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World of Darkness: Attrition - Be It Ever So Humble...

Astra D.

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April 06, 2009

Evergreen Cemetery, Los Angeles.

Despite the bright glare of the mid-afternoon sun, it was hard for Morgan to shake the creeping chill she felt as the heavy door swung open. She shivered, staring into the gloomy rectangle as Michael busied himself with several small boxes.

"Once we get some lights in here, it'll be perfect," he called from inside the weathered mausoleum, the velvet of his voice strangely hollow as it echoed out to her. Lingering at the threshold, she leaned in, peering into the darkness. Motes of dust and cobweb shrouds obscured most of the interior, and she rubbed her hands together for warmth as she listened to the sound of the Moros rummaging around inside.

"This is going to be the perfect place for your work, trust me," came the cheery reassurance. "Remember what they say in real estate?" A moment later, his head popped out of the shadows of the interior, a broad grin plastered across his face. "Location, location, location. Come on. Help me drag some of this stuff inside."

With mounting apprehension, Morgan picked up her suitcase and hauled it into the darkness beyond the doorway.

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April 28, 2009

It was a shame that she'd never put much effort into learning Latin. Or Greek. Or Hebrew. Or any of a number of languages that had useful occult applications. As much as she lamented her lack of a classical education now, however, there wasn't much to be done for it. The best she could hope for was a lucky break in the public library; The Shadow Box was off-limits. Her lips curled into a moue of displeasure as she stared at the incomprehensible writing taunting her from the confines of the photocopied pages. That would've been the ideal place to start, but it was too risky. There were too many people who might recognize her, and it would only take a single slip of the tongue to start raising questions. At the very least, it might be... awkward.

With a reluctant groan, she rose half-heartedly from the rounded purple chair that had once served as a makeshift clothes basket in the dorm. There, it had all but vanished amid the clutter. Here, it was a comforting haven, a curiously sensual anomaly surrounded by cool marble and tarnished brass. Apart from being so isolated, it was really surprisingly comfortable. She had everything she needed, here; there was a public restroom, an amusingly stately-looking brick affair, just down the path, and 24-hour gyms and laundromats were lined up on nearly every street. All the distractions she'd lived with, distractions that Michael had gently pointed out to her, were notably absent, and she could devote her time to more important things. She had plenty of time for her artwork, of course, but increasingly, her thoughts turned toward the real purpose of her relocation.

Getting used to the door had been tricky, of course, since most mausoleums weren't built to open from the inside. Again, Michael had been a godsend, especially since plans to set up shop in LA National fell through. (Something about the armed guards who patrolled the veterans' graves. Who'd have thought?) Apparently, the Sewell family, whoever they were, had been just paranoid enough of premature interment that they'd had a few useful quirks built in: a counter-weighted door, decorative wrought-iron grating near the roof that allowed for ventilation (and, presumably, communication), and brass bells with frayed pull-cords that vanished into the heavy rectangular sarcophagi. As none of them ever rang, she had to assume that those slumbering in the greenish blocks of marble did so peacefully.

Yawning, she stretched languidly, her fingers curling in pleasure as she arched her back. It wasn't long past sunrise, but she had so much to do, and getting up a little earlier was much better than scurrying back into the cemetery after dark.

Idly, she flipped open her phone and dialed Reva's number. At least if she kept up contact, it kept her friend from asking too many questions.

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