning after turning into something inhuman under a full moon. She'd banked on vampire, but sometimes life doesn't care what we want.

Out of the shower, in front of the mirror; Autumn eyes the side of her face, and it isn't faint feminine fuzz lining her chin but a thicker strap of it that runs down, from in front of her ears and along her jawline - it's not quite a beard, and not quite scruff, either, but its' far from peach-fuzz. It's not all that's there either. Chest, belly, backside, arms, legs, it's faint, maybe even enough to be considered human, but not normal, not unnoticeable. But it's not and never has been unnoticeable, not since all this. The Full Moon leaves its mark just as does the passing of time, and today, in the interest of transparency, and in order to avoid taking too long, she lets it lie untouched by a razor. The expedience of it is weirdly freeing in a way, even if seeing it in the mirror still feels strange. Not unpleasant; just strange in some currently undefined way.

She comes downstairs, clean, wild hair bound up in a loose bun, racerback and sweats all Romy's going to get, because again - the scars, the hair, it's all to sell her on this. I'm not crazy. I'm not human. I just look like I am sometimes. She finds Romy there, and breathes a sigh of relief, and sets two cups of coffee down from each hand, and then from a tiny makeshift sling made out of a towel hanging in front of her she takes out powdered creamer, and sugar, and then, a couple spoons, and lastly, a small orange ball of fluff that, upon contact with the table, unfurls sleeply, stepping inquisitively towards Romy as it recognizes the smell of something unfamiliar.

"I uh, that's Thoreau," she says. "Sometimes she helps me calm down, a bit." She's glad Aria isn't here to claim the win.

Autumn sets out down on one of the two stools behind the counter, offers the other one to Romy. "It's not Brewed Awakening but it's something."

She lets that quiet sit, and takes her coffee up in her hands without adding anything, and sips at it, because she doesn't think she's going to be doing her traditional sleeping it all off today, so she might as well caffienate. "I wouldn't make this up, Romy."

Romy nodded. Or tried to. It came out more like a twitch — somewhere between a scared squirrel and a bobblehead after a rough shipping journey.

She sucked in a breath, one-two-three like she’d learned from some mental health TikTok once, then exhaled in a whoosh that did absolutely nothing to stop her from feeling like her ribs were made of rubber bands pulled too tight. She planted her hands on her knees for a moment like that would ground her, like the floor was going to suddenly offer up emotional support and a reality check. It didn’t. Rude.

“Yeah. Um. Okay. Go—go shower,” she said, waving a shaky hand toward the stairs without looking too closely at the blood because if she did, she might actually lose her grip on the rapidly unraveling thread of composure she had left. “I’ll just... wait here. I think. I mean, I don’t want to bolt, but like, my brain’s kind of doing a mental inventory of all the doors and exit strategies right now, so no promises.”

She glanced up at Autumn with eyes still wide, but no longer just panic — now there was a storm of confusion brewing behind them, with disbelief clinging to the edges like static. “I don’t know what that scar means, or what’s actually going on here,” she muttered, voice quieter now, hoarse like it had been dragged through gravel. “But you don’t get that kind of damage from cosplay, and you definitely don’t come home looking like a low-budget horror movie extra unless something real happened.”

A long breath. A long stare at the wall, like it might offer her clarity. It didn’t. Just a weird crack in the drywall that she was now going to hyperfocus on to avoid having another panic spiral.

“I’m not gonna go screaming to the town, okay? I’m not built for conspiracy. I can’t even keep my group chat secrets straight,” she added, voice steadier but laced with nerves. “But this? Autumn, this is a lot. Like, I thought we were doing cute-coffee-energy, not... existential crisis and blood-streaked mystery scars. I don't know what to think.”

[autumnshowell]

It's easy to believe Summer; the way she speaks, the tone of it— the tune of it, really; its lilting, almost lyrical, like a lullabye, and she wonders if that's from their mother - the one she'll never know. Autumn's pensive as she stands idle there, watching Summer scoop up some faltering plant and deposit it into her hands, all leggy green with its clod of dirt at the base.

