Ramona thrives on crowds. Not in any literal way, of course -- as fascinating as the idea of emotional vampirism is, she's yet to actually meet one, and any kind of spell would be entirely too noticeable, too too too soon -- but in a metaphorical sense. The great presses of flesh, the thousands of bodies all rushing past, the million tiny dramas playing out before her, blind to all observation. A woman arguing with a clerk over just a few cents. A child, denied the dolly they covet, throwing a tantrum, and the parents' mortified reaction. Greed. Anger. Fear. She wanders through the crowds, a smile on her thin lips, as she works her way down her own eclectic shopping list. Art supplies, small electronics, magickal supplies, old magazines, used clothing. A little bit of everything.
"Could you pass me that, darling?" she asks of someone, at some point.
"Where do you keep your parchment?" she questions another, in another store.
"Is it authentic?" she says to a third.
And so on.
DRINK YOUR SORROWS AWAY
The bar is a dive, one of the ones that's just starting to get popular outside the immediate neighbourhood -- it's so authentic! The real London! -- much to the annoyance of the regulars. That makes for easy pickings, though, some have found. Lambs to the slaughter.
Maybe you're one of those regulars. Maybe you're a newcomer, visiting the place for the first time after reading about it in the free weekly paper. Maybe neither. But however you've come to be here, you've caught someone's eye tonight. Ramona approaches from the other end of the bar -- bony and thin, looking like chicken wire wrapped in skin, smelling of turpentine and alum and something sick-sweet, underneath the sting of cheap whiskey. She lays a scarred, rough (strong) hand on your arm and leans in with an intimacy that might just be intoxication.
"Has anyone ever told you that you could be a model?" she says, in a high, sharp, quavering voice.
Ramona A. Stone / 1. Outside / Witch
Ramona thrives on crowds. Not in any literal way, of course -- as fascinating as the idea of emotional vampirism is, she's yet to actually meet one, and any kind of spell would be entirely too noticeable, too too too soon -- but in a metaphorical sense. The great presses of flesh, the thousands of bodies all rushing past, the million tiny dramas playing out before her, blind to all observation. A woman arguing with a clerk over just a few cents. A child, denied the dolly they covet, throwing a tantrum, and the parents' mortified reaction. Greed. Anger. Fear. She wanders through the crowds, a smile on her thin lips, as she works her way down her own eclectic shopping list. Art supplies, small electronics, magickal supplies, old magazines, used clothing. A little bit of everything.
"Could you pass me that, darling?" she asks of someone, at some point.
"Where do you keep your parchment?" she questions another, in another store.
"Is it authentic?" she says to a third.
And so on.
DRINK YOUR SORROWS AWAY
The bar is a dive, one of the ones that's just starting to get popular outside the immediate neighbourhood -- it's so authentic! The real London! -- much to the annoyance of the regulars. That makes for easy pickings, though, some have found. Lambs to the slaughter.
Maybe you're one of those regulars. Maybe you're a newcomer, visiting the place for the first time after reading about it in the free weekly paper. Maybe neither. But however you've come to be here, you've caught someone's eye tonight. Ramona approaches from the other end of the bar -- bony and thin, looking like chicken wire wrapped in skin, smelling of turpentine and alum and something sick-sweet, underneath the sting of cheap whiskey. She lays a scarred, rough (strong) hand on your arm and leans in with an intimacy that might just be intoxication.
"Has anyone ever told you that you could be a model?" she says, in a high, sharp, quavering voice.