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undergrounds2017-09-02 11:36 pm
melancolique) wrote in undergrounds2017-09-02 11:36 pm
Eponine - September
A catch all for Eponine
Bus Shelter
Free charge points are a lifesaver. Eponine has trudged right across London: she had walked and walked to find somewhere to charge her newly acquired mobile. The rose gold iPhone had been a pleasant surprise when Eponine had come down from her drug-induced haze. She had absolutely no recollection of taking it, but she guesses it must be from the fae she drank from. Who knew fae were cool enough to have phones like that?
She'd played with the phone as she recovered from the blood, scrolling through Imogen's contacts, her photos, her videos. She'd even dared to send a couple of texts to some of the numbers on the phone - just because she could. Just for the novelty of it. And then she finds him. Him. He is so gorgeous; long, floppy hair, soulful eyes. She sends him a message. Will he reply?
Eponine had spent the day playing with the phone: playing music, going on the internet, waiting in increasing agony for the boy to text back. She can imagine the conversations they'd have when he finds out she's not the blonde girl. What a life they could have. Unfortunately though, iPhones have rubbish batteries and the phone is soon dead. Eponine thinks about chucking it, or pawning it, but the thought of the boy's text going unread is too much, so she decides to charge it.
All of which is how Eponine finds herself curled up in a bus shelter, clutching the phone to a charge point and willing it to turn on again. It's quiet in the bus shelter, dark, but Eponine's not worried. She's strong, she can defend herself. Even still, footsteps echoing on the concrete have her stiffening, and she stands quickly.
"Who's there?" she calls.
Flower Child
What Eponine hates most about being a vampire is the fact that she can't go out in the sun. It feels like ages since Montparnasse relieved her of the necklace that protected her from the light and condemned her to the dark. She misses the warmth of the sun. She misses watching people laughing in the park. She misses the flowers.
London is a city of stone, but Eponine is quick to notice the flowers that spout from hanging baskets all around the major tourist traps. There's a pub she really likes on Long Acre: there's a piano outside spouting flowers, and boots, old chimneys - even a bicycle.
Alone one night, long after the tourists have gone, Eponine finds herself drifting towards the pub, and sinking down outside. But, as intoxicated as she is, from hunting drunks and drinking their vodka-spiced blood, mere looking is no longer enough. She finds herself reaching out with her skeletal fingers, stroking the petals.
And then - then one is broken off, and in her hand. And another. Another. Another, another, another until she has almost a bouquet of pansies and ferns and baby's breath and irises. Eponine barely realises what she's done, but the destroyed displays, the soil trailing over the cobbles.
Still clutching the muddy flowers, she turns to run, and ends up smacking into a very human sized someone blocking her way.
"Move!" She says, urgently. "Get out of the way!"
Street Rat
Eponine's last hit of fae blood had been days ago. She's feeling it properly now: her head is spinning, her hands are beginning to shake and her concentration is gone. The problem is, though, that the cash that Montparnasse had given her had run out, and the gang she had found had told her not to come back without money. They didn't trust a skank to pay her debts. In fairness, that was probably a shrewd move.
Eponine knew she had to make money, and quickly, or find and attack a fae alone.
Once night fell, she dressed herself in her skimpiest clothes: the tatty skirt, fishnets, her battered t-shirt. She left her hoodie and jacket in the grave she had claimed as her bed, and made her way to the streets near the night clubs, finding a spot on the pavement.
She leaned back against the lamp post: it was going to be a long night of begging, an activity she despised anyway.
As people begin to walk past, she calls out for coins "-Enough for a cup of tea, Sir?" "Just a pound, please, Madame," but it doesn't earn her much.
It doesn't bother Eponine: her targets are the drunks on the way home. She spends her time, waiting for 3am, with the other homeless that team the streets. She bums a few cigarettes off some of them, promising to pay them back later. Her hunger burns her throat, but she doesn't attack. These people are her comrades. But for the grace of God, they could be her. They're not food, they're friends.
