The Banished

done

Ethenia woke up and one thought hit her mind instantly.

Book! I need the next one in the series.

She jumped out of her bed and got dressed. She brushed her hair, and put her shoes on before grabbing her purse and running outside. Ethenia hopped into her car and drove toward the nearest Barnes and Nobles.

"Coffee..." She said to herself. When she got to the bookstore, she walked inside and went to the romance section of books. She grabbed a book called Oh Romeo, you're such a cheese! . She walked to the StarBucks that was part of the B&N.

"Just a black coffee please, and can I buy this book here?" Ethenia asked.
"Sorry, but you have to buy the book at one if the Barnes And Nobles registers." She replied as she handed her the coffee after she got the money. Ethenia dashed off to a register to buy her book.
"Hello miss, did you find everything okay today?" The cashier asked.
"Yes, um..." She looked at the name tag before adding "Chelsea."

Dhani-

Dhani covered a huge yawn as she walked into the coffee shop. She'd just finished pulling another all-nighter and was completely exhausted. Quickly she grabbed a donut and a latte. Walking towards the small table area. She started paging through the newspaper.

Only one article really caught her eye. She took a sip of her latte as she read the article. "Ritualistic killings continue. The cult responsible for these murders seems to only target men and women in their late teens to early twenties..." The article continued talking about the crimes elements.

Shaking her head Dhani set the paper down and finished her donut. She took her coffee with her and ran out the door passing by a girl paying for a book, in the connected store.

-Patient Notes-

As progress with James had been building, his recent requests for basic comforts were agreed to, for the purpose of building trust between James and his various doctors. However, this tactic seems to have backfired as when given a copy of a local paper (obviously with the secondary hopes of triggering memory recall) James went into a dangerous episode.

Not since the first days of his internment here has James shown such severe agitation; resulting, for the first time, in violence against the orderlies responsible for security. Sedation was required and it was in the administering of that sedation that James' case became all the more intriguing. The reason for his transfer is now clear, as the use of energy fields as a form of personal defence has not been encountered by those of the medical proffession since the epidemic of 1962.

With this knowledge, we can safely guess that should James attempt physical resistance, electro-shock is the most effective form of restrainment. Toward that end James has been moved to the Security Wing.

For the record, it would appear that the article that unhinged JAmes was related to the recent spate of occult killings. Perhaps given JAmes' own unique nature, his appearance in the NAtional Park, and his herbal tattooes hint of some connection with these killings? Regardless he cannot be guilty as he is currently confined and so our projects will continue.

Please read the updated Bold text in the Introduction post, everyone.

I'm just gonna jump in and post my profile, and no one's gonna complain about it.

Full Name: Jonathan Lucas Boulloir, goes by "Luke" with his (very few) friends, "Jonathan" with everyone else.
Gender: Male
Age: 34
Birthplace: NYC, New York
Job: CEO and primary shareholder of a quickly-growing nanotechnology company
Eyes: Blue
Hair: Medium blond hair, slicked back
Height: 6'2
Weight: 170 lbs.
Social Class: Upper
Appearance: Always tailored, always kept up. Wears Armani suits (or whatever happens to be in fashion at the time), always has an ironed look about him -- probably because he makes sure his maids iron the crispest of edges. He rarely smiles, so when he does, you know it's a very good thing -- for him, at least. For you, it is most likely a very bad thing. He doesn't wear makeup, unlike other posh snobs he knows, though he will get corticosteroid injections should the ever-unfortunate zit pop up.
Clothing:
--Very sharp suits, always
--Crisply ironed dress shirt, always in plain colors. No patterns, unless they're subtle.
--Dislikes ties, but will wear them whenever going to a business meeting.
--Rolex Submariner watch in yellow gold
--Dress shoes. Always.
Possible Manifestation: Speech. He moved up through the ranks of his company not through skill, nor through social influence (though his family name gave enough of that), but through charm. It was a skill he had played with since a boy, when he realized a few choice words would convince his mother to do anything for him. As he entered the business world, he honed this skill. By dropping a certain word here, a few more there, he weaved his spell until none could resist. Promotions, then, came easily, and his ideas sold. His temper almost lost him a few customers and business partnerships, as did an over-eagerness to weave his spell: by dropping too many words at first, the basis of the spell nearly collapsed, and only by extreme luck was he able to save the deal.

Hunter >> I do not want to be a Watcher, so I'll post without sending you any notification. If this is a problem, I delete my profile and send it to you via PM. Okay?

