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To be completely honest with himself, Everett can’t even begin to fathom a reasonable explanation on how exactly he had gotten here, to this particular place, in this particular moment. Logically, he knows how it happened. He could recite the events of the day that played up to this very second back as though he were simply watching...

Everett is so fucking bored.   It’s the only thought that permeates his poor, under-stimulated mind as his hooves begin to move upon their own accord. It’s a certain sort of auto-pilot that his body has taken to these days, one that carries him from his apartment and through the familiar back doors of the club that’s become basically a second home to him. Not even the bouncers dare give him a second as he weaves his way through all of the dancers still...

Silas would be lying to say that he isn’t nervous. It’s becoming increasingly obvious just how out of place he feels, squirming slightly from where he is knelt upon the fuzzy pink carpet, wincing slightly at the feeling of it against his bare flesh. His usual darkened attire has already been carefully set aside, each piece meticulously folded by slightly shaky hand...

From where he’s seated at his desk, quill in hand and dozens upon dozens of papers laid scattered around him, Silas swears the flames beckon him. He’s always written by candlelight before - that is nothing new. From within his grand mansion of an apartment- or more like his self-inflicted prison, he privately laments - it is not uncommon for candles or all sorts to be used as the main light source. Unscented, seasonal, colored or even plain - Silas would gladly take them all. ...