mycursedface: (my cursed face)
Medusa, living as she does in a cave, is still not entirely used this whole having doors business. Nor is she used to knocking, but it wasn't all that long ago that she was living here, so she remembers to knock.

And hope that Sam's in.

And that he isn't...busy.

(she has the invitation in her hand)
mycursedface: (been kicked around)
She flew in from the north-east, taking a short-cut through the desert skies, but even so she could still see the town when she approached her home. A fishing town, small but not a village, with boats out in the ocean and Romanesque buildings.

It hadn’t been there when she left.

A swerve to the left and there were walls, a gate and a beaten path from the road. Some buildings, too, above where the caves are, and an encircled garden and it’s on the garden wall that Medusa finally settles.

Settles, crouches, stares at her sister as the other Gorgon weeds.
mycursedface: (looks like a storm is coming)
Scylla said, fly when you visit. And so Medusa is; flying and landing on top of her sister's cave and giving her sister's other half a wary glance.

Of course, it's been a while, and she really can't remember where the entrance is...

She'll get there.

mycursedface: (daughter of the sea)
It is a strange sensation, moving from air and land into a wall of sea, and for a moment Medusa is completely disorientated. Upside down and cool and salty and the Gorgon takes a deep breath. In, out, watch the bubbles for a moment and then she swims to the surface.

It is a bay that she doesn’t remember seeing, with a jungle that she thinks she remembers all too well. No sign of Artemis, and she isn’t sure if she’s glad or not.

But there is someone else here.

Someone sitting on a rock in the sun, idly trailing her fish's tail in the water. Someone with flowing dark hair and eyes that Medusa knows are sea-blue. Someone who tastes and smells like family and sister

Someone who is doing their nails.


Jun. 25th, 2008 09:53 am
mycursedface: (dream on my dear)
Medusa is not, contrary to evidence, asleep.


She merely has her eyes shut and is thinking.

While curled up on Sam's bed, head cushioned on her arm, giving all the appearances of being asleep.


[thread contains adult content]
mycursedface: (Atton's a bad influence)
Aquilaris is where we set our scene,
a planet of cities few and oceans serene;
a glitzy resort for the rich and famous
and those attempting to be glam’rous.

In his favour, it should be said that Atton is neither
but in his present circumstances a mere fiver
would make him appear to be quite rich
(it is not his fault that they left him in the ditch.)

Of course, his companion is something different
through no fault of her own; if she is now content
it’s due to her fame and fortune being of another world
and making men’s heads turn never did grow old.

And Medusa Gorgos, rightly called snake-haired
(for to go among mortals with her head bared
would be foolish to say the least), has the exact
kind of mind to wreck havoc with Pazaak.

Her teacher Atton Rand is no slouch at the game,
using it as he does to shield his mind, but today his aim
is not quite so moral. There are stories of a treasure
and with distracting Meda he plans to steal for his pleasure.

Now Aquilaris may be a ritzy pleasure garden but it is still a planet
and all planets have cantinas where different folk can be met;
a cantina is where the duo are, he disguised by name and she by sight,
playing cards against a pirate whose pride is his intellectual might.

“You’re good, little girl,” and in return Medusa smiles
(the Gorgon is not above using her considerable feminine wiles)
as she places nine cards on the table without going bust;
a move which the pirate’s former players would think just.

Tension rules the table, a long moment frozen by Cil-Who-Ate,
who fumes and snarls and growls. When he speaks, his voice is a grate,
“You’ll pay for that,” and in the same breath he grabs her slender arm.
“Now, now, don’t be hasty,” Atton drawls, “you’ll come to some harm.”

(to be continued...)
mycursedface: (take my hand)
from here

Running up stairs in five inch heels is...interesting, but not as impossible as it first looks - you are just running on tip-toe, after all. Which is killing her feet, but she's tipsy and in love and doesn't care.

Of course, running while laughing and holding hands with your boyfriend is not helpful to maintaining balance, so it's little wonder that at some point, Medusa trips.
mycursedface: (daughter of the sea)
Medusa and sleep are two things that often do not get along. Even if her dreams are free of nightmares now (and isn't she glad of that - even when she didn't wake up screaming, she'd be whimpering and moaning and causing a scene) it's still...
I walked beside the evening sea

And dreamed a dream that could not be;

She mostly sleeps during the day, when it's safe. She sleeps with her arms curled around Sam's pillow when she can't get Sam himself, face buried and snakes lying this way and that. Tangled up in the sheets, wings out, and for such a small person, Medusa takes up a lot of room.

The waves that plunged along the shore

And she dreams. She dreams of the ocean that is her home, of the cliffs and clouds. She dreams of the waves giggling with the voices of her sisters and she dreams of her triplets in the new and empty world in which they'd been born. She dreams of babbling in their own language and trying to pull Stheno's hair as Euryale aims for her feet and-

Said only: "Dreamer, dream no more!"

And when she wakes up, blearily shoving the pillow onto the ground, she can't remember anything. Dreams are like that, sometimes.