Full Name: Booker Marcus Stanley
Gender: Male
Age: 28
Birthplace: Chicago, Illinois
Occupation: Not applicable. At the moment, Booker does't hold a job and resorts often to petty crime to for scrounge money.
Eyes: Blue
Hair: Medium length black
Height: 5' 10''
Weight: 130 lbs.
Social Class: Low class
Appearance: Booker has a rather average appearance and generally blends into crowds and backdrop of Philly. He has a bullet hole wound below his clavicle and has a permanent tattoo of a spine running down his back. In the right light, Booker could be considered attractive, but his deep blue eyes are obscured by dark lines of worry and doubt ringing his eyes and his face is concentration-camp prisoner gaunt.
Clothing:
--Brown sheepskin jacket
--Tight-fitting dark blue T-shirt
--A Beretta Px4 Storm (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Beretta_Px4_Storm)
--Jeans
--Skate shoes
Background: Booker is the prodigal son of a wealthy University dean who he left behind in Chicago, Chistmas 2002. He ran due to family problems and because he was under investigation for the murder of his father's prime cash contributor. Booker was guilty. But he didn't want the cops to find out. So he packed a day bag and headed to Philedelphia to lay low for a while. Until the heat passed, anyway. After that, he planned on returning to Chicago in order to convince his ex-girlfriend to live with him. Booker suffers from severe sociopathy which effects how he deals with problems, people, and relationship. He's prone to violent outbreaks and sub-conscious/concious thoughts of suicide and murder. He manages to keep these impulses at bay, however, and in his Chicagon life he came across as both charming and charismatic. Unfortunately, his delusions convinced him to kill the chief contributor of the University of Chicago one night at a banquet in the men's bathroom. He broke the man's neck. Spur-of-the-moment, impulsive. He was the immediate suspect. Running seemed like the only option. Sometimes Booker passes in and out of sociopathic frenzies, usually at night and whenever he's is a position of danger or in an intense situation. Sporadically overcome with guilt, he visits Jillien Miller at times and tries to jump start a normal life with the help of social work. This guilty feeling does not last long, but is recurrent and he and Jillien are on a first name basis.

(That okay, Hunt?)

-Kylan

Full Name: Erion Demurl
Gender: Male
Age: 19
Birthplace: Bellefonte, Pennsylvania
Job: Assistant Martial Arts Instructor (Daytime)
Gas station Clerk (Night)
Eyes: A sharp grey that seems to penetrate one’s very soul.
Hair: Sandy Brown, reaches mid-back
Height: 5’7”
Weight: 137 lbs.
Social Class: Lower Middle

Appearance: The way Erion carries himself lets off an air of confidence and power. His head is always held high, indicating a level of pride, and his broad shoulders are never slumped. His sandy brown hair is usually pulled back into a tight ponytail, revealing a long scar starting at his earlobe and running down the side of his neck. His nose is crooked because of an untreated break when he was younger. He is well built, though one could not tell by looking at him. He looks slim and frail.
-Clothing:
--Dark Colored T-shirt
--Loose fitting, easy to move in, Jeans
--Black Tennis Shoes

Manifestation: Unknown

Brief History: Erion grew up in the same small town he was born in, Bellefonte, Pennsylvania. He was raised by his uncle on his mother’s side because his mother died in childbirth and his father disappeared soon after. His uncle began teaching him of the Martial Arts at very young age, and while he devoted himself to the training, he never took it quite as seriously as his uncle insisted he should. At the age of eighteen Erion got an apartment in Philadelphia with a ‘good friend’, who ended up bailing on him. By the time he reached nineteen, he was working two jobs and taking college courses online.

The rain had started.

Midday, and already the streets glistened with an aluminum sheen and the tear drops shed by the sky scintillated like shards of glass before shattering on the ground. Like a leaden scarf meant for a titan, dark and boiling thunderheads were wrapped around the horizon; threatening and apocalyptic hunters circling around their human prey. Waiting. Watching. And yet the tireless city of Philadelphia – the city of brotherly love – continued to grind it's way through the day. Nine-to-five sweat was mixed freely with drops of blood dropping from the sky.

And the thunderheads watched.

Booker Stanley sat on the park bench and stared at the people hurrying by on the sidewalk. Pushing towards an early death or stress induced ulcers, on life's fastrack and unyielding. Booker liked to think of them as insects. Collective consciousnesses working for towards the greater good: the individual. They were completely unaware that the world had anything else to offer than long hours, politics, and the occasional vacation. Dim, stupid insects. All of them.

