MOVE IT OR LOSE IT No one likes to travel. An almost eleven hour flight is, basically, the bossfight of travel.
Ghoul decided he was finished with the trip somewhere around the four-hour mark, but he couldn't very well hop out of the plane and swim his way to London, so he'd stuck it out. And simmered the whole way.
He was nearly crawling out of his own skin by the time he touched solid ground again, and even now, with an hour and a good number of miles between himself and the airport, he's not feeling much better. He's got a white-knuckled grip on the strap of the bag slung across his body as he moodily stomps his way along the sidewalk. Most people have the good sense to move aside or twist away at the last second, but his luck runs out at some point, and a shoulder catches him completely off guard.
It's enough to bring Ghoul to a stumbling stop. He stands there with a dumb, confused look on his face for a few seconds before his eyes narrow and he plows forward a step. "Try holding your fuckin' eyes open while you walk, chief."
BLESS YOU(for vampires or vampire allies!) Ghoul's got a train to catch. He gets lost a time or two, swept away by the sea of rush-hour bodies, but he gets himself back on track. He supposes.
At the last moment, he darts his way on to what is probably the right train car, just before the doors slide shut. He manages a quick sigh of relief before his nose is filled with an acrid smell. The reaction is almost instant- unavoidable and reflexive, like getting an unexpected whiff of black pepper. Ghoul barely has time to even think the word vampire before he's sneezing, loud and wet, all over the poor thing's back.
Or their front, if they're extremely unlucky.
NO COMMITMENT TO SPARKLE MOTION Having been in the area for only a few days, there's still a lot he doesn't know. What he does know is that he's accidentally stumbled across a cozy little shop that makes damn good pastries. The drinks aren't half bad either. It's Ghoul's second day in a row at the establishment, and he's keeping it simple today with an order of hot chocolate. The place isn't all that crowded, either, allowing him to happily slip in to place behind a tiny corner table.
He's all set to chill out and people-watch for a while when he figures out he's forgotten napkins.
Ghoul's gone for only a matter of seconds, but when he returns, he finds a small box resting innocently next to his mug. With a tilt of his head, he moves closer, eyeballing it warily. It's kind of cute. Designed like a gift box with the words 'nO pEeKiNg' printed cartoonishly on the lid. Ghoul looks around for any indication of who might have placed it there as he re-takes his seat, and after a moment of consideration, he reaches out to pick it up.
It's warning him not to peek, sure, but what else is he supposed to do with it?
He should've left well enough alone, apparently. As soon as he flips the lid off the box, there's a pop and then a merciless assault of glitter and confetti. And it's everywhere. Absolutely fucking everywhere. All over his jacket, in his hair, on his face. There's probably even some in his drink, but he can't bring himself to look.
fun ghoul / danger days: blah blah killjoys / werewoof
No one likes to travel. An almost eleven hour flight is, basically, the bossfight of travel.
Ghoul decided he was finished with the trip somewhere around the four-hour mark, but he couldn't very well hop out of the plane and swim his way to London, so he'd stuck it out. And simmered the whole way.
He was nearly crawling out of his own skin by the time he touched solid ground again, and even now, with an hour and a good number of miles between himself and the airport, he's not feeling much better. He's got a white-knuckled grip on the strap of the bag slung across his body as he moodily stomps his way along the sidewalk. Most people have the good sense to move aside or twist away at the last second, but his luck runs out at some point, and a shoulder catches him completely off guard.
It's enough to bring Ghoul to a stumbling stop. He stands there with a dumb, confused look on his face for a few seconds before his eyes narrow and he plows forward a step. "Try holding your fuckin' eyes open while you walk, chief."
BLESS YOU (for vampires or vampire allies!)
Ghoul's got a train to catch. He gets lost a time or two, swept away by the sea of rush-hour bodies, but he gets himself back on track. He supposes.
At the last moment, he darts his way on to what is probably the right train car, just before the doors slide shut. He manages a quick sigh of relief before his nose is filled with an acrid smell. The reaction is almost instant- unavoidable and reflexive, like getting an unexpected whiff of black pepper. Ghoul barely has time to even think the word vampire before he's sneezing, loud and wet, all over the poor thing's back.
Or their front, if they're extremely unlucky.
NO COMMITMENT TO SPARKLE MOTION
Having been in the area for only a few days, there's still a lot he doesn't know. What he does know is that he's accidentally stumbled across a cozy little shop that makes damn good pastries. The drinks aren't half bad either. It's Ghoul's second day in a row at the establishment, and he's keeping it simple today with an order of hot chocolate. The place isn't all that crowded, either, allowing him to happily slip in to place behind a tiny corner table.
He's all set to chill out and people-watch for a while when he figures out he's forgotten napkins.
Ghoul's gone for only a matter of seconds, but when he returns, he finds a small box resting innocently next to his mug. With a tilt of his head, he moves closer, eyeballing it warily. It's kind of cute. Designed like a gift box with the words 'nO pEeKiNg' printed cartoonishly on the lid. Ghoul looks around for any indication of who might have placed it there as he re-takes his seat, and after a moment of consideration, he reaches out to pick it up.
It's warning him not to peek, sure, but what else is he supposed to do with it?
He should've left well enough alone, apparently. As soon as he flips the lid off the box, there's a pop and then a merciless assault of glitter and confetti. And it's everywhere. Absolutely fucking everywhere. All over his jacket, in his hair, on his face. There's probably even some in his drink, but he can't bring himself to look.
Everything is officially awful.