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[wizard_redfive]

[The journal picks up a scratching sound, a little like a cat, if its claws were made of metal. Soon a mechanical voice starts to speak, quiet and dry with dread.]

Uh oh. Uh oh. Uh oh.

[Then Dairine's voice can be heard, getting progressively louder as she approaches the journal.]

Spot? What are you doing with my-?

Uh oh.

[Dairine freezes.]

Ohhh boy... That can't be a good sign.

((Regular type is Dairine. Code is her Wizard Manual, Spot.))

483 ❀

[ino]

A birthday just isn't the same without all your friends to share it with, is it?

[ there's a moment's pause, before ... ]

I guess it doesn't matter much when we don't age at all, though.

first stage ◆ dictated/written/action

[sonatilove]

[The night before had been the performance for introducing the new Acchan and the Center Nova. Sonata still felt the excitement when she woke up that morning, but between that and being an easier person to wake than Makoto-- she quickly realized something was very wrong.

She bounded around the bare but nice room until she found the journal and opened it--]

Huh? A journal?

[The voice sounds pretty young and quiets as she looks it around.]

Sonata doesn't have her own room. Where's Grumbly, Linda, and Demon? Sonata doesn't like this....

[She considers a moment before giving a triumphant noise.] Ah!

[Seconds later, writing wll appear in playful, hurried handwriting.]

Sonata was here. She'll find you, you big meanie! Then she'll let you have it!

There! Now to go and find 'em--

[She moves to leave the leave her room so she can either be stopped via the journal or found crouched down and hopping that way as she inspects the castle. An added bonus might be the fact she's in her bear pajamas.]

Dictated

[lightbranded]

 [Will awakes slowly and stares up at the ceiling.  There had been a dream, and perhaps even more than a dream.  He was quite sure of that.  But the details fled from his memory even as he tried to clutch onto them.

Only one thing remained.  A part, a piece of a rhyme. And the certainty that it must be told.

Slowly he begins reciting it to the journal in a quiet singsong voice, almost  sounding like he was reciting a children's rhyme.]

Looking in windows, knocking on doors,
They need to take seven and they might take yours.

560 - hope you've got your things together

[hard_talker]

[so many letters in so many days - Mark hasn't seen this much mail on his desk since he was back home in Arizona. he tucks them all carefully away into a wooden box he made for the purpose while he was away in Fairfield, and then takes the other one he'd saved out of its hiding place. on a whim, he reads it over again, and finds himself as touched by Steve Rogers' words as he was the first time he read them:

"Care about these people, be their voice, understand their feelings. Give them the very best of yourself as often as possible. Never lose hope when things get ugly. I want you to fight and always believe that things can get better because they can."

he shakes his head, sighing softly - and then a notion strikes him. maybe it's intuition, maybe it's a flash of something else ... a sign that he's doing something he swore never to do: grow up. whatever the reason, he spins around in his chair and clicks the broadcasting equipment on without fanfare, this week. no music, no rude noises, no filters, no nothing]

Hey. Guys. York, C, Phoebe, Doc, everybody.

I want to know where we're at with our various safety plans. Call me crazy, but I heard a couple things today that gave me the wicked heebies, and ... I just ... I wanna know.

As for the rest of you - whoever we've got left - anybody feel like hearin' anything in particular, tonight?

[on a whim, maybe just to make himself calm down a little, he'll put some fare that's a little more chill than usual]

page twenty-one

[fantasies]

[All told, it's probably long past Henry's bedtime. Between friends leaving and bad memories, he hasn't had the best month, and it's making it difficult to sleep. Less a bad mood, necessarily (he's had worse months, and less reassuring conversations), but definitely a thoughtful one.

At the very least, he's being very quiet tonight, at first only drawing a line of tick marks across the top of the journal's page. At first it might seem like he's counting, but instead of drawing a diagonal slash when he gets to five, he continues on across the page.

He's humming, too, hushed enough to break slightly at the edges in classic prepubescent fashion, more rhythmic than musical.

There's the soft whining of a dog in the background.]

Bandit, come on, quit it. You're gonna mess me up.

[The tick marks stop, and Henry murmurs something even more hushed, which even the journal doesn't quite pick up.

There's a pause, and then he opts to write his question in scrawled, childish letters:]

Does anyone know how long it takes to make an apple pie?

Fourth Temptation ♆ What the hell? [Written]

[putuporshutup]

What's going on? Can anyone speak out loud at all?

( Filtered to Will )

( Filtered to August )

( Filtered to Castiel )