So put them out of their misery, Booker. A bullet can do a lot. Can bring so much peace.

There are too many, though.

You have a lifetime to work at it. Rome wasn't built in a day.

So much peace –

Booker shuddered and shook his head, his black hair damp from the rain. He was trying to get better. He was trying to stop it. The voices, the yearning, the sexuality of pain. Resistance. He had to resist it or one day he'd go crazy.

Important. They're all important. Killing them is not the solution.

Blood.

Rich, red, and coppery; like warm pomegranate juice. So good on the hands. Beautiful and desirable. Booker closed his eyes and sighed, licking his lips slowly.

Shut up! Get away!

Booker's eyes were ripped open by invisible hands and he felt his chest heaving and his hands shaking. Panting, he got to his feet shakily – his gun cold and harsh tucked inside his jacket – and started to walk away from the park bench, disoriented. He walked into the streets, onto the sidewalk, and stood still for a moment, leaning against a store-front window. People broke like waves around him and he bit his lip. Get help. He needed to get help somehow. From a psychologist, from anyone. He scared himself. He disgusted himself. Hunching his back and thinking of home, Booker continued to walk, in no particular direction. A marionette without strings.

The sky was getting darker.

**Alright, so why don't we have all our characters run into each other at the coffee shop. I'll send my girl there. I'm going to post starting from the night before just to put some character into it.**

Cara-

Cara stood behind the bar waiting for the rush of people that always showed up around this time. She looked at her torn jeans and then baby-t that read "Silly Boys Trucks Are For Girls!" She knew she would get in some trouble for it from a few of the costumers, but a few well put words normally stopped that. She frowned as she looked around the bar. There were fewer people today then normal, which meant that she wasn't going to get a whole lot of money unless it really picked up. She heard the clock bang ten and the door got pushed open. Here they all came. She set up her station easily ready to make drinks. Her boss walked up behind her and she cringed as he got close to her. She hated the man and if she didn't want to keep her job she would beat his face in.

"I want you waiting tables tonight." He said his mouth next to her ear. She frowned,

"Why? I rather be making the drinks." She replied, she didn't like walking around the bar with so many drunks.

"We sell more drinks when you do." He laughed, she rolled her eyes and walked to the back to get the stuff she would need to wait on tables with. She started walking around waiting the tables. She slowly started going from one table to the next ignoring the cat calls and annoying pick up lines. She had almost finished her shift without having to shove someone out of their seat or get the bouncer to help her. But all the hopes of that smashed when a normal nusance walked in and sat down. She walked over to get his order when he grabbed her around the waist and pulled her down on his lap. She frowned swung her elbow around into his chest and shoving her foot into his shin. She jumped up and looked at him frowning,

"How many times do I have to tell you to not do that?" She hissed, "What do you want to drink!"

"Ah, come on baby, you know you like it." He smiled, she rolled her eyes,

"This might come as a surprise, but no I don't. What do you want to drink." She nearly hissed.

"Oh so your a dike then!" He sneered, she rolled her eyes,

"No, just cause I don't think your God's gift to the world doesn't mean I'm a dike, cause I'm ain't. Now what do ya want to drink!" She wanted to punch him in the face but refrained herself from doing so.

"My normal." He grinned, she rolled her eyes and walked back to the bar to get his drink.

********************************

The next morning Cara woke up her head pounding with the normal headache she always got from having to work in the bar. She pulled a clean pair of jeans on and a brown baby-T. She pulled her hair back and looked in the full sized mirror in her room.

"So, dad, i still don't get why you sent me up here. It's not doing me a lick o good." She hissed at her reflection as if her dad could hear her. She walked to the kitchen and grabbed a thin jacket as she ran down to the local coffee shop to get her capacinno.

Time: Day 1, 7:45 AM; Erion

Sweat shown dark on his navy t-shirt as he ran through the kata in example again. “Move with me, Mark. Again.” The routine was simple enough. Just a basic exercise used to start off the lessons, a warm up so to speak, but Mark was new and didn’t seem to be picking things up as quickly as some of their other pupils. This was supposed to be Erion’s day off, but the Assistant Martial Arts Instructor had agreed to work with Mark one-on-one. As usual, he found himself regretting this decision. He had things to do and he was barely keeping up in his college courses as it was. He really didn’t want to be spending the few precious hours he had to sleep with this kid, trying to futilely to teach him something he was not dedicated enough to learn.