There's a warmth in Summer's hand as she murmurs what must be magic into existence; but not in the standard sense of thins; she feels a stirring in the tuft of dirt and feels the wriggling sensation of a plant growing, eyes looking on in genuine amazement as the thin green twig becomes a flower, sweet-smelling, beautiful, real in her hands. It's not like the faint hints AJ's given at his own magic, or whatever that Jamie woman had done to sink Amanda's bones into the mud in Owyhee Canyon. It's something that isn't caustic, that seems like its meant to give or heal. Maybe all witches can do all of it, she doesn't know, but there's a wonder on her face quickly mixing with a sort of hopeful glint, her smile widening, because it's just unlike anything she's seen; everything else has been so visceral, all blood and gore and teeth and breaking bones and tearing skin.

"That's... incredible," she says, bewildered but with not a drip of disbelief in her voice. "How? Could I? Can I?" her eyes dart from the lavender to her sister, and she doesn't dare set it down, because she needs this.

Everything Autumn says sounds like the Garnett Coven roots are in her, even if she doesn't know how to untangle them from everything she believes to be true about the world, true about herself. That call of nature can be natural for many humans no matter their background, but in the Sauveterre bloodline... it's as good a sign as any of magic. Like any language, though, it needs to be learned before it can really be spoken.

"Yeah," Summer laughs. "Like magic."

It feels like some sort of weight is lifted off her chest, knowing her sister hasn't run screaming. She's heard the voices of those who doubt the mystic. There's derision and dismissal. But Autumn's voice is curious, even hopeful? Despite her self-doubt, Summer can sense she's not closed off to the notion -- it makes her curious to know more. Due time, due time.

"Here, let me... uhm, let me show you."

Suddenly she's aware of the fact that she should be able to back the claim up. It's a bit silly, but it now feels like Summer can't think of the first thing to demonstrate to her sister. What would seem most likely to be believed? Most easily shown without being mistaken for a trick of the light? It's spring, a time of growth and rejuvenation. Summer looks around near her feet and finds a small sprig of some plant that's been chewed on by a creature. "You hold it. I promise it's not poisonous."

At least, she's fairly certain, they don't tend to grow the dangerous stuff out in the open.

Summer puts it in Autumn's hand and then cups her own hands beneath her sister's. Quietly she whispers a plea, a prayer to life and to the plant, to find the sunlight and soil and water wherever they exist in the world -- because even when the sun isn't visible in one part of the world, its constant nature nurtures all things. A bigger spell might need more from her to complete, but this sort of thing is easy in the springtime, second and first nature to a Sauveterre witch. And as she speaks life into being, the sprig in Autumn's hand revivifies into a beautiful wand of lavender, its purple blossom greeting them with a gentle, calming scent.

"Our magic changes with the seasons -- we don't control nature, but rather work with it. We don't abuse its gifts, but do our part to share in the bounty through the General Store. The land gives back to us, we give back to it. It's a beautiful ecosystem, and there's a place for you in it, if you want it."

[autumnshowell]

She's been building up the nerve for this all day, and tells herself its fine, because they'd been on her bed sucking face not sixteen hours prior. She likes you. Just ask. So She Does. "I was wondering, um if you'd, you know, want to make it official, you know? Go out sometime. Dinner and a movie or something?" Her tone's bright, the kind of hopeful you find in a song. So its a bit mortifying then, when Trish Nicoterro's face is all confusion.

"No? Why would you even ask that?' She asks the question through a smile that seems to ask are you fucking stupid? "Autumn I... I'm not even like that." She feels her stomach drop like a rock into some pond in the deepest core of herself, the ripples of it washing over her body as everybody everybody, starts laughing. "Why?"

