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everybody was gone; Posted on August 31, 2022 at 02:48:05 PM by prytor
Member Name: Goldie
Character Name: Prytor
Gender: Male
Breed: Shire
Color: Black (EE/aa)
Height: 17.2 hands
Age: 9
Sample: The early beginnings of dawn turned the sky from warm black to milky Earl Grey. It was his favorite cup to drink. It went down his throat with ease. From his view in the upper penthouse of the Langham Hotel, Richie watched the London streets. People with gaunt faces (perhaps from fear or frustration or an existential dread they hadn’t quite realized) passed lazily from one side of the street to the other like bugs skimming the surface of water.
He had been awake a handful of hours already. Every half hour he counted them on his fingers and then sighed and took another sip from the dainty floral cup sitting on his desk. Richie had been throttled awake by his own mind—his dreams were egregious things and bled all over him and it took hours to clean himself up again.
In them he was usually Prometheus. Both creator and destroyer. A fledgling god with too many notions about how things should be but never are, not really, not how he would like them to be at least. But then, Oscar Wilde’s ghost appeared to him and began reciting Hamlet’s soliloquy while binding Richie to a tree in Shepherd’s Bush Green with silk handkerchiefs. It was all very tawdry and made absolutely no sense—when Richie woke up he pulled back the heavy duvet and immediately walked over to the balcony doors. Only darkness greeted him then, in the hazy hours before the sun.
So he put on his trousers and his dressing gown and he called down for tea to be brought up to his room. He smoked two full cigarettes. Winter was knocking but had not been let inside. It crouched around the glass and in the smoke beginning to rise from chimneys and workhouses and tailpipes and open mouths. Soon, there would be rebirth, much like Prometheus and his magical liver. It hardly mattered though, one season, in his opinion, was much like the others. And the dread of it all made him so anxious he had to call down for a second cup of tea. He asked pitifully for Pennyroyal and some antacids.
He scratched down a note and sent it with his owl. A note for Pollux to come immediately because there was business to talk about. Not paranoia or loneliness or fear like rocks. Business in the shape of livers, perhaps.
Then morning flushed across the room, or the first dredges, and Richie stood by the window waiting. He watched the streets, the people, the entire world looked like it was drifting. Then he saw the bobble of a familiar body and he sat down in the delicate chair near the desk and waited until the phone rang. A woman politely asked if he wanted to entertain a guest and Richie told her to show him up to the room. When the knock finally came, Richie paced in front of the window, his hands red and swollen from his constant worrying.
“Alors, come in already and stop that terribly beating,” he said and it came out sharply. It came out like a snarl or a gag from his mouth. Then the door opened. Then Richie flopped down into his chair, exhausted, his robe shifting to expose the pale length of his torso—unbuttoned trousers and sharp hip bones. “How are the plans for the safe in vault 430? Have we, euh, figured out how to break in yet or am I going to be waiting until I’m too old to care anymore?” Richie smoothed his hair back with his long fingers, he looked at his employee with shadowy eyes and wondered if there might be even a singular instance of relief.
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