Happens shortly after the events of Black sweet blood mouthfuls


Ian K St. George, an instructor at Romano's Constitutional Haven and French National, died unexpectedly on Friday, July 20, 2018 at the age of 26.

Ian is survived by his parents; his extended family in France; and his cousins in Destiny City.

Ian was a devoted teacher, linguist, and a superb marksman. He enjoyed hunting and equestrian pursuits with his family in Rouen, as well as delving into the mysteries of the past through his love of history. He was also a problem-solver with a tactical mind and took on many difficult projects throughout his academic career, and could speak 6 languages fluently.

He will be deeply missed by his friends, family, and all who knew him.

There will be no open funeral service, but condolences may be offered via a traditional French journal method at 4300 Kings Ave, Destiny City, WV 26056.

Green eyes scrutinized the text preceding the blinking cursor. It was an appropriately respectful capsule of Ian's life and death - or as much as the family wanted released at this time.

It was also a complete and utter lie, save for the most bald of facts, because Ian Kerrick St. George had been a goddamn monster in life and not even being turned into a tragic front-page local headline could change that fact. Being brutally murdered didn't suddenly make someone a good person - sorry, not sorry - but no.

Colin rubbed his hands together, pressing his face into the cup made between them and sighed as he leaned back, away from the lies spun out in Times New Roman at his mother's behest. Even dead you're a pain in my a**, Ian. He could only think so much about a man he'd detested. About a night that had shattered his illusions of keeping his family close and safe. Strain showed in fine lines at the corners of his eyes, in dark circles under his eyes that had to be covered with make-up. In the way the blond was slower to laugh, slower to smile, and quicker to let both fade.

Heaven but he was tired.

Tribble padded from hall to kitchen to couch where she jumped up to join her human. She bonked his elbow and slid her sleek flank against his arm while insinuating herself into his lap like the queen of his heart she was. The cat had no time for Colin's sad-sack routine, she wanted attention! "Good enough, I guess. Let's send it to Mom and get this over with..." Waiting for a reply was done while indulging the calico in pets and play; once he received approval, the false kindness was shipped off to three newspapers and the funeral home cremating what was left of Ian.

Calendar days would pass, after; Colin swiftly becoming the lone Hargrove left living in Destiny City. He wore a traditional black armband of mourning for a solid month because it was what his mother would have wanted him to do, because it was expected that he would wear some sort of visible sorrow, but not because he actually mourned the loss of Ian St. George.

His family would have been aghast to learn he'd gotten himself a party hat, confetti, and cupcakes to celebrate the b*****d's death as soon as Rebecca and Miriam were safely gone - though only Quenton would ever know about all that.

The 'home invasion' had some nasty lasting effects though: his family leaving the city was a hard blow for Colin. He really wasn't meant to be alone for long periods, it just wasn't in his nature. Quenton remained there for him, a solid place from which to gather his thoughts when he lost them, but even he could only tolerate so much of Colin before his highly arched brows read murder. Ash, Van, Isaiah, Laney. Lorne. All people he could talk to, wonderful people, but - it just wasn't the same. Neither of the people he'd wanted to talk to were available to him and the weeks wore on the danseur so that he might have killed his cousin all over again for causing such problems.

Ian might have died, but his legacy of screwing people over lived on.

WC: 695


No more the easy click of the blade engaging
and nudging the bolt aside, or his grin as he entered
the room of steam, already slipping off his shirt.
-Jean Sprackland, Sleeping Keys