"Why would I date something like you? Look at you, Howell, you're a fucking dog."

who: @lcveyearned where: tideview university

Wait. That isn't what happened, what Trish said, she thinks. That's not... but then she sees her hands, all gnarled, black wires sprouting from each knuckle, pads of her palms dark and rough and that's when her hands go to pull at her face, all hair and thick gnarled bone and huge, sharp teeth. And then the cameras come out, flashing, recording, forming a cacophony with the laughter. And it's everybody. Trisha's just the half of it. Jess Alders is there. Wesley. Kevin. Even Aria. It makes her stomach lurch, the way she can't even fucking stand on two legs while they laugh. Ashlyn emerges out of that derisive sea and tries to comfort her, but then she's screaming, because Autumn's not herself, and she's face down in Trish's guts, teeth burrowing, shutting her up, and nobody's laughing, but everybody's screaming.

!

She starts out of sleep. It's bright. It's sunny. Summertime warm. She's under a tree on the campus, her Rachel Reiland book fallen out of her lap and onto the grass. Fuck, she thinks to herself as she paws midday sleep out of her eyes.

The two-hour gap between her last two classes is just enough to lure her into a nap, it seems, and she's about to get her journal dug out to chronicle another dream but she realizes the time then. Fuck, she thinks again and instead shoves her book into her pack and gets up to head back into the building for her last class— a singular missing gen-ed that she wishes she could just test out of already.

When tries the classroom door, though, it's locked. And the teacher on the other side only offers a cursory glance at her through the window before going back to the lecture. That's when she sees the paper sign scotch-taped to the door.

"If you're late to my class, do better tomorrow :)"

You see him smiling? He's happy. You're two minutes late and he's happy to waste your fucking time. They're probably all chuckling with him in there. She fucking hates that professor.

Fuck. It's everything she can do in that moment not to just... rip the fucking thing off its hinges, but she forces herself to take a step back and a breath. Eyes shut. breathe. big in, slow out. It's not the end of the world.

She's about to decide it is the end of the fucking world, actually, when something thunders into the side of her, and she feels arms thrown around her. There's a fight or flight there, too— it's Olivia, she's here. Snap, snarl, break, BITE.

Autumn struggles free from the unexpected embrace and it takes a beat for her arms to drop to a less defensive position when she realizes who it actually is. "Ash?" It's like she's seen a ghost; between the adrenaline and frustration she looks more frightened than surprised; because of course Ashlyn's here at Tideview. "

"You scared the crap outta me," she says, all that stifling energy of fight or flight funneling into the cracked bottle of her mind. Belt it down. get it out of here. You're normal, you're not dangerous. You're just Autumn; the same one you were before all this crazy shit. The lie of it 's bought and paid for, her surprised feature fading into something more pleasant, affecting surprise. "Sorry I just.. you jumpscared me." It's awkward because does she smile? She becomes intensely aware that she hasn't sent a single text or message to her since... November, FUCK, Autumn.

[autumnshowell]

His head hits the table sideways and she thinks, maybe with an ounce of hindsight, he doesn't wanna talk about the fucking weather. But then, as if the question were a drop of water on a dying plant, he pops up - and then his face morphs from whatever expression had accompanied his sulking into... what?

Oh god, it's worse - he wants to talk. But her name's a stray bullet that jolts a start through her shoulders. "What—"

"Uh, yeah...?" She asks, idly checking if her old AlleyCats name badge is, for some reason, stuck to this shirt or her backpack. It isn't. "Do we... do we know eachother?" He at least seems happy to see her, which rules out a few less than stellar options.

Lorenzo's words hit home a little more sourly than he'd first expected. His mention of Tomás studying (or lack of) prompts him to make a little more effort with keeping atop the workload at Tideview. He knows he shouldn't let his brother needle him about it, but it does make Tomás feel like an outlier in amongst them with a mind running in another direction. They'd been so close once, him, Enzo, Anna-Maria. Dinner's were always a full, rambunctious event.

Tomás can't even remember the last time they all gathered around a table, eating gambas al ajillo. His mom didn't cook all that often, it was more times his dad. But when she did, it was always grandmother's recipes.

He misses them.

Tomás sits himself on a quiet bench, he'd usually take more notice of what the other had been doing. But he doesn't. Just dumps his bag on the space next to him, and considers resting his head on the table in a slump. He almost spills the coffee he's holding across the table, and onto the woman's book.