When the clubs start to let out, her tactics change. She poses at the lamp post, one foot resting on the base of the post, and one hand firmly wrapped round. The women get the same calls as before, but the men - well, for them, she sings bawdy songs in French and English. With one, she disappears into a dark alleyway, and reappears, minutes later, her skirt pockets distinctly heavier, and wearing his blood on her nose and her mouth. Some people are concerned now, that she's been attacked. Some are more interested in her songs. Whatever it is, it's earning her coins and attention, and Eponine calls all the more,
"Won't you give me a coin? Just one or two is all I ask. Just enough for bed! Give me one!"
Bus Shelter
Free charge points are a lifesaver. Eponine has trudged right across London: she had walked and walked to find somewhere to charge her newly acquired mobile. The rose gold iPhone had been a pleasant surprise when Eponine had come down from her drug-induced haze. She had absolutely no recollection of taking it, but she guesses it must be from the fae she drank from. Who knew fae were cool enough to have phones like that?
She'd played with the phone as she recovered from the blood, scrolling through Imogen's contacts, her photos, her videos. She'd even dared to send a couple of texts to some of the numbers on the phone - just because she could. Just for the novelty of it. And then she finds him. Him. He is so gorgeous; long, floppy hair, soulful eyes. She sends him a message. Will he reply?
Eponine had spent the day playing with the phone: playing music, going on the internet, waiting in increasing agony for the boy to text back. She can imagine the conversations they'd have when he finds out she's not the blonde girl. What a life they could have. Unfortunately though, iPhones have rubbish batteries and the phone is soon dead. Eponine thinks about chucking it, or pawning it, but the thought of the boy's text going unread is too much, so she decides to charge it.
All of which is how Eponine finds herself curled up in a bus shelter, clutching the phone to a charge point and willing it to turn on again. It's quiet in the bus shelter, dark, but Eponine's not worried. She's strong, she can defend herself. Even still, footsteps echoing on the concrete have her stiffening, and she stands quickly.
"Who's there?" she calls.
Flower Child
What Eponine hates most about being a vampire is the fact that she can't go out in the sun. It feels like ages since Montparnasse relieved her of the necklace that protected her from the light and condemned her to the dark. She misses the warmth of the sun. She misses watching people laughing in the park. She misses the flowers.
London is a city of stone, but Eponine is quick to notice the flowers that spout from hanging baskets all around the major tourist traps. There's a pub she really likes on Long Acre: there's a piano outside spouting flowers, and boots, old chimneys - even a bicycle.
Alone one night, long after the tourists have gone, Eponine finds herself drifting towards the pub, and sinking down outside. But, as intoxicated as she is, from hunting drunks and drinking their vodka-spiced blood, mere looking is no longer enough. She finds herself reaching out with her skeletal fingers, stroking the petals.
And then - then one is broken off, and in her hand. And another. Another. Another, another, another until she has almost a bouquet of pansies and ferns and baby's breath and irises. Eponine barely realises what she's done, but the destroyed displays, the soil trailing over the cobbles.
Still clutching the muddy flowers, she turns to run, and ends up smacking into a very human sized someone blocking her way.
"Move!" She says, urgently. "Get out of the way!"
Street Rat
Eponine's last hit of fae blood had been days ago. She's feeling it properly now: her head is spinning, her hands are beginning to shake and her concentration is gone. The problem is, though, that the cash that Montparnasse had given her had run out, and the gang she had found had told her not to come back without money. They didn't trust a skank to pay her debts. In fairness, that was probably a shrewd move.
Eponine knew she had to make money, and quickly, or find and attack a fae alone.
Once night fell, she dressed herself in her skimpiest clothes: the tatty skirt, fishnets, her battered t-shirt. She left her hoodie and jacket in the grave she had claimed as her bed, and made her way to the streets near the night clubs, finding a spot on the pavement.
