seveninchmotto: ([neu] Shadowhunter.)
Alec slammed his hand against the button in the small cage elevator, and slumped back against the wall. "How much time do we have?"

Isabelle checked the glowing screen of her mobile phone. "About forty minutes."

And now, for the grande finale. )

[ooc: NFB, NFI, OOC-okay! Summarized from City of Lost Souls, warning for a bloody fight scene.]
seveninchmotto