‘Focus.’ He thought, turning his mind to the kick that his body automatically moved into. His eyes shifted to Mark, but the boy had stopped moving. Erion shifted his eyes away and continued through the kata. They’d been at this for nearly two hours now. As he finished, planting his feet in a ready stance, he shifted his attention back to Mark. “It takes focus. You can feel the power of adrenaline pumping through your veins with every movement in the kata, but you need to be able to focus that energy into the moves you are making, Mark. I want you to come an hour early for lessons tomorrow and yes, I mean be here at seven. No later.”

Mark nodded and Erion shook his head. “One more thing. Practice at home. Start with some deep breathing and meditation and then practice the kata. Don’t worry about learning anything but that for now.”

Another nod and Erion dismissed the boy, leaving quickly after. He glanced at his watch. Nearing eight. This day and the previous seemed to be meshing together. A frustrated sigh parted his lips, but any sign of that agitation was wiped away when he entered the public streets. His head was held high, as was usual and his shoulders squared. He kept his grey eyes focused on the things around him, mentally cursing himself for having decided to walk instead of drive this day.

‘Coffee,’ He thought, eyes shifting over his surroundings again. He seemed to be observing everything at once and yet nothing at all. ‘I need coffee and then the paper.’ His hand rested subconsciously against the laptop hanging at his side, though he barely felt the weight through the strap slung over his shoulder. He slipped into the coffee shop and stepped to the counter to place his order. Black coffee in hand, he moved off to an isolated corner, pulled out his laptop and notes and began to type his paper.

Day 1. 8:05am.

Jillien sighed as she glanced to the clock, still morning she thought. It had been a rather long morning thus far. She leaned back in the chair at her desk and gathered her long brown curls back behind her shoulders, taking a moment to interrogate the features of the ceiling. They really needed a new one.

Her office was entirely too quiet it seemed. She rarely had the door closed, but today there was too much commotion in the main office that she just couldn't get anything done unless it was. She jumped a bit as her phone buzzed.

"Jill?" The voice was rather loud on the speaker, but was soft in tempo. A young girl, or a meek girl in her own ways. Her social worker in training.

"Yes?"

"Mr. Commer is on the phone. He wants to know whats going on with the case."

Jillien sighed. She had been on this case since she started as a trainee and this guy just did not give up.

You could hear the distress in her voice, "Tell him we have a scheduled visit at the foster home this afternoon and I will inform him of the status tomorrow on his supervised visit with Jamie."

There was a momentary pause. It was quite obvious her trainee was over this case as well, "Okay."

"Oh hey, Molly?"

"Yes?"

"I'm going to run down the street and grab some coffee, do you want anything?"

Another short pause, but when Molly answered, although a decline, she was entirely happy to have been included and offered, "No thanks. Calls to voicemail?"

"Yes please. Thanks Mol!"

She picked up the phone and hung it back up to cut the call, quickly grabbing her purse and heading out the door. It was only a few blocks to the coffee shop.

Day 1. 8:02 AM

...partly cloudy skies with...percent chance of rain...high of...

Groaning, Nick turned and hit the Snooze button on the alarm clock sitting on the bedside table. He yawned and stretched, blinking the sleep away from his eyes before rolling out from under the blankets and pulling on a pair of faded jeans. Grabbing his keys from next to the clock and running a comb through his hair quickly, he exited the apartment.

The engine to his old truck roared to life after several failed attempts to start. He pulled out of the parking lot and onto the highway after five minutes of being awake, still yawning and half-asleep.

Nick glanced at the clock on the dashboard and sighed. His shift still didn't start for another hour.

"Why not stop for coffee?" he wondered aloud, an annoying habit he had fallen into after living for two years of almost complete solitude. Sure, he had the bus job and the comedian gig, but you didn't really have intelligent conversations in either.

Pulling off on the next exit, Nick drove to the nearest coffee shop. The bells above the door chimed together softly as he entered and made his way to the counter. Ordering a glazed donut and strong black coffee, he sat at an abandoned table conveniently located next to a window and a corner and began to eat his breakfast in silence.