He salvages it with a muttered apology. And gets his head partway there on the cool of the table in semi-defeat, when a voice has his head twisting around from where he lays it on the table. "Hm? Oh yeah!"

Good weather. It is. Considering the storm had torn apart his camper at the edge of the campus and he's staying at Riven's whilst putting down a deposit for an apartment. Not like his parents pay too much attention to the Priestley finances.

He's in a rut, and he knows it.

But his excitement rockets to the front of his chest, lighting up the sad in his eyes. Clouding it over with surprise, and enthusiasm because he recognises the other.

"Autumn!" Aria's girlfriend. He's seen her on instagram. Heard a great many things.

[autumnshowell]

Why do you assume people want to talk to you?

Autumn's mouth hangs parted just slightly for a minute, brows high, eyes wide. There's a piece of her, in the back of her mind, that wants to snarl back, to push back, to snap back. Autumn takes the journal up in her hands, tapping the bottom of it on the table. "Right, yeah."

Autumn puts the book flat back on the desk, opens it, sets pencil to paper, and tries to remember where she'd been going with it, but there's a sort of self conscious bloom now. She wants to shove her journal into her pack and fuck off, but, well...

No. My Bench. She can leave.

So instead she fishes something else out of pack, opening Bainbridge's Conservation of Books and thumbing over the foreword while she passes the time.

That fucking witch. If it wasn’t for her, Anika wouldn’t have stepped foot on this campus.

There’d been an inkling, a restless desire to get the hell out of there, but a deal was a fucking deal, and so Anika settled for pacing the university grounds, waiting for the damn woman to show up.

Seats were all taken, except one.

Almost matching notebooks covered the table, where one was tightly shut, and the other untouched for weeks. Anika didn’t ask if the girl sitting there needed company or wanted it. Didn’t fucking care either way. She wasn’t staying long.

Boots hit the edge of the table with a thud. "Yeah, we don’t have to do this — where you say something and then I say something—" She was perfectly fine with silence. "Just keep doing your… whatever it is. I’m not looking at it." Didn’t need to. Whatever it was, it was private. And fuck, if someone ever flipped through her own sketchbook, she’d gouge their eyes out without hesitation.

[autumnshowell]

Autumn looks him over, doubtful, her face morphing from its uncertain mistrust into something a little more daring, a little more angry, pushed up by the taunting, the teasing. Her fingernails dig at each other, pensive and livid. Something ticks over a red line in her mind.

"So you know my 'maker', or whatever. What do you want with me?"

She steps forward. "Because I'm not Arte, and I don't want trouble."

Or does she? There's maybe the spark of truth to the statement, that she doesn't want trouble; she's made enough for herself after all, landed in the middle of others' often enough. Maybe it'd be more true to say she doesn't need trouble, then, because right now all she wants is an excuse from this stranger to make more, like it's an instinctive itch in the back of her mind that needs scratched. A hunger that needs fed. Life without Aria's so fucking bland, bloodless, boring, and there's a pedacious glint in her eye here in the sun that no amount of denial can hide.

It's like free entertainment, of a sort. To watch how they work themselves up so easily, these werewolves, these beast. Like there's nothing but anger coursing through their body and they can't help but revert to the most basic of human instincts. He almost expects her to lash out, jump at him like a caged animal and wonders how much would it take to make her snap. Not much, he figures, by the looks of it. He wonders how enlightening would be to have a wolf that's no prisoner to one form.

He's much eager to finding out.

But for now, he settles for a pleased smile, his hands falling into his pockets, where he hides little toys of his own in case she decides to play. He's not going for the catch, not yet.

"Well, I wish you my very best in your... conflicting situationship." He teases, moving his head as he speaks to deliver his amusement. Before shrugging lightly. "Ah this is just... an impromptu meeting, darling, to get acquainted with each other. I was so looking forward to meeting you."

[autumnshowell]

Autumn rolls her eyes and, without asking for further permission, grabs some of the towels, helping him clean the spill. "It's half my fault anyways, just... let me."

