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Maya Flynn

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About Maya Flynn

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  1. As everyone scurried off about their separate ways, the small crowd magically dissolving into so much superficial laughter and champagne as if it had never existed in the first place, Maya became acutely aware of the blood warming her cheeks. This was not her scene at all, and despite trying to find a relatively quiet part of the gallery to just... have a glass or two of wine and chill, somehow she'd ended up being the center of attention. So, of course, she had made a fantastic first impression as some kind of weirdo party-crasher, and... ...helped sell a painting? Gotten VIP status from LexAve Lilith? Landed a gig writing a column in the gallery newsletter? She hadn't thought she was lost when Ponytail Guy walked up with his entourage, but now, now she wasn't so sure. "At what point did I lose control of my life?" she wondered aloud, before taking another drink from a wineglass that was rapidly becoming more glass than wine. Mildly embarrassed, utterly confused, and in need of answers to such burning questions as, "Who the hell are these people?" "What the fuck just happened?" "Where is Colleen when I need her?" and "How do I get the recipe for those little cream cheese cracker things?" she reluctantly headed off in the same direction as Mourne. The other two women clearly had business to discuss, and she was not about to follow the security guard and get tased or something, which unfortunately left Baron von Buzzkill as her "best" option. Maybe, Maya tried to reassure herself as she followed him, maybe he wasn't really trying to be a jerk. It's not like I was walking around with my invitation pinned to my dress, right? There was no telltale clacking of perilous stilettos as she padded quickly down the gleaming hallway; it wasn't that she'd worn flats out of consideration for the men she'd look down on in heels, but that they were uncomfortable as hell and she hated wearing them. As for this "Mourne" guy... She wasn't sure who he was, but probably he worked for the gallery, so introducing herself might make the rest of the night a little easier, yeah? Yeah, she decided, nodding in affirmation as she peered into the smaller exhibition rooms she passed.
  2. Maya had been considering this particular piece for the better part of twenty minutes. and she still hadn't decided whether or not she liked it; the colours worked well together, with the general impression being a bit like a sunrise coming out of a dark night, but something just didn't sit well with her. She had almost nailed down exactly what it was when a man who looked like a department store manager, complete with mid-life crisis ponytail, interrupted her train of thought. Who did this Steven Seagal wannabe think he was? "Lost?" No more than you are, jerk. Who's your Journey tribute band opening for tonight, hm? Fifty scathing retorts rushed to the tip of her tongue in response, but before they had a chance to spill out, Maleficent's sister slithered up out of nowhere and intervened. It wasn't exactly on her behalf, but an intervention nonetheless, and she silently thanked whoever was listening that she hadn't had the opportunity to open her mouth. She didn't know who either of these people were, but the fact that Prince Charmless was visibly unhappy with the other woman's presence made her feel just a teensy bit better about essentially being politely accused of sneaking in without an invite. It didn't, however, make her feel any more at ease with the situation: the tension seething between the two made her feel like a very small pawn in a heated, long-running game of chess. For a brief moment, the world shifted in front of her eyes, and because she was still looking at the raven-haired woman who'd just spoken, for that fleeting instant she saw not a gorgeous socialite, but the rapacious Beldam of the book she'd so recently read to the children at work, all hunger and malice. No, no no, not here, this is not happening here, she told herself as she tore her gaze away, directing her attention back to the painting and taking a slow sip of wine to steady her nerves. Not tonight. "Oh, all sorts of things," Maya replied breezily, only the faint hint of a tremor in her voice betraying the fact that something- either the timing of the woman's question, or the appearance of the trio- had clearly unsettled her. She clasped the stem of her glass in both hands to stop them shaking until she could calm down, and skimmed the abstract shapes of the artwork again; focusing on the here and now always seemed to put things back to the way they should be. Her teeth caught at her lower lip; what exactly was it that bugged her so much about this painting? It was driving her crazy that she couldn't make heads or tails of- Heads or tails? That was it! It wasn't positioned correctly. Tilting her head to re-assess the art, much to the mixed amusement, bewilderment, and exasperation of her audience, she felt her pulse quicken as the pieces started to fall into place. "Here, this looks hopeful, yeah?" she asked them rhetorically, glancing back at them before waving at muted whorls of rose and orange shot through with bright gold, cerulean, and white. "It's lovely and soft, like a spring morning, especially when you contrast it with this part." Here, she pointed at the sharp, angular interjections of muddy grey, violet, and deep black that jutted out in irregular patterns. "So, it looks like an aspirational thing, like looking toward beauty and light as you reach out from the darkness, clinging to the hope that will get you through the worst of times." The more she looked at it, the more sense it started to make, as if she were piecing together the plot of a complicated novel. The warmth of the wine hummed pleasantly through her body as she paused, allowing her audience a moment to draw their own conclusions. "But it's not!" she exclaimed, shaking her head, the words coming faster, more easily now. "There's no real hope in this at all. Yes, there's the acknowledgement of joy and all that, it exists, but these are things the artist believes they cannot have. They have seen and, and felt transcendence, something celestial, unfathomable, something ah... ah... supernal!" she stated emphatically, taking another drink of wine. "And now it's utterly gone, shattered, destroyed. They can still see beauty in the world, but they can't touch it, and every time they try something is irrevocably broken. This painting is all about the incredible longing the artist feels for what's lost, tempered by overwhelming remorse and utter despair, because..." Realizing suddenly that there were now more than four people gathered around, and that she was gesturing animatedly while everyone stared, Maya suddenly felt intensely self-conscious and dropped her free hand, which had come just short of touching the painting. "Because they know it's their fault," she finished somewhat more quietly. Making a very small, vaguely circular motion with her finger, the tall, grey-eyed 'interloper' added, "and, ah, it's upside-down."
