[identity profile] castorlion.livejournal.com posting in [community profile] zg_shadows

Under an increasingly darkening sky, a man is rising from his bed, groggily regarding the other man who has just, apologetically, woken him from a very deep sleep indeed. Functioning entirely on autopilot, the waking man staggers over to the heavy velvet curtains to draw them back, only to be stopped with a hand on his arm by the more awake of the pair, who shakes his head slightly, looking up at his master apprehensively.

"I'm sorry - it's still early. Too early. This just came through, I thought... You should probably see this right away."

The taller of the pair smiles (although the servant notes with some self-concern that it's a smile sharp enough to cut), and takes the print-out indulgently.

The indulgence lasts as far as the first couple of lines, before vanishing swiftly before a concerned frown, which is in turn quickly chased by a disbelieving stare. Straightening up, the man slews off his lethargy and strides over to the desk, enunciating crisp words over his shoulder as he goes.

"Get me Pullman on the landline, and then fetch me the Grist files. We've got a lot of preparation to do, and not much time to do it in."

-----------

"He did what?"

The heavy cloud layer has broken momentarily, allowing the sun to pause before slipping over the horizon just long enough to briefly make its presence felt. Long amber shafts of light fall across the city's rooftops, and throw a spindly shadow over the grey concrete that is even lankier than its dark haired original. Both of them have a phone to their ear, but only the original wears an expression of delighted incredulity.

"He said WHAT?"

"He did WHAT?"

An disbelieving shake of the head is accompanied by a grin, then it fades to a calculating expression as the figure hangs up, then walks briskly towards the edge of the roof trying to work out how best to use the news.

----------------

Several hours later, in a nice house somewhere in Richmond, a burly man wearing very little is hurrying downstairs, carrying a sword. He is hurrying downstairs because he can hear the angry screaming coming from the cellar, and he is carrying a sword because he thinks it might be a good idea to show willing, although he is very much hoping that the smashing noises mean that he will not have to do anything so personally endangering as actually attempt to use it.

Reaching the foot of the stairs the large man observes several letters discarded on the hall floor, and common sense born of extensive experience leads him to pause to scan them. Letting the letters drop back to the floor, the ghoul turns to regard the cellar and swallows slightly. What this actually means for his domitor, he does not quite know; but he knows enough to realise that change is coming; and maybe not change for the better.

----------------

A night-time breeze blows through the open window, scattering papers across the floor and disturbing the man who sits in cross-legged contemplation on the carpet. Gathering them up, he automatically takes notice of where his gaze falls, of what words seem loudest in the lyrical tone that underlies the universe, and he pauses before crossing to the window.

Leaning on the broad sill, the man regards the night-time sky, thick and orange with turbulent cloud, before turning back to regard the papers on the floor. Almost quizzically, he murmurs to himself what he reads there, and in his tone is both puzzlement and concern:

"A storm is coming…"

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Zeitgeist Shadows

February 2013

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