It's subconscious, and she isn't aware of it really, but there's something nice doing this sort of thing because she wants to; she gets it at home, too - tidying up because she's happy to be in the space, rather than because she's been guilted into it.

As she helps, he talks, and she shrugs, ans she continues sopping up cleaner idly as her eyes follow him. "I just, I kind of know them, not really, but like, we're acquaintances, and they've made off-hand comments about this place, so I just figured I'd see if I could catch them here on one of the days they'd mentioned. Eventually, she meets him by the trash, and throws her towel into the bin, too.

"I don't... I don't really know what I'm doing here - I'm mostly here to... I'm trying to figure out somewhere to put like..." Her hands do some of the talking here, while she tries to find the words. "Like, I don't really care about getting shredded or losing weight or whatever I just... I could use an outlet, you know? Part of what I was hoping to talk with Remi about."

"Remi." Liam repeated as he knelt to the ground and dragged the towel across the puddle, soaking as much of it up as he could. "I've heard the name but I can't remember what they look like." He saw so many faces in the gym that it was almost impossible for him to remember all of them. That, and he rarely cared to. Unless he was helping them by being their trainer, Liam didn't feel the need to talk to anyone.

"Were they going to help train you or something?" He wasn't quite sure why someone would meet another at the gym, unless they'd decided to work out together. "No. I've got it." He shook his head as he stood, taking the soaked towel with him and placing it into the bin of dirty towels.

Liam's eyes flickered towards the clock. He still had an hour of his shift. He'd thought about staying longer, considering he didn't have to pick up Addie from school for another three hours. "Is there something I could help you with since you're here?"

[autumnshowell]

Autumn can't help but stare around, a tiny, reflexive shrug rolling over her shoulders because, well, it wouldn't be the first time she'd fought off a bear.

She really can't blame Romy's disbelief, or her panic - this wasn't something anyone was ever prepared for - werewolves, vampires, witchcraft. It's all in the Port Leiry travel brochures. It's fucking Halloween in this city every day of the year, not to mention just how insufferable it gets around Halloween itself. It's so out there and in everyone's face that nobody takes it seriously. It's just... tourism.

Except it isn't.

She has to nod at the question. Every full moon. Another question, and she sighs this time along with the nod. "Yeah."

There's a lot to those next questions. and Autumn takes a deep breath. "Look. I know this is like, so much, and I'm willing to like, talk it out, explain if you'll let me, at least as much as I can, but like... I could really use like, a shower - obviously - and I've got a annoyingly touch-starved kitten upstairs if you're into that and if you want to just... not freak out and run away and go telling everybody about this, we can do that coffee I've been bailing on. It's... safe here. I promise."

That's not really a promise she can ever make, but it's earnest words, at least.

Romy’s breaths came fast and shallow, each inhale feeling like trying to suck air through a straw stuffed with cotton. Her heart hammered so loud it might as well have been thumping out a Morse code warning; danger, danger, danger. The blood smeared across Autumn’s arms, the raw scent of iron and something wild twisted in the air, and that mark —the jagged, angry scar tracing on her skin—etched itself into Romy’s brain like a bad tattoo she couldn’t scratch off.

She started pacing, back and forth, the floorboards creaking under her socked feet as if protesting the chaos in her head. “No, no, no,” she muttered to herself, voice tight and jittery, trying to will her eyes away from the crimson streaks, from the scars that looked like they’d been carved by a bear —or maybe something worse. “This isn’t real. Werewolves aren’t real. This is some messed-up fever dream. Or you’re messing with me. Right?”

Her hands twitched, nails biting into her palms until faint crescent moons burned red. She swallowed hard, but the lump in her throat wouldn’t budge. “I don’t know what kind of horror show you’re starring in, Autumn, but walking around with all that blood and... that scar?” She shook her head, voice cracking like brittle glass. “You look like you fought off a damn bear or wrestled the devil himself.”

Her mind tumbled, trying to balance between logic and pure, unfiltered panic. She wanted to believe Autumn —that part of her did— because goddamn it, she didn’t want to be alone in this mess. But this? Werewolves? It sounded insane. Unreal. The stuff of late-night horror flicks and badly written novels.