  3. Maya had been to parties before. She had even worn a nice dress to one, when her sister got married. This little shindig, though? It was on a whole other level. Sure, she knew the Richardses were well-off, but this level of glitz and glam was like, Vanity Fair, where she'd been expecting maaaaybe The New Yorker- or, since it was supposed to be for the work of "mythologically inspired artists," maybe some niche-market mag dealing with the zoomorphic gods of pre-colonial Egypt. She'd imagined chunky dichroic glass jewelry and caftans, not designer ensembles straight from some high-end boutique. Under normal circumstances, she'd have felt pretty confident. Rather than straightening her hair, she'd just pinned it up, and the long-sleeved maxi dress was both comfortable and what she thought of as "casual sophistication." She was tall enough to get away with wearing ballet flats instead of heels, and she was also one of the very few women not showing skin. It was a look that suited her, but after a quick scan of the room following Colleen's departure, it definitely did not suit the party. Slipping over to grab a glass of rosé from one of the tables, she smiled politely and avoided eye contact as she moved through the partygoers. Everyone just looked so rich, and so beautiful- or at least the kind of beautiful that being rich could buy- that just catching glimpses of faces and suits and dresses in the crowd was almost an art show on its own. As she sipped her "basic white girl" wine, the knot of anxiety that came from being keenly aware she didn't fit in gradually loosened, and she resigned herself to making the best of things. She knew Mrs. Richards had intended the invitation as a gift, a sort of 'thank you' that she'd thought Maya would enjoy, not as a means to make her feel uncomfortable or out of place. Besides, it wasn't as if she was likely to run into anyone she knew here, so what was the harm in trying to have a good time? Things had been a little weird, lately, and getting out of her comfort zone and into another glass or two of wine might actually help. It wasn't too difficult to make her way to the outer edges of the thronging glitterati, and into the actual exhibition halls. It was an art gala, and if she was gonna be here all night, she was gonna see some art.
