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Semi-Daily Journal of Thomas "Black Tom" Cassidy.

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(( Open to Storm )) Jun. 5th, 2007 @ 06:55 pm
Things have been quiet, lately. After the night in the bar he's aware he's crossed a line, so he's retreated to the dark controllessness of her mind, quietly watching her as she goes about her life. He's so quiet these last few days that he wonders if she thinks he's gone entirely.

Apologies never came easily to him. Certainly they don't mold themselves into words or phrases. Instead he's just been giving her her peace, and when she sleeps he wakes up her body, but not her mind, and makes tea or coffee for her to be ready in the morning, does all the mundane tasks her distracted mind's forgotten to complete in the last few days, tucks her in. To the outside viewer it would look like sleepwalking, but it lets her rest, he thinks, and it communicates the apology that any words or thoughts can't.

Today she wakes up with coffee and breakfast awaiting her next to her bed. The weather's beautiful.
Current Location: Italy

A Month (and a Little) Later Nov. 14th, 2006 @ 10:10 pm
It's been about a month and a half since. Arrangements were made for Tom's burial in the family cemetary, despite a hassle over the paperwork of someone who'd faked his death several times prior to the real thing. Thankfully, there were fewer legal problems than many would suspect, given the slew of false identities and the very nature of all teh finances in the will.

Frost is just starting to cover the ground. It's killed off a good wealth of the garden's plants at the Keep, though the small tree Maeve planted out by the grave plot seems to be surviving it. Cain is no longer at the Keep, having left again for the apartment they'd shared off Mayo, and to a large and flat plot of land nearby.
Current Location: Ireland

(( Flashback RP for Juggy )) Oct. 20th, 2006 @ 09:58 pm
Another day, another successful heist. At this rate they'd be every policing organization's most wanted in weeks, if that long. It was hard to hide their identities, what with Cain being nearly seven feet tall, so they wore their reputation like a badge (and likely, a stolen one).

Tom was counting things again. Every few weeks he'd develop an annoying habit, and this month's was counting meticulously whatever they'd stolen. In this case, it was a large sum of money and a few hundred pounds of jewelry (including, as Tom discovered, 547 sets of pearl earrings). Phone propped up by a shoulder, Tom sat at the table doing a quick recount before saying into the mouthpiece "given that we've expended so much energy in getting ye these, I'm afraid we'll have to raise the price a few hundred thousand". The swearing on the other end of the phone just made him smile.

"Cain?" He called up the stairs, hanging up the phone and starting to take each individual piece of jewelry from the table to the box at his feet.
Current Location: Cassidy Keep
Current Mood: accomplishedaccomplished

The Funeral ((Open)) Oct. 1st, 2006 @ 06:40 pm
It's been gently raining intermittently since yesterday, not oppressively, but just enough to make the air cool and soft. It's done very little to make the morning fog escape the coast, too, letting it just lull there in a half-sleep.

The casket is, indeed, the best that could be stolen, and Eamon's come down from the Keep with the white roses Maeve's cultivated in the back yard. Cain's managed to clean it up well, it's orderly, it's tasteful, it's quiet and even though there were often long periods of silence between Tom and Cain in the last few days, it seems far more silent than it should be. It's likely a good thing bringing food and alcohol was encouraged.

Death has only served to make him more pale, and it still clashes with his hair and the black he's been dressed in, embraces the roses Eamon brought. Were he alive, he'd mind.

Invitations didn't seem necessary, and it wasn't a private and exclusive affair, but Cain would reserve the right to turn anybody away. For the moment, the quiet is something that might want to stay.
Current Location: Ireland
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The Last Will and Testament of Tom Cassidy Sep. 30th, 2006 @ 10:43 pm
While not the will in itself, Tom's left behind a handwritten note in the case of his death. The will itself corresponds and lends itself to all legal formalities and courtesies, though almost all of the money being given away was obtained illegally, and should not be investigated any further than necessary. Likewise, the Keep's garden was obtained by loophole: Tom gambled the castle, not the grounds surrounding it, though he only employs this to take the garden.

The note reads:

Shatterstar and Julio Richter - 3 million dollars in funds, should you choose to accept it. If declined, donated as charity towards anti-vigilante group LVPA (Lawful Villain Protection Association).

Marie D'Acanto- 2 million dollars a year for fifteen years, extended if circumstances force refugees to stay past the age of eighteen; all owned property in Nevada from under the name Carl Ridgefield. Hang down your head for shame, Marie.

Samantha Featherstone - all technological equipment in the bottom floor of the Keep, to use and experiment with as you will. Best of luck.

Ororo Munroe - any cutting from the garden at Cassidy Keep; Dee.