She leaned back against the lamp post: it was going to be a long night of begging, an activity she despised anyway.
As people begin to walk past, she calls out for coins "-Enough for a cup of tea, Sir?" "Just a pound, please, Madame," but it doesn't earn her much.
It doesn't bother Eponine: her targets are the drunks on the way home. She spends her time, waiting for 3am, with the other homeless that team the streets. She bums a few cigarettes off some of them, promising to pay them back later. Her hunger burns her throat, but she doesn't attack. These people are her comrades. But for the grace of God, they could be her. They're not food, they're friends.
When the clubs start to let out, her tactics change. She poses at the lamp post, one foot resting on the base of the post, and one hand firmly wrapped round. The women get the same calls as before, but the men - well, for them, she sings bawdy songs in French and English. With one, she disappears into a dark alleyway, and reappears, minutes later, her skirt pockets distinctly heavier, and wearing his blood on her nose and her mouth. Some people are concerned now, that she's been attacked. Some are more interested in her songs. Whatever it is, it's earning her coins and attention, and Eponine calls all the more,
"Won't you give me a coin? Just one or two is all I ask. Just enough for bed! Give me one!"
no subject
"Now, I should move, wolf. You ain't where you are supposed to be, and neither am I, so I suppose it means no one would care if it came to it, you know?" Eponine tries to look tough, sound like she means business, but quite honestly, she doesn't see Girl as a remote threat. She swaps the flowers from one hand to the other, and wipes her muddy fingers on her ripped jeans, before doing the same with the other hand. Mostly clean, nobody could swear that she had just wrecked the pub's display.
no subject
It's a stupid thing for anyone to care about, as far as she's concerned. But she's loose about her adherence to rules as it is. If it's not hurting anyone, it can't be a big deal.
"I could be supposed to be here, for all you know." The older wolves have only warned her away from the territory of the vampires and witches. For Girl that made everything else fair game. Despite that, her bluster is only just that. She only looks to fights when it's pack business and Girl wants no part of another grudge with the vampires. She takes another half step to the side, nods her head down the street. "I ain't stoppin' you from leavin'."
no subject
"So you want to be bitten? You wanna be a vampire?" Eponine chuckles. But Girl moves, and Eponine shrugs.
"You ain't gonna tell anyone you saw me, yes?"
no subject
She snorts, a disturbed look crossing her face. The thought would be a terrifying one, actually. It's scary enough to know she could hurt someone if she got loose during a full moon. Girl couldn't handle needing to hurt anyone to survive. "Ain't gonna be a blood sucker. Your kind can't turn mine anyhow."
It's a strange question. Girl's still not sure why the vampire cares about being seen with flowers of all things. "No reason to unless you're tryin' to start something," she answers honestly.
no subject
"I don't know, only the flowers..." She holds the already wilting flowers out at Girl. "They were so pretty. I will look after them though. I know a place where the willow tree grows." She snorts a laugh, and she sings a couple of lines of the song in French.
"No, there are no trees. Not nice ones. And no flowers in the bit where I live. Is it live? No. Where I hide, perhaps? It is forgotten, everyone who knew the dead is dead himself. I don't mind, but I should like flowers to make it brighter. I like flowers. Only, perhaps I should not have taken them as I did. Perhaps from a different grave?" She shrugs. It is too late now.
no subject
"I'm not- no one's gonna care if you take flowers." They might, for all Girl knows. Flowers just seem a petty thing for someone to be upset over. It's unnerving anyway, to watch a vampire look so worried over such a thing. A slice of humanity she isn't prepared to deal with in the creatures she's been told are her enemies. "You can have 'em."
The confusion doesn't waver from her face when the woman starts to sing. She doesn't get the reference nor does she have much experience with French. The woman's continuing message doesn't help. Girl's eyebrows knit together as she frowns.
"Grave?" She tries to pick apart what the woman is saying, but that's what jumps out the quickest. "You stole flowers from a grave? You can't take things from dead people!"