  4. Name: Maya Flynn Nature: Explorer Demeanor: Sage Concept: Frustrated Underachiever Age: 25 Physical: Strength ●●, Dexterity ●●, Stamina ●● Social: Charisma ●●●, Manipulation ●●●, Appearance ●● Mental: Perception ●●●, Intelligence ●●●●, Wits ●●● Talents: Alertness ●●, Athletics ●●, Awareness ●●, Brawl ●, Carousing ●, Empathy ●●, Expression ●●, Intimidation, Leadership, Streetwise ●, Subterfuge ● Skills: Animal Ken ●●, Crafts, Drive ●, Etiquette ●●, Firearms, Game-Playing ●, Larceny, Melee, Performance ●●, Stealth ●, Storytelling ●, Survival Knowledges: Academics ●●●, Computer ●●, Culture ●, Finance, Investigation ●, Law, Medicine, Occult ●, Politics ●, Science, Technology Backgrounds: Allies ●, Contacts ●●, Influence, Resources ●● Virtues: Conscience ●●●, Self-Control ●●●●, Courage ●●● Humanity: ●●●●● ●● Willpower: ●●●●● ● Background: Works at Yorkville Public Library, lives in a small furnished studio apartment on E 79th St., Upper East Side. Can drive a car (and has a license), but who drives in NYC? Smart people ride bikes. Studied Anthropology, had difficulty finding work after college and took temporary employment with the Yorkville branch of the NYPL at the request of a family friend. She’s still there, beginning to despair of ever accomplishing anything meaningful with her life. Saving up to travel overseas- she has a list of “must-see” places gleaned from magazines and friends who’ve actually gone. Had an opportunity to study abroad for a summer in college, but a family health scare caused her to miss out. Owns precisely one cat. Just one. She blames him for a lack of dating prospects. He doesn’t seem to care. Her social life is largely limited to reading aloud for the children during story hour on the second floor of the library, and helping her friend Mason create a weekly podcast about a lonely, fictional town in upstate NY. Has one sister, Leticia, 2 years younger, married to a financial analyst. Is occasionally called upon to babysit her niece and nephew on “date night” because, honestly, what else does she have to do? Sometimes screens her mother’s calls, despite concerns over her health, because she is tired of being compared to her more successful sibling. Lists her ethnicity as “colonial.” (Her family is of Irish, English, Kashmiri, and Maori ancestry. It’s complicated.) When in the neighborhood, stops by The Full Pot for an afternoon pick-me-up Bonus Point Costs Attributes: 5 per dot Abilities: 2 per dot (x6) Ability Specialties: 1 per dot (max of 3 per ability) Backgrounds: 1 per dot Virtues: 2 per dot Humanity: 1 per dot Willpower: 1 per dot (x3) 3
  5. Disoriented and confused, Maya fumbled for something to write with, tipping over an ancient owl-shaped mug full of brittle pencils and dried-out markers in her haste. Her hand fell on a green felt-tip pen with the cap still intact, and she jabbed the point repeatedly on the back of an old receipt until the ink reluctantly started to flow again. The result was legible, but only just- it didn't matter if the information was coherent, just that she needed to get it all down. She could always figure out what to do with it later. Mason A name? Job? Org? Soulless Ginger? What? Woman + Window- Accident ---Obits Man + Shadow = WTF Pooka Rabbit Troll -Seth Chosen ??? Dreams & doors She jammed the scrap of paper into the front pocket of her purse and left it there, and for the next 45 minutes, as she finished tidying up and getting everything ready for that sticky-fingered slag in the morning, Maya let the entire experience just sort of... go, like leaving the radio on in the background while focusing on other things. She didn't have time to really sit down and process anything just yet, and despite just having awakened from a nap, she felt completely exhausted. There were no other interruptions, no strangeness that didn't already exist in New York. When the young assistant librarian finally locked up, the utter disinterest of the city that never sleeps was almost a relief.
  6. "I'm... dreaming." Maya repeated dazedly as something clicked into place in her brain, and the battle between her eyes and her logical mind ended in a reluctant truce. It was, after all, the only possible scenario in which she wasn't a raving lunatic. She realized too that it was actually quiet in the library, without either the normal city noises bleeding in from outside, or the omnipresent voice of Deb, who was apparently filling in for literally every other DJ at the station today. "Okay, that... that makes sense, I guess," she continued, staring at her sleeping self for a moment while her body's alert system ratcheted down from DEFCON 1 and her explosively racing heartbeat slowly returned to normal pulmonary function. How would her dreaming mind perceive her actual face? Would she even be able to see it, or would it be horribly distorted? As much as she wanted to lift the book that was obscuring her other self's appearance, to see what "she" looked like, something gave her pause. This dream was already going in a weird direction, and seeing her actual self while sleeping in a dream felt like it would be crossing some boundary, violating a taboo or something. "So, then, where did you guys come from? I mean, yeah," she gestured vaguely toward the two, "Alice Through The Looking-Glass, and maybe Shrek since we had it on repeat for a while, but it's been a minute since either of those has come across the desk." Then again, sure, talking animals and helpful monsters are pretty much a staple of fairy tales and folklore, and so is the whole 'hero's journey' idea. Man, Jill is gonna have to book me for an extra session for this. A pair of tiny furrows appeared between her brows as she frowned, tentatively moving away from the door and addressing the pair of interlopers into her head-space more directly. Somehow, knowing that this was only happening because she was asleep didn't diminish the level of wiggins they were giving her. "And what's this 'something big' in 'my world' that I'm supposed to somehow help you with? You just said this was a dream."
