As always, don't forget to vote!

Posts

This section allows you to view all posts made by this member. Note that you can only see posts made in areas you currently have access to.


Topics - Lysander Stone

Pages: [1]
1
Freestyle Archives / Low-quality person || Enemies AU
« on: 12/01/2019 at 03:02 »
Gods, there she was. The bane of Hogwarts. The taste of gum turned to ash in his mouth.

People thought, because Beatrice was quiet and small, that she wasn't a bitch. They weren't paying attention. She was self-involved and arrogant. Always looking down on people. Always playing the victim card and thinking that it excused her behavior. Sandy had never been fooled.

She was a bad smell both at the castle and at camp. Thought because she knew words she was worthwhile. The truth was that she wasn't worth anything. He'd told her so a million times.

"Hey worthless! Whatcha readin?"

His voice carried cleanly through the clearing. His wide, bright smile showed a good many teeth, in perfect emulation of a predator closing in. He chewed open-mouthed on his gum as he stalked closer. Finally, he was upon her, looking down at the upside-down words of her book.

She was always reading. Like it made her any better at classes. The truth was she was a bit dim, even if she was wordy as hell. Beatrice had never learned important things, like positive attitudes and when to close a book. His eyes met hers for a moment, like waves crashing against one another, and then Sandy spat his wad of gum between the pages.

2
Past Workshop Prompts / Prompt 1: God of the Night
« on: 08/24/2019 at 05:41 »
It was a dark and stormy night. Rather, the storm of the night clouded out the argent moon high above. No starlight pierced the heavens. Illumination was summoned either by magical means or by the interminable will of Mother Storm. She breathed and the earth trembled. She spoke and the sky split.

Lysander heard her questioning cries but did not respond. The children who fell from her were louder than his voice could manage. As she blotted out the sky, so her children clouded the horizon. Almost it seemed she had made some arcane compact to shield the world from Moon's machinations. Luminous as Sun but with unbound dark intent, Moon could impose upon the earth only once in her cycle of birth and death - only when her body was most round and beautiful and powerful.

It was a night for small mammals to hide from predators. So Lysander hid, cowering far below the Godly war that waged above between Mother Storm and her undying enemy. A cave of dead trees was small protection against the rage of animals. The truest beasts could tear through the walls of the hiding place with ease. It would find prey within that could fight back for the fearshakes which rattled him.

Smaller protection still were the interlocking layers of wool and cotton which the boy hid beneath. Creatures did not fear wool and cotton. Perhaps, when the night was ended, they would lie in the fabric for warmth while they sucked the marrow from his bones.

He prayed to Mother Storm for her protection and he prayed to Moon for mercy from her power. But Gods are not Djinn; Gods do not grant wishes. Nor do they listen as men listen. Their will can never be swayed by the prayers of a boy alone.

Lysander was not alone.

In the distance of a desperate sprint, there would be a young man who offered solace - who had faced the Moon's rage in the past and come out with the same scars. The man was not broken by scars as the boy was broken. He had resolve and wisdom and would give himself to Moon a million times before allowing harm to any other.

Further, yet not far, a young woman had made Moon's rage her own but had not given her soul away. Marked by Moon's servant on the face and arm and belly, the woman responded the only way one could respond in the shadow of Moon; she had become unbound by the assumptions which had not protected any of them from harm.

They were no further than a desperate sprint. If a creeping form of joyous rage and limitless bloodhunger prowled toward Lysander's cave, he would see it and he would run to them and he would give them to Moon as he had given Aiden to Moon. And he would be safe from her terrible will until the next time she turned her gaze upon him.

Only Mother Storm protected from the full power of Moon. Lysander, who cowered beneath wool and cotton, looked without eyes in all directions and kept vigil for the sign that Moon had become unbound. The night would last only hours - and a month would pass before another night such as this.

3
Freestyle Archives / Family Matters || Stonefield AU
« on: 08/07/2019 at 19:07 »
Second Day of Christmas Break
1957



Cyrus was off god knows where. Probably soon they would need to find him or accept some kind of punishment. It wasn't Lysander's fault (and certainly not Bea's) that the kid was so curious about things.

"My dad's gonna teach me to drive over the easter," he grinned across to her. It was half a boast and half an invitation. "You think your parents might let you come too?"

In the Caulfield sitting room, talking about muggle things seemed out of place. They didn't even have electricity, because it didn't work here. That meant magic lights and the whole shebang. Sometimes Sandy was jealous of his best friend, but he consoled himself with the fact that she could not watch TV during the school breaks. She had to come over to his house. Not that he would ever mind.

The trade-off was that he wasn't allowed to do magic at home. Too many muggle neighbors might see and get mum in trouble. For all magical purposes, he'd come to Bea's big old house. Not that he would ever mind.

