The Man in Black

08:45 pm: Birds chirp.

Children shriek and play.

Couples stroll hand in hand.

The sun shines.

By all appearances the man on the bench is asleep, Stetson tilted low over mirrored shades, boots crossed, arms akimbo and limp over the edges of the bench.

No one takes any notice of him.

Just another sleeping bum.

Red eyes open to slits behind the huge lenses and watch the lovely fucking summer day go by.

12:15 am: Well now Screech-Owl mama

AINT YOU GONNA SAY ANYTHIN' TO THE CROWDS?!

COME UP AND INTRODUCE YO'SELF.

Show us ya got some teeth, bitch.

08:19 pm: With nothing more than a blink Puck's clothing is gone and he's close enough to Flagg to feel his jean seams against his legs and the hot, dense bulk of his cock pressing in the most intimate of places.

"Last chance, little one," Flagg purrs, but his nails dig deep into the skin of the changeling's chest.

There is no chance to turn back.

05:40 pm: OOC
( Cut for character work )

09:40 pm: There is a patch of bare earth up against a tree just far enough away from the bar for comfort.

There's a fire lit in the center that burns too bright for the dark night and too hot.

There's a wizard, back against the tree, boots crossed, cards in hand, smiling face and dead eyes.

He's waiting.

10:34 pm: Walter broods as he has for many days now, perched high in a tree out of sight of whatever prowls the grounds at night.

He is currently stretched out on a broad branch, legs crossed at the ankles and one hand behind his head. Were he to move a fraction to the left or the right he would no doubt fall. His eyes are closed and he appears to be asleep.

Far from it.

Sweat beads well up from the pale skin and trickle down the full cheeks and the eyelids flicker from time to time, but the only other indication that this is something much more than rest are the white knuckles of his hand fisted into the cloak lying across his stomach.

His time of rest has passed and now he manifests once more upon the field where the boy waits. He is hunkered as he was before and he turns almost as Walter sends forth his Shadow, a smile that would call forth angelsong if such a thing existed.

I knew that you would come back.

The Shadow smiles in much the same way and pulls a black rose from one holster slung low on narrow hips.

This is futile, boy. Renege.

How can I? Jake says, and there is a red rose in his hand. Symbolic. There-not-there, Walter snarls in disgust.

Once upon a time he could have appreciated these little plots with their damned symbols and metaphors and literary cockadoodie references. He is the Dim and he knows these things, knows the cards and reads them with great skill, and yet having your tongue sucked out of your skull by a bastard infant has soured his love of all things King.

Once upon a time he was able to make the fucking writer work for him. That certainty is gone.

Deep down, Walter O'Dim is afraid of this son.

But now as he sends forth that which is both his and something beyond him, all he feels is the familiar hatred. Once he could have called it crimson and said it true, aye, but now it is black and pulsing in time with a glass ball that rests somewhen in New York City, USA.

He has done much to this child and he is strong, yes, but Walter has hold of him and his fucking exalted Touch, and when he is through and there will be an end to this and one of his making, things will change.

11:07 pm: He opens his eyes suddenly.

There is nothing to see, of course, but that doesn't mean anything. What means something is that the pain's gone.

He looks down and finds that he is standing on nothing. The fact that he's standing provokes a smile and then a furious yell into the blackness.

"MORDRED!" he shrieks. "MORDRED! YOU PULING, WAILING INFANT SON!"

He is DEAD. Walter O'Dim is DEAD.

And he is fucking ANGRY.