Open Post the Sequel

[desertions]

how to play.

1. Drop a comment with one or more of your muses. It can be empty if you want me to make a scenario, or you can toss one at me. If you want to just give me a prompt (a word, song, lyric, picture, phrase, anything), I can riff off that too.
2. In the subject line, you can specify any of my muses you might want to play with, or you can ask me to pick someone.
3. just rp with me. if something jives really well, maybe we can continue it in another one of these later, sort of like a super casual verse. if it doesn't, it doesn't.

Comments

[lockwood]

The comfort feels strange -- it always does. The only time it didn't was Caroline. He still can remember sometimes how she held him through that first transformation, how she didn't flinch from his pain. Caroline knew how to deal with people, how to help them. Tyler's never been too good at that.

He just messes things up. He tries to help and he makes it worse. After what happened to his pack -- well he doesn't try much anymore. He's too tired, and trying takes energy he doesn't have. He doesn't believe it'll make a difference. (Caroline had the optimism too, that shining hope that they could beat everything in the end).

"It used to come easy. I mean, I never drew much outside of class, but it was never hard."

It came naturally.

Nothing comes naturally anymore. Everything is a struggle.

(Caroline would want them to keep fighting, that's what he tells himself when it's too hard to get out bed)

"I never thought I'd be an artist -- my dad never would of gone for that." And Richard Lockwood's word had been law, but he's dead like everyone else.

None of it matters now.

[believable]

Elena was once --

Maybe not necessarily an optimist. Maybe underneath it all she was a bruised fatalist, aware of every cosmic bullet she had coming. But she once held on to hope so fiercely, one couldn't be sure if it was an earnest embrace or she simply believed what she needed to for the same reasons.

To get out of bed. (People tell themselves the truth they need. Sometimes.)

Elena almost asks him if he would've gone for art, had his father not been so against it, but she doesn't need to. And they both know that's not what matters anymore. Instead, she falls silent, her index finger tracing the edge of his sketch book. "Jeremy was an artist, too," she says quietly.

"I'd catch him drawing in his room. Not as much, after our parents died, but sometimes he'd pick it back up again."

[lockwood]

Tyler's always been cynical. Has always expected the worst out of people, perhaps because that's the most he was ever really exposed to. He's not sure. He envied people like Caroline who could trust, who could believe that things would be better. Her optimism has been like a bright beam of sunlight to his dark outlook.

But now the sun's gone. (so what's the point of getting out of bed at all?)

"I remember. He was one of the first people to realize I actually liked it -- not that I admitted it."

He remembers that night, Jeremy trying to engage him. It's just an elective. It's easier to pretend like things don't matter, then it hurts less when you lose them. Except that's not true. They matter. (and it still hurts)

"I remember really freaking out when I saw his drawings of werewolves, back when I was still piecing everything together from Uncle Mason."