Full Name: Lamiaferox Jasmine Fredirckson
Gender: Female
Age: 19
Birthplace: Westchester, NH
Job: N/A
Eyes: Black
Hair: Mostly waist long blond, with some random shorter areas, strung with beads, crystals, and dyed bright colors. Braided in places with what seems to be other people’s hair.
Height: 6'
Weight: 120
Social Class: N/A
Appearance: Tall and willowy she, has the body of a dancer. She is the epitome of grace itself. With her bright hair, and dark eyes she seems to posses both light and darkness in her one being. Her bright white teeth sometimes require a second glance, because sometimes upon the first glance they see a set of pointed teeth.
Clothing:
--generally blue jeans, sometimes colorful peasant skirts
--an assortment of shirts, hoodies, and blouses
--rings on most fingers, bracelets and upper arm bands, necklaces and anklets of all sorts, sometimes even circlets on her head or threaded in her hair
--everything from her favorite vans to stiletto heels, depending on the day and her mood
Manifestation: Her manifestation lies with her hair, and the hair of others. In cutting, dying, braiding, or threading strands of her hair with crystals and bead, she can do spells to alter herself, and things directly involved with her. If she wants to cast a spell to affect others, then she has to aquire a section of their hair, even a few pulled hairs will do. She then must braid it into hers, and add the appropriate color, bead and crystals.
Brief History: She was raised in a typical home, with her parents and her two siblings, an older brother, and a younger brother. Her father wasn’t much impressed with her, because she was a girl, and he had hoped for a football team sized family of boys, and thus was unhappy when his wife was unable to bear him anymore children after her. Her younger brother came as a surprise, but after the complicated birth, her mother had to have a hysterectomy. Her mother adored her, especially her talent for dancing, which she grew up with the hope of becoming a prima ballerina. Her parents and younger brother died in a car accident when she was 10 years old, and when her older brother was 18. Her brother raised her after that, but abused her in every way possible. She ran away when she was 15, she developed the skills every good street-child would need To this day, she doesn’t work, only steals what she needs, and lives on the streets.

Booker wasn't feeling so bad anymore.

After walking a half-mile or so, his mind had cleared and his heart had calmed. The sprinkling of rain felt refreshing and cool on his face and – smiling slightly – he tilted his head back to look at the bastardized sky: a hybrid of black and blue. Bruises, peering down at him.

He closed his eyes as he walked and straightened up. There was nothing to worry about. He just had an overactive imagination and a cynical outlook on life. Nothing dangerous and nothing that needed any sort of professional help. Besides, he needed to remain in the public shadows, out of sight and out of mind. He was sure that the law – the detectives and forensic authorities and police officers - weren't going to give too easily on him. They were tracking him. Day and night, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Revealing himself to a psychologist would attract them to Philly like sharks to a blood spill.

And the long arm of the law had teeth.

Thunder in the distance. A deep, vibrato bass straight from an opera house. Booker turned his face back down and crossed a street, waving to the car he passed in front of. The city streets were congested already and a chorus of honking horns and voices – laughing, crying, singing, talking – played in time to the sky-based percussion, striking once again, closer this time. Stepping back onto the sidewalk, Booker checked his watch.

One o'clock.

Lunch. He was hungry, but he only had a couple of bucks left over from the stereo system he'd unloaded at the pawn shop a week ago. And he had to save it. Lunch wasn't a necessity, after all, and he wasn't starving either. Conservation.

Still, the walk-in restaurants and coffee shops he was passing to his right looked terribly appealing. A cup of Joe and a hamburger; he'd kill for either of them. He toyed with the idea of doing another job that night – maybe a convenience store – but he decided it was too dangerous. Stay small, something told him. Stay small, stay random, stay alive.

Ten feet further down the street he saw a familiar face ducking into a coffee shop. Jillien Miller. A social worker he'd visited a few times in search of counseling and a job, but hadn't stayed in touch with. He'd visited her at the low points of his life. The insecure times. The nightmares.

The guilt.

It was nice to see her though, and he was suddenly reminded of how stunning she looked. The way her body was shaped – lithe and graceful – fashioned by the hands of some divine sculptor that could have surpassed any Michaelangelo, past or present. The way her eyes stole light from the sun and transformed it into sparkling ocean water and the way she moved her sculpted hips. One foot in front of the other, straight down the runway.

Give 'er a ten, boys.

So talk to her.

But she barely knows me.

That can change, you know.

It would be awkward. And she wouldn't be interested. I'm a criminal, for God's sake.

Doesn't matter. Follow her. Watch her.

Stalk her?

Blood, my friend. Boiling.

Get out.

Blood.

He stopped at the door of the coffee shop and looked inside.