  7. The scream caught in Maya's throat, escaping only in erratic whimpers and panicked, juddering breaths; her whole body shook visibly as she pressed her back against the doors, rattling them with every terrified spasm. This couldn't be happening. It couldn't. Monsters weren't real- not like these, anyway. Monsters were people, people who lured kids into dark places, who enjoyed hurting and abusing, who were so broken inside they were compelled to destroy beautiful, innocent things. She could almost feel her grasp on reality slipping as she stared at the two figures before her, even as her mind clawed desperately at its fraying edges. No! They're just vagrants! Just a couple of weird homeless guys, a big biker dude and a- an- an albino with dwarfism, it insisted, frantically trying to make sense of a nonsensical situation, to rationalize, to figure out how to create a plausible scenario to which she could react. In this case, she was obviously being confronted by a pair of drug addicts, or maybe mental patients, but who knew what they wanted from her, and because she was panicking she'd just missed the alarm button, and the doors- Her eyes, however, dispassionately related a different story, one her rational, reasonable, mundane mind was trying so very hard to refute: An ogre and a talking rabbit had invaded her library, and trapped her inside. She wanted so badly to squeeze those eyes shut, to block out the insanity and wait for reality to reassert itself, but she was too afraid to look away. "Please," the assistant librarian, who definitely did not get paid enough for this and who was (in her estimation) far too young to die, begged tearfully as she tried in vain to melt backwards through the doors, her words scarcely more than a choked whisper. "P-please don't hurt me."
  8. Maya blinked. For what seemed like hours, the wheels of her mind simply rotated purposelessly, like an empty groove at the end of a record spinning listlessly on a turntable... if reality was the panic-stricken DJ, pounding desperately on the door of the locked sound booth labeled "Consciousness" in an effort to shift the needle and get the party moving again. Incapable of doing anything else, she just stared up at it- him?- in the dim glow of the aging emergency lights that stuttered and flickered sporadically along the walls. In those few, but seemingly interminable seconds, the parts of her brain that observed and processed information carried on, dispassionately making note of the smell of something sweet and syrupy- orange soda- commingled with what might have been oil, and the scents of leather and old paper that lingered, ever-present, in the air. They also created two warring factions, each side sending conflicting visual information up for interpretation: either the figure in front of her was an impossibility, with fangs, tusks, and massive horns, or it was an indigent with bizarre hair and lamentable oral hygiene. None of this mattered, of course, because none of the sensory information being meticulously gathered and processed was actually being interpreted as she stood there for the briefest of instants, for countless aeons, blind, deaf, and dumb to the world. And then, the needle shifted. The track changed, and the spinning disk once again caught up with the present moment. The discordant, raspy shriek of a scratched record was nearly audible as reality came suddenly and sharply into focus for the unfortunate young woman, followed by a discordant shriek that was audible. The sound of Maya's terrified scream echoed throughout both floors of the library, reverberating off the walls and empty hallways as it rose in both volume and pitch. Sheer terror mixed with a New Yorker's survival instinct propelled her forward, the massive tome sweeping upward as she swung both hands toward the figure's head. She didn't wait for the sensation of impact, but, wide-eyed, released the leather-bound compilation of maps to fly on its own as she turned, planted a foot and (still screaming) launched herself toward the desk. If I survive this, Lorraine is gonna have to start working the closing shift.
  9. The chill that rippled down Maya's spine had claws. It was an alien, chitinous thing that sent icy pinpricks skittering across her skin in a frigid wave of dread, leaving her staring dry-mouthed and wide-eyed into the shadows between the rows of shelves. Someone was in the building with her. Someone was in the building with her, and they knew she was there. Unbidden, a flood of stories- murder mysteries, crime thrillers, and tabloid trash (because, hey, you've got to read something while standing in the checkout line at Fairway)- all came rushing to the forefront of her mind at once in a horrific deluge of bad endings. She could only imagine what Lorraine would say to the police when they woke her up in the morning, or what her mother would say to the vaguely sympathetic journalist during her interview on the 6 o'clock news. Swallowing hard, Maya realized that the voices had gone silent. Were they moving out there somewhere, creeping up from the darkness? ...Or, perhaps more frightening, were they simply watching, observing her before making their move? She shivered again, her blouse clinging to skin that, despite having been out of the rain for hours, was suddenly damp again with a thin film of cold sweat. Maybe she just couldn't hear them over the sound of the jackhammer currently threatening to burst through her ribs. With trembling hands, her fingers all but numb with fear, the assistant librarian at Yorkville Public Library slowly, deliberately pulled a copy of the tall, rather weighty Atlas Of The World from the nearby reference shelf. If they rushed her... If they rushed her, she decided, struggling to stay calm instead of succumbing to the urge to scream hysterically, she might be able to use the cart to slow them down, and if not, Oxford Press knew how to make some seriously hefty books of maps. Cautiously, carefully, and as quietly as possible in the event she wasn't actively being observed, Maya crept step by agonized step toward the relative safety of the desk. Her phone, her keys, and the alarm button were all there, tantalizingly within reach, and beyond that, the glass door to the foyer...
