OOC: I generally prefer memshare threads if the memories alternate between the characters so they both get to know each other, so I'll presume that's how our threads will be going unless otherwise specified! Let me know if you'd prefer otherwise.
I. Fergus (cw: infant neglect/abuse)
[The building is old in that it's not modern, and yet so clearly not build to withstand the test of time. It's a brick home and stone home with holes in the grout and no windows, plain, much-abused wooden furniture and a clumsy fireplace. A mangy dog is sleeping on the form, affixed with wriggling, fat puppies sucking at her teats. All the light appears to come from a fireplace choking the room with oil-smelling smoke.
A teenage girl in clothes used to the point of ruin is trying to nurse a baby. Her long red hair is stringy and tattered; her figure is bony and malnourished, with pale, blotchy skin covered in scrapes and scabs. The infant is large and fussy, hiccuping and beating at her deflated breast with its tiny fists.
"Why would you take it? Why can't you make anything easy?" The girl holds the baby up and shakes him by the shoulders; its blocky head wobbles around and it wails. She tries again, and then wrenches the baby away from her chest. "You bit me! You evil little spawn of the devil..."
She squats next to the dog by the fireplace and shoves the baby in with the wriggling puppies. The baby continues to cry, and the girl's face falls as she curls up on the floor by the fire, burying herself in her hands to weep.
It's nearly impossible to identify the pitiful, weeping teenage girl with her baby as Rowena, the woman standing to the side who's dolled up her New Hire uniform with a homemade belt and a bow in her bouncing, curled hair, fingers laced over her stomach as she watches with a troubled sneer.]
II. Spellbooks
[Rowena's at a massive table in what appears to be a cavernous dungeon-cum-library, or library-cum-dungeon. Ancient books the size of planks written in all matter of languages surround her. Rowena's writing with a pen among reams of notes; every time she moves to the next line, there's s clinking as the iron chains around her wrists.
A man with a gravely voice in a trenchcoat comes in and places some more books on her table. "These are all the ones I could find in that Sumerian dialect. I'm sure I don't need to remind you again that time is a little bit of the essence."
"This is very complicated magic, Feathers," she says. "I'm not the sort of witch you contact when you want spell that comes in a box with a price discount."
'Feathers' frowns. "You're stalling."
Rowena takes a long moment before she responds to that accusation, closing a book so heavy that its cover makes a thump against the pages. Her shackles clank.
"And why wouldn't I stall, dear angel? After all, don't I just have it made here in these iron shackles, eating Sam Winchester's leftover fruit shakes and earning nothing but grudging respect for my talents, while minute by minute the opportunity to help our merry band of thieves and murderers shrinks? Why..." Her voice turns into a low snarl. "Why in the universe's name wouldn't I be stalling?"]
Rowena MacLeod
I. Fergus (cw: infant neglect/abuse)
[The building is old in that it's not modern, and yet so clearly not build to withstand the test of time. It's a brick home and stone home with holes in the grout and no windows, plain, much-abused wooden furniture and a clumsy fireplace. A mangy dog is sleeping on the form, affixed with wriggling, fat puppies sucking at her teats. All the light appears to come from a fireplace choking the room with oil-smelling smoke.
A teenage girl in clothes used to the point of ruin is trying to nurse a baby. Her long red hair is stringy and tattered; her figure is bony and malnourished, with pale, blotchy skin covered in scrapes and scabs. The infant is large and fussy, hiccuping and beating at her deflated breast with its tiny fists.
"Why would you take it? Why can't you make anything easy?" The girl holds the baby up and shakes him by the shoulders; its blocky head wobbles around and it wails. She tries again, and then wrenches the baby away from her chest. "You bit me! You evil little spawn of the devil..."
She squats next to the dog by the fireplace and shoves the baby in with the wriggling puppies. The baby continues to cry, and the girl's face falls as she curls up on the floor by the fire, burying herself in her hands to weep.
It's nearly impossible to identify the pitiful, weeping teenage girl with her baby as Rowena, the woman standing to the side who's dolled up her New Hire uniform with a homemade belt and a bow in her bouncing, curled hair, fingers laced over her stomach as she watches with a troubled sneer.]
II. Spellbooks
[Rowena's at a massive table in what appears to be a cavernous dungeon-cum-library, or library-cum-dungeon. Ancient books the size of planks written in all matter of languages surround her. Rowena's writing with a pen among reams of notes; every time she moves to the next line, there's s clinking as the iron chains around her wrists.
A man with a gravely voice in a trenchcoat comes in and places some more books on her table. "These are all the ones I could find in that Sumerian dialect. I'm sure I don't need to remind you again that time is a little bit of the essence."
"This is very complicated magic, Feathers," she says. "I'm not the sort of witch you contact when you want spell that comes in a box with a price discount."
'Feathers' frowns. "You're stalling."
Rowena takes a long moment before she responds to that accusation, closing a book so heavy that its cover makes a thump against the pages. Her shackles clank.
"And why wouldn't I stall, dear angel? After all, don't I just have it made here in these iron shackles, eating Sam Winchester's leftover fruit shakes and earning nothing but grudging respect for my talents, while minute by minute the opportunity to help our merry band of thieves and murderers shrinks? Why..." Her voice turns into a low snarl. "Why in the universe's name wouldn't I be stalling?"]