Eamon O'Donnell and Maeve Rourke-Cassidy - all art from the basement of Cassidy Keep, to keep or disperse back to the rightful owners as you will; one million euros for Cassidy Keep restoration and redecorating under your discretion.

Maeve Rourke-Cassidy - the garden at Cassidy Keep, with love.

Sean Cassidy - absolutely nothing.

Raven - ten thousand dollars, hopefully to find yourself a better wardrobe. I'd offer more but I doubt its effectiveness on Azeroth.

Raven Darkholme - all non-technological H&R equipment.

Theresa Rourke-Cassidy - All the money I have that isn't stolen; all my books and videos; the apartment in New York; all my love.
Slán agat.

Cain Marko - Everything that remains,
Ghandi, every memory and a pair of cinderblocks.

OOC Sep. 30th, 2006 @ 07:54 pm
At the end of the day, I have to sadly pack up my toy and take him home.

Tom's dead. I was unable to keep up with playing him as much as I wanted to as well as balancing RL, and honestly, RPing him was so tempting all the time that I had to remove that want to keep playing him. Many thanks to ruby_bday_gift, who helped me plan this from the beginning.

I've played Tom since May of '05, so for a year and a half, about. Unless someone was forcibly keeping me from the internet, in some way or form I played him every day. I don't know if I'll ever be able to replicate that enthusiasm for any other pup, but I need to thank you all for giving me an environment and RP partners that could keep such gusto alive. You guys, from the very beginning, have been wonderful, and I hope to see you with my other puppets. I cannot thank you enough for bringing me joy every day, for a year and a half, all of you. Thank you so much.

I'll admit, I get way too attached to my puppet. It was more a matter of letting him go than just offing a puppet, and I could not have grown such affection for a fictional character without believable other characters and the players behind them to cultivate that realism. Pat yourselves on the back. You're all amazing.

I'll post the OOC details for the will and funeral as soon as they're sorted out.

R.I.P., my puppet. Sleep well.
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Scattered (( Open to Cain )) Sep. 30th, 2006 @ 05:29 pm
There's a wonderful view of the coast from here. The fog's still heavy and smothering from the morning, blurred across the rocks, and it makes the world shaded blue. He thinks about this as he runs his hand down the curtain and the doorway, staring out to sea and to his scarred hands on the thin white fabric, and the shades of flesh and blood against the blue wash evening brings. Bright, clashing scarlets and pinks and tans stamped against the doorframe and all the mood. The ocean doesn't even glare for the sun today, just whitecrests and black rocks, grey blue. His own colours are far too intrusive.

Normal people would shudder from the cold. He wraps shirt over bandage, grants the world a brief favor of cohesion again. It stings and he moves back to the wall, where he can lean against it. He leaves a trail of undone, bloodied bandage behind him, fifty-one years spilling out onto the floor.

He worries, for a while, that Cain won't come back. But it's a lie and he knows it, Cain always returns, even though it's raining now outside, just light drops bulleting through the mists onto the porch. With his hand on the doorway he can feel the rain bit by bit on his skin.
Current Location: Irish Apartment

Meme from Spiral. Sep. 29th, 2006 @ 10:41 am
Out of curiosity, if I was to be jailed with no chance of escape, how would you want me to be punished, if at all?
Current Location: Irish Apartment.
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Locked In Sep. 27th, 2006 @ 08:24 pm
I like the apartment. It's quite lovely and thankfully, has a better view than that of our neighbours. Who are, thankfully, gone for four months out of the year and at work for the other eight. Very little in the way of interference.

I'm tired of staying inside. I know full well I can't go out or they'll have their hands on me and I'll be right back where I've started, so I'm sending Cain out for everything we need and staying here as much as possible. And no more teleportation, please. I've had quite enough of that, for the while.

I'd be much happier if the authorities were after me. Dealing with them is far more stressful than dealing with police or Interpol or whomever decides to be stupid enough to track me down. But they're tricky. It's why I can't go outside. I'm worried enough about what they did inside.

I'll have a lovely garden come spring. And for the record, I'm fine.
Current Location: Irish Apartment
Current Mood: tiredtired

(( Open to 'Star )) Sep. 26th, 2006 @ 06:56 pm
He's using phones again, but regrettably, doesn't remember the number he needs. It's in a contact list locked in a microchip that was less-than-happily set on fire and crunched beneath new shoes.

He's considered coming back for a little bit, at first wary and paranoid if he ran into Rictor instead - 'Star, at least, wouldn't send him back to the asylum. Even that was a tenuous trust: he's suspicious even around Cain, much less other friends and acquaintances. He just knows 'Star hates head doctors as much as he does. Which is why, even though he's constnatly turning around to watch the halls on either side of him, he's got the nerve to talk face-to-face with someone he isn't sleeping with. He strikes the door.
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