Romy’s pace slowed as she met Autumn’s gaze, wide and searching. “Every full moon, huh?” she echoed, voice softer now but still trembling, “So what? You turn into a giant, angry mutt and go hunting? What happens to you? To your head? Your hands?” She swallowed, trying not to hyperventilate. “Because right now, you look like you’re just trying to survive... but on a whole other level than I ever signed up for.”

[autumnshowell]

Autumn nods— doesn't smile, that's too friendly; out here in the campus' open air, she can scent a million things in the breeze, magic among them, and its strange odor strengthens at the woman's arrival. It's just another thing over which to realize she has been inundated in things like this for her whole life; a fact of which she isn't sure she should be annoyed with or not. It's a miracle that she'd survived for so long, and whether it was blindness or stupidity or simply that all these terrible monstrous things were just that good at hiding, she might never know, but it doesn't matter now, because she's one of them.

The woman reassures her, and Autumn nods - her train of thoughts interrupted anyways, so regardless of any voyeuristic tendency or not, she'll just get back to her thoughts later.

"It's fine," she says, hand idly flipping the journal's front cover back and forth a few times. She's not a vampire, because her heart thrums that low one-two, one-two in her chest and she doesn't smell that loamy petrichor either. It's the same stringent spice the air has around somebody like AJ, or Summer... but lesser.

Here's the trouble then; Autumn's not naturally curious, or friendly, and leaving it hanging feels rude, like if she isn't going to say anything she might as well just go find somewhere else to sit. So she forces it, tries to recapture whatever confidence it was she had here on her first time around. "Are you local?" It seems like a stupid question; she can't imagine anybody traveling far to go to fucking Tideview, of all places.

She had been in town just long enough to have learned that the university had classes on the occult; it made her wonder if an actual witch taught there, who might have an interest in curses. Alessandra had taken it upon herself to sneak into a class, but after a brief conversation with the professor it was almost clear to her that she would be no help. At least she was directed towards a couple of books that she hadn't yet searched for answers, so it wasn't a totally fruitless trip.

Sighing, she sat with her iced americano in one of the few free seats outside. The weather had been obviously shit recently, she missed feeling the sunlight on her skin - a type of touch she could at least still enjoy. "Yeah, gorgeous." Alessandra replied, paying the journal no mind. She hadn't been snooping, and had no interest to. Everyone had their shit. "Sorry, I won't disturb you. Just one of the few seats left." Despite the nice day, she sat in a long sleeved shirt, with thin fabric gloves covering her hands. She was warm, too warm, but she wasn't ready to break out the dangers of t-shirts just yet. "I won't spy, if you wanted to continue writing."

[autumnshowell]

Given the circumstances of their last meeting, Autumn feels strange being here. The entire concept of what Cameron does sticks like tar to the insides of her mind. But he'd offered help, and maybe it had just been because of her friendship with Elyse, but she needs that help now.

Her thoughts stammer; has Elyse told him? Should she tell hm? Should it just be left to lie? Like the question of why and how he's a vampire now, it dies an anxious death in the back of her throat.

He seems off-put, and his reassurances do little to dispel her apprehensions, but he's being direct, and so she returns the favor. "I actually. I have questions, about... werewolves - about some other things too, and I was wondering if I could pick your brain. Since you seemed to know a lot."

Though he knows Autumn is a werewolf, it's different to be met with the supernatural realization of it. The smell that comes from her is not human - it's other. 'Dog' is too simple a word for it, though he's heard it described that way various times from other.. leeches. He swallows against the word, and keeps his hands in his pockets as he approaches her.

Closer now, the smell is assaulting his senses - making his eyes water. It has to be the newness of it all. There's a rustic smell on her, feral and animal-like. He's not a fan, he realizes - too dirty and unclean at the back of his throat. Clearing it and stopping his breathing to prevent more, he gestures a greeting with a slight nod.

"It is out of nowhere, but no matter. What is it you need help with?"