Jive
Pet Information
Pet Name: Jive
Owner: stalk
Theme / Type: Noir Anya
Gender: Female
MisticPal Name: Chiraki
MisticPal Age: 4211 Days
Battle Portal Stats
Hit Points: 5 / 5
Strength: 2
Defense: 2
Speed: 4
Intellect: 6
Misticpower: 1
Battles Won: 0
Battles Lost: 0
| Attached Weapons | |
Books Read
Books Read: None
Exotic Foods Eaten
Foods Eaten: None
1. - Scarab Soup
-Bad Reputation: Joan Jett and the Blackhearts
a new beginning
And the first time she saw him, he was known as 'Noose', an appropriate jab at the history of people like him in a neighborhood like they lived in. People didn't take too kindly to him opening a restaurant, acting as if his food was good.
She gladly participated in the talk, happy to not be the center of a dozen hundred peering eyes that judged her every breath. Her family had moved in not too long ago, her mother doing grunt work at a big launderhouse. But her family settled into its rightful place: at the bottom. Perhaps this is what separated them from him. The acceptance that this was and was going to be their life.
Watched him with painfully alert eyes, eager to mimic her own gazers, every time he managed to cross her path. Which wasn't very often, if she were to be honest. In fact, he almost never went out and about, and for good reason. They'd have followed through with their moniker quite soon if he had shown any more opposition.
But he didn't, and continued to run a quite little Jewish restaurant. He'd bought out a small shop at the foot of Verdad Hill--which people tried to complain about despite the fact no one even shopped there--and set up his circus of an existence. He lived on the upper floor, with an ivy staircase that crept up the brick to the window of his bedroom with whispering tendrils that peeled faintly off of their textured perch. She'd watch the white curtain pressed against the dirty glass on her walks about town, but never once saw any movement. It wouldn't have surprised her if he didn't sleep at all. She doubted she'd be able to, if her room smelled like the cooking that made her nose wrinkle in disgust as she passed by.
People thought that he'd soon go out of business, setting up in a parcel of community that thought they'd erased or broken in everything not of the all-seeing blinding white. But his very existence was a smack to the face, a stinging lash of a whip cracked that their kind was feeling for the first time. A pain sharp and not soon forgotten. Who did he think he was? What did he think he was doing?
The bitterness rose like a poisonous flower, cultivated by a fervent farmer. It bloomed in their hearts, sickly thorns and prickly leaves, full-blood petal lips. Their stalks were thick with hatred, but shriveled with it as well. No nourishment could reach their decaying hearts.
They hung him, one night. Stole up to his bedroom and brought him to the top of Verdad Hill. Slung the rope round a branch and the deed was done. Rumours said that there was nothing in his bedroom. That he'd been staring at the door when they came in. Rumours said that the branch broke on the lone tree at Verdad Hill, that it'd been rotted from the inside and that it was the fall that killed him.
Jive didn't know the truth, and didn't care much to do so.
a first encounter
She was seventeen when he first appeared. Seventeen when she saw him again. It was a funny age for a funny time, when leaves seemed to fall upwards and she'd have thought her whole world was upside down. The police had turned on them in protest to their treatment and criminals ran free and kind to those like them (those that had been branded with a colour from birth, from their first breath into a world not for them). Streets were abandoned and alleys were crowded, as she watched an entire town expose its sloppy innards.
Years had passed, since the hanging, softer years that soon became bitter. No one thought of the noose. The tree itself had been burnt in a riot: ash fell on each of them and she thought she'd have been buried alive by it. Everything was in a sordid haze. Her mother warned her about walking alone. 'Always travel with a friendly white girl--' to find one was a feat in and of itself '--always know what you are.'
What was she? What made her different? When she looked at her classmates that stared in revulsion, she saw horrors in them and not her. She didn't have to look at their skin, as they did to her. Their abhorrent features settled in their eyes, quickly blinked away and quickly brought back. Settled on the back of their tongues, but drawn forward like a snake's spit and their venom coated her cheek. What was so wrong with her, but so right with them? They called her a criminal, and she was only seventeen. It was a crime to be black. It was a crime for her to be alive.
She was on the swings, one day. Her arms were tightly wound against chain that left ash on her arms, but flame in her heart. She swung heavily, anchored with dread and pain. She'd had no one to talk to in some long time, with all the revolts. Her 'people' were running a muck in the streets. She'd rather have no people, to be honest.
'It's a cold dawn.' She nodded reflexively, daren't speak. She knew how to play the white person game. Her neck was limp as a marionette's, wouldn't (couldn't) make eyes with her sudden company. 'I don't like it when it's cold.'
Her mouth, tight. Arms tighter and her momentum vanished with the first whisper of word to her. Breathe. Eyes down. Don't look don't even--'You don't talk much.'
'It's always cold. Nowadays.'
'Nowadays? Since when?' She quickly stole a glance under her left arm. Nothing. Under her right. Nothing. Her head came back to center. 'Are you going to answer?'
'Since they hung him,' she said abruptly, working over the situation at hand. Her eyebrows drew together as she thought. This voice didn't sound completely white, on second though. She couldn't see anything--
'Hung who?'
'Noose.' She shut her eyes tightly as she concentrated. What was happening? 'Don't know his name.' Was it safe to turn around? 'They called him Noose.' An odd feeling rose in her, and she slowly stood and turned and--
'Well that's odd, isn't it?'
Nothing.
Nothing was there.
Her eyes widened in surprise and confusion. Nothing? Nothing was there? She knew she'd been hearing a voice. She clutched her cheeks and tried to reason with herself. Maybe there wasn't a voice? No, she was certain.
'Here I am.' She glanced forward, as half a person appeared before her.
She blinked. He was still there.
She blinked again. Her ear was pressed against cold dirt.
uhhh title
WIP AHHH GOD
if you can't get with it,
just get out!
character is going to me based on 20s TRUE woman (think this)
BEST FRIENDS WITH NOOSE EVEN THOUGH THEY'RE FOILS
saving for storm box
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