  10. Maya froze, fingertips still resting on the spine of some obnoxious romance novel with an annoyingly handsome, shirtless man standing next to a wolf on the cover. The library was quiet, save for the muted sound of the radio at the circulation desk. She waited for a few moments, motionless, straining to hear... what? Nothing. Silence. Unless a patron had stayed behind after closing, there was no one in the building except her, and she'd done the requisite sweep of the bathrooms, study areas, and stacks, both upstairs and down. No matter what kind of messed-up day she'd had, and would be talking about in therapy for the next couple of weeks, it was over. She relaxed, shaking her head at her own over-reaction, and exhaled in a quiet laugh as she pushed the empty cart back toward the desk. “Girl,” she told herself, “you have got to take a vacation.”
  11. This is not normal, Maya told herself in disbelief as she read, and reread, the envelope. It wasn't the first time that day that she'd been forced to question what her own eyes were telling her, and she wasn't happy about the potential reasons. Once, maybe twice could be written off as coincidence, but... There is something wrong with me. Glancing up at Mrs. Richards, confusion writ plain upon her face, she half-expected to see the other woman's features shift and change as well, revealing a button-eyed Other Coleen behind a human mask. Naturally, they didn't. This did nothing to alleviate the bewilderment of an assistant librarian having a very unsettling day. "Yes," she heard herself say, as if from a great distance. "I'd love to. Thank you so much." While her brain was busily compiling a list of possible ailments, trying to rationalize the seemingly bizarre events she'd experienced in only a few hours, attempting to adequately describe the level of discomfort she was feeling as a few still-damp curls slithered lazily along the nape of her neck, and adding a reminder to call and request an earlier appointment with her therapist, her mouth was apparently quite content to carry on without her supervision. Wait... what?
  12. Maybe it was the dismal weather, or her vicious harpy of a supervisor, or the creepy guy with the briefcase, or, hell, maybe just the caffeine in her twice-warmed chai latte, but something felt seriously jacked up about the day already. Not only was she on edge, it felt uncomfortably like some sort of phantasmal, undefined dark forces were arraying against her- although, she had to admit, the scope of their sinister and unknowable cosmic plot was thus far more annoying than terrifying. Still, low-key paranoia, with maybe some unaddressed depression thrown in for good measure, wasn't remotely helpful... Especially when it starting altering what she was seeing and hearing through some weird, self-destructive and defeatist filters. Probably her therapist would have something to say about externalizing, and she made a mental note to leave out the obviously unhealthy notion that book titles and a radio host were communicating messages exclusively to her. Putting aside any further contemplation of her shitty day, or the dreary state of her mental health, Maya focused on one of the few real perks of her job. "Sure," she replied to the somewhat overdressed young boy with a smile- a genuine one. While she didn't know much about him, over the last year or so she'd pieced together that he had a difficult home life, one probably more complicated than was the norm for kids hanging out at the library voluntarily. He always smelled faintly of kerosene, a scent that tugged at her memories of elementary school and gifts of second-hand clothing, and she knew that, whatever Kenny's story was, it wasn't as uncommon as people might hope. She eyed the proffered book speculatively as he handed it to her. "Coraline? I don't know, Kenny, it might be a little-" She was about to say "scary," until she realized how ridiculous the notion of supernatural fear was to kids in New York, kids with very real, mundane reasons to be frightened. Pursing her lips thoughtfully, she sighed and nodded toward the stairs leading up to the children's section on the second floor. "All right. We'll try it, but if any of the younger children start to get too scared, we'll have to find something else, okay?" "Okay, Miss Flynn!" Kenny exulted with a whoop of excitement that had the same patrons shushing again as he raced upstairs, heedless of the rules. She'd have to remind him about running, she supposed, but... For now, it was story time. She wasn't one hundred percent sure what it was about spending time with the kids upstairs that made coping with the general lousiness of life so much easier. The internet claimed that the second floor was absolutely, definitely haunted, either by a specific child ghost or some sort of phantasmal collective of multiple children's ghosts from years past, and to avoid it at all costs, but she'd never felt or seen anything unpleasant. (Barring Lorraine, of course. Lorraine was always unpleasant.) None of the kids had ever mentioned anything remotely paranormal, either. It was a safe place for them, and to some extent, for her, too. Maybe she didn't need to escape into a story for exactly the same reasons they did, but damn if it didn't help just the same.