May. 30th, 2008 08:44 pm
mycursedface: (goddess)
There are, it should be said, proper ways of doing things; throwing one's head back and yelling works for parents and siblings, but no one else. This is why Medusa, still with her ever-changing henna tattoos, still with her bangles arouund her slender ankles and wrists, dressed in a pretty, violet and sea-stained dress, is standing in a sheltered bay with the waves laping at her feet.

She's also calling, the formal words tumbling from her lips and sounding like music in her haunting voice.

"To Aphrodite. Heavenly, illustrious, laughter-loving queen, sea-born night-loving of awful mien; crafty, from whom Necessity first came, producing, nightly, all-connecting dame. ‘Tis thine the world with harmony to join, for all things spring from thee, O power divine. The triple Fates are ruled by thy decree, and all productions yield alike to thee: whatever the heavens, encircling all, contain, earth fruit-producing, and the stormy main, thy sway confesses, and obeys thy nod, awful attendant of Bakkhos God. Goddess of marriage, charming to the sight, mother of the Loves, whom banquetings delight; source of Persuasion, secret, favouring queen, illustrious born, apparent and unseen; spousal Lukaina, and to men inclined, prolific, most-desired, life-giving, kind. Great sceptre-bearer of the Gods, ‘tis thine mortals in necessary bands to join; and every tribe of savage monsters dire in magic chains to bind through mad desire.

Come, Cyprus-Born, and to my prayer incline, whether exalted in the heavens you shine, or pleased in odorous Syria to preside, or over the Aigyptian plains they care to guide, fashioned of gold; and near its sacred flood, fertile and famed, to fix they blest abode; or if rejoicing in the azure shores, near where the sea with foaming billows roars, the circling choirs of mortals thy delight, or beauteous Nymphai with eyes cerulean bright, pleased by the sandy banks renowned of old, to drive thy rapid two-yoked car of gold; or if in Kypros thy famed mother fair, where Nymphai unmarried praise thee every year, the loveliest Nymphai, who in the chorus join, Adonis pure to sing, and thee divine. Come, all-attractive, to my prayer inclined, for thee I call, with holy, reverent mind."
mycursedface: (spread my wings (and hope not to crash))
from here:

The door slams behind Medusa, but she doesn't stop running.

(need air needair need to breathe)

Instead she, like any other bird would, uses her momentum to jump, to launch herself in the air with her wings pulling back and slamming against the air as hard as she can to leave the tug of the Earth.

(the sky is cloudy when she leaves the bar, the air warm in the late afternoon.

she doesn't notice)
mycursedface: (Berber girl)
from here:

First off let me say that Morocco, as I find is typical with many non-western nation, immediately penetrates all of your senses the minute you leave the plane. These places are vibrant with smells and sounds and colors, there is a sort of immediacy in everything that lacks in the more subtle, more contained and manner-focused western societies. I will try and share with you my impressions but I am sure that it will only begin to capture the feeling of the place.

Moroccan smells: donkey dung, jasmine oil, mint tea, baked earth, hyacinth flowers, tannery pits, new leather, fish, dust, smoke from the pottery kilns, the occasional smell of sewage less then expected, the smell of sheep that have been in the desert and often long without water

Moroccan sounds: the buzz of the muezzin early in the morning, the sound of the shuttle from a weaving loom, pounding on metal as artisans created the famous pounded silver, laughter, friends calling out to one another, tinny taxi horns, Arabic, French, and the clicking noises of the Berber like a bird in the brush, the hooves of donkey feet in narrow stone passages, loud shouting of men through the night (and how, I wonder, do they manage to get up for the 5am prayer?)

Moroccan visual: narrow, labyrinth streets, tall buildings, colorful mosaics & clothing, women dressed in gorgeous saris, leather works, pointy toes leather slippers, walls & gates to Medinas and around ancient cities, the dry Atlas mountains with onions piled under stone crates, Barbary apes hanging out with donkeys in a forest that seems too dry to be a home for apes, tiny steps and narrow passageways, homes dug out of the earth with put upon door fronts, symbolic colors: green for holiness, blue doors for Mohammad, red for Fatima, plastic bags strewn across the landscape as far as the eye can see, men holding hands or walking arm in arm down the street even a couple of policemen walking down the street hand in hand

Moroccan tastes: almost everything is sweet in Morocco with the exception of the olives which come with every meal. It is no wonder that so few Moroccans seem in possession of good teeth.
mycursedface: (shy little thing)

On this:

[01:59] herworldsonfire: Aww, kids. *squishes them*
[01:59] lamorgne: *snerk*
[02:01] lamorgne: and then I had this image of Jack and Sam going to Morocco in the early fifties, during the whole kicking out the French thing, attempting to find where they dumped Meda's body after shooting her, and it's actually kinda funny in a surreal, black humour sorta way
[02:01] lamorgne: Buuuuut the words only went to Meda going 'um....hi?' so, I left it.
[02:02] herworldsonfire: *giggles* I'm amused, at least.
[02:02] lamorgne: *solemnly* And Meda would be a ghost. Sometimes visible and sometimes not
[02:02] lamorgne: she'd have to haunt them
[02:02] lamorgne: and through a shoe at their heads
[02:02] lamorgne: *throw
[02:03] herworldsonfire: *giggles* she kinda does that anyway, though. Or would.
[02:03] lamorgne: ...this is true
[02:03] lamorgne:
[02:04] herworldsonfire: Sam and Atton: *fear!*
[02:04] lamorgne: Muahah
[02:05] herworldsonfire: You just know that somehow, somewhere, Sam and Atton just simultaneously stopped what they were doing, sat bolt upright and screamed.
[02:05] lamorgne: Oh, yes
[02:07] lamorgne: ....oh, god
[02:07] lamorgne: Atton in 1950s French-occupied Morocco
[02:07] herworldsonfire: ....Ahahahahaohshit.
[02:08] lamorgne: IT'D BE HYSTERICAL.
[02:08] lamorgne: AND WRONG.
[02:08] herworldsonfire: AND YOU SHOULD WRITE IT.
[02:08] lamorgne:
[02:08] herworldsonfire: ?
[02:09] herworldsonfire: *snicker*

[02:11] lamorgne: I don't know Atton and Jack and Sam enough to fic together. I mean, have Jack and Atton met?
[02:13] herworldsonfire: Yeah, a few times.
[02:13] herworldsonfire: There was one Sam-Atton-Jack thread that involved a traffic cone.
[02:13] lamorgne: *raises. eyebrows*
[02:14] herworldsonfire: *shrugs*
[02:14] lamorgne: Well, MY brain just took a swandive into the gutter
[02:14] herworldsonfire: It was Sam and Jack.
[02:14] lamorgne: hee, fair enough
[02:15] lamorgne: well, I"ll think about it, at least. I guess I was complaing about a lack of plot.
[02:15] lamorgne: I just got unexpected Atton as well.
[02:16] herworldsonfire: Aha! Got it.

Unexpected naked Atton?

[02:16] lamorgne: MOROCCO?
[02:16] herworldsonfire:
[02:16] lamorgne: Just found that thread!
[02:17] lamorgne: ....oh, when did it get to be 2:17 in the morning? o.0
[02:20] lamorgne: and now I have Freya and Meda snarling at each other in my head. Iiiii should probably attempt to SLEEP
[02:21] herworldsonfire: Go sleep. *stern* I'm about to head out anyway.
[02:21] lamorgne: It's a Friday. I never get to sleep on Fridays. And yes, ma'am!
[02:21] herworldsonfire: *shoos*
[02:22] lamorgne: *toddles off!*
[02:22] lamorgne: somehow, though?
[02:22] lamorgne: Atton has to be naked in 1950s Morocco
[02:22] lamorgne: somehow
[02:23] herworldsonfire: Somehow, Atton always has to be naked. It is a Thing.
[02:24] lamorgne: I was not aware!
mycursedface: (it's all just patterns)
Read more... )
mycursedface: (Default)

OOC: memes

Apr. 24th, 2008 10:03 am
mycursedface: (not amused. not me. nope.)
why is this so addictive? WHY? )
mycursedface: (once the silence has returned)
It had been good when she first came to Milliways. Curled up in Lucifer’s bed, in Lucifer’s arms, with the devil between her and the door, she could sleep. Oh, could she sleep. Damn straight she was good in bed, she had slept for days. Dreams, yes. Nightmares, yes, but…But it was sleep. It was good, too good, almost.

Too good to last, certainly.

As the nightmares began to increase, as they began to get worse and worse, it was too easy to fall into old habits and fall she did.

Lie awake for hours, staring at the door. Lie awake all night and if some of it is just due to her being used to a different sleep-pattern, most of it is just due to the fact that, well. She can’t get to sleep.

She doesn’t want to go to sleep.

Sleep means being unaware, sleep means being vulnerable, sleep means waking up to being murdered all over again. It feels the same, it always feels the same. Sometimes she’s drifting off, sometimes she’s drifting awake, but it’s the same; a sickening gasp, blind panic, and then her heart beating, beating, beating so hard with terror she is convinced that it’s going to break her ribs.

And if she does fall asleep, then it is either oblivion or nightmares. The oblivion is disconcerting; the nightmares are horrifying. Mostly, they are of being insane again, of seeing the world lawless and strange. The sky is purple, green, the trees lunge towards her and her mind is being eaten by rats. Sometimes, it is her murder; sometimes, it is her rape; sometimes it’s a strange mixture of the two, with Athena and Poseidon fighting and trampling her body underfoot (if she can scream, they never hear her, but being able to scream is rare). Mostly, though, it is memories of being crazy, and that is quite enough.

She doesn’t really need to sleep, anyway.

So, today Medusa stretches on the bed, rubs her eyes and then the cat (Shredie isn’t entirely sure what to make of this stranger, but the feathers are fun to play with), and gets to her feet. Jeans, sundress, bangles; kohl around her eyes because even if she hates looking in the mirror, even if she isn’t living in a desert, some things are habit.

And then her wire-framed glasses, and with a called goodbye to the boyfriend in the shower, she’s out the door and heading down the stairs.


mycursedface: (Default)

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