4
Freestyle Archives / Give no quarter || Odi
« on: 04/08/2019 at 18:24 »
Day Eleven
Jardin De Plantes
Midmorning




It seemed nothing was safe from the dread influence of Aphrodite Foxe. Her presence could be likened to a poxwind; simply by being she made those around her weaker and sick. Now, for the second year in a row, her vile corruption soaked through the summer camp. Before long she would be tricking this year's incoming students to believe in her false kindness.

Here, before him, was yet another display of the wickedness which leaked from her as noxious fumes wafted from a poison. She sat in the most beautiful place in all the camp and befouled it with her being.

She was beautiful too, but he did not like to say so out loud. To compliment Aphrodite was to give her your soul.

"You go out like that on purpose, or someone play a trick on you?"

The answer was unimportant. Aphrodite was unimportant. It did not matter now what she did or what she thought - only that she go away and leave Sandy the garden to enjoy himself.

5
Past Workshop Prompts / Prompt 1: The Willing Door
« on: 12/26/2018 at 16:01 »
The wardrobe door took him willingly. There was nothing more inviting than being wanted. No pomp or ceremony marred the occasion and no doubts clouded the certainty that escape was the right course. This was the best of things.

x
There were goosepimples on his skin, and misty green clouds hovered over the horizon. The wintry breeze was pleasant. Ice pebbled the courtyard as proof of the recent hailstorm. The gardens showed no sign of damage. No harm could be done here.

x
There were children playing in the next clearing. Anyone could join their game, if they felt the urge to do so. It was a good game; there were no rules and many goals. The game was unending. Nothing ended here.

x
The children were familiar in the most intimate of ways. They were friends from the past, and friends from the future. Each looked as they did in their prime. Death and birth had no place here. All things were their best selves.

The first moments set the tone for all others. Bad things were memories. Good things were ample. Time passed - one day or a hundred days or a thousand - and memories became precious. They become cherished for their contrast to the ample.

The wardrobe door had never collected dust, and it took him willingly once more.

6
Past Workshop Prompts / I hate you | Prompt 2
« on: 12/22/2018 at 00:32 »
"But I never used to have a bedtime."

She's making me go to sleep now because camp is tomorrow. The sun is still up. I can't sleep now. What she's asking is for me to stare at the ceiling for hours. I won't do it.

"We live in the present in this house."

She's wrong.

First of all, this is a flat. It's a flat in a worn-out part of London, where the neighbors yell at one another at night and when it rains there are leaks in the ceiling. All the furniture in this flat is second-hand, and some have bits hanging out that snare my clothes and make rips as I walk by.

We used to live in a house. There was a back yard that led down to the river. We all had our own rooms and the furniture was made new by one of Dad's friends. It wasn't like from the store but it wasn't like now. It was better than now.

Secondly, we don't live in the present. All she talks about is how things will be, about her plans and the committee's plans and how everything will be better soon. It's been like this for years. Things won't be better. Not while I'm in this flat.

"I hate you."

I mean it, too. I hate everything about her. I want to go back and live with Dad, and she is the only thing in the way of that. I want to go to normal school. I want to be a muggle again. I want to be normal.

She looks like a bullfrog when she's angry. Blue eyes nearly burst from her head and she swells and envelops the room in her rage. It seems like minutes but I'm sure only a few seconds pass. Her voice is still light and controlled when she at last responds.

"Lysander Gawain Stone, you go to your room. Now."

Her tone makes it clear that she will brook no argument. I huff and crash and stomp my way to the prison cell of a bedroom and the door shakes noisily as it slams shut. Now there's no choice except to stare at the ceiling and hate her.

I want to go home.

7
Past Workshop Prompts / Prompt 3: Having A Ball
« on: 12/07/2018 at 19:09 »
The ball flies from my foot to his. He only learned to receive a pass this year, and that was before he got sick. The ball bounces off his foot and rests a few hand-spans away. He has to walk for it.

"Naw, not like that. You gotta put your foot on top when it gets close. It'll stop."

"Eat it, Sandy."

The ball comes back to me. It's a little to the left, but not enough that I have to run for it. I catch it easily. God above knows that I've had enough practice; with Cyrus, with my friends, with dad.

Maybe when I grow up I'll do it for real. I'll play for the England and the King will watch me play.

I kick again, and the ball cruises easily to my brother. He heeds my advice and the ball rests beneath his foot. I smile, proud of my work as a big brother.

He steps away from the ball and my eyes are wide. I see what he intends to do before he says it aloud.

"Back up. It's gonna be a big one."

I run backwards, not fast or far enough. The ball is beyond me before I know it. I have to run to catch it.

"It'll go in the river, ya idiot!"

I grin as I race to intercept. I grow faster as the ball's speed slows. I catch the ball only meters from the bank and feel the rush of success. I turn and position myself. With a swift motion, I send the ball back to Cyrus.

Pages: [1]