  13. "Seriously?" the assistant librarian growled indignantly under her breath as she glared in the direction of Lorraine's exit, silently counting to ten and closing her eyes. She could feel the droplets of water trickling from her disheveled hair down the back of her neck, soaking her third-best blouse in a way that was likely to be uncomfortable for at least the next hour, her shins would be purple by tomorrow, and she hadn't even really gotten the day started yet. I need this job. I need this job. I need this job. I fucking hate this- "Excuse me." It wasn't phrased as a request. Her inner mantra interrupted by the brisk male voice, Maya's eyes flew open, and she forced a smile past the frustration lodged firmly in her clenched teeth. His suit was dated, wire frame glasses slightly bent, tie poorly knotted, and briefcase in dire need of some leather conditioner; she guessed he wasn't a businessman, or at least not a successful one, and judging by the looks of him, he'd been caught in the rain. Well, she thought with a hint of schadenfreude, at least I'm not the only one having a crappy day. "Welcome to Yorkville library, sir. How may I help you today?" she asked, hoping she sounded more chipper than she felt. "You can help me," he began, hefting his dripping briefcase up onto the counter and promptly sending rain dribbling indiscriminately onto the paperwork accumulated there as he opened it. "By finding these books. I tried doing a search for them online, but your website is completely useless." His bleary eyes scanned her, taking in her as-yet unkempt appearance, and he frowned with what she supposed was disapproval. "How long have you-" "Three years, sir. I've worked here for three years," she managed, trying not to scream. "If you have a list of titles, I would be happy to take it from you, but I'm going to have to ask that you remove your briefcase from the circulation desk, and keep it away from any books or periodicals." He started to protest, a red flush blooming under his collar and spreading slowly up into his face as he spluttered, but she cut him off with a curt wave of her hand. "Otherwise, the library will have no choice but to hold you responsible for any loss of NYPL property due to water damage while you're visiting. Those fines cannot be waived during library forgiveness week." She paused, glancing pointedly at the water pooling on the desk, then back up at him. "Would you like to give me that list now, sir?" By the time she had cleaned up the water, tracked down the half-dozen books on ancient Babylonian history and myth that he wanted, twisted her hair up with a rubber band from the desk, and gotten back to her chai latte, it no longer qualified as hot. Still, at least they had a microwave, and she hadn't seen the library manager since she'd practically thrown a stack of books with insulting titles at her. Maybe the rest of the day would be easier. A girl could hope, right?
  14. Bar: Teleforce (plus FireFly and Mai ) Hiding: Nyx (wall near bathrooms) Dance Floor (dancing): Summer Josh Flow Bellator Longball Tables: LiberTeen Catalyst Troy The deep fire pit of Hell: Ravenshire Leaving (right outside): Hina Longball Pele Out: Gabe Kara Aura Across the street: Kittie (with Cirrus) Outside of the Entrance: Robert Primal Entering the club: Caduceus
  15. Chaos, panic, disorder... My work here is done, the ebon-skinned girl thought, grinning to herself as a full-scale brawl ripped through the club. And I didn't even have to lift a finger this time. She stepped silently back against the wall and away from the rough-and-tumble violence of the dance floor, exhaling softly as she did so. Eagerly, the shadows that danced and writhed across the room enveloped her, quantum energies drawing like to like in an eerie semblance of life. Like a jealous lover they clung to her petite form, permeating her very being and saturating what she'd come to consider her "soul" with cool, comforting darkness. Like a wraith, she drew them in until little more than her eyes could be seen in the wavering darkness. Titans, their physical forms exquisitely rendered in muscle and sinew, brawled ruthlessly with bare fists and improvised weapons. Brilliant flares of energy illuminated the gritty warriors now and again in a variety of scintillating colours- arcs of electricity, gouts of flame, strobes of blinding light that dazzled the eye. It was truly a breathtaking battle, a skirmish of would-be gods vying for supremacy and, in some cases, survival. Keenly, she watched the proceedings with interest; surely her mentor would have much to ask her when she returned. Quote:Nyx spent 2 quantum points to use Bodymorph: Shadow, leaving her with 24.[Nyx is holding her position against the wall, near the washrooms for now. She is observing. Anyone who wishes to engage her or pinpoint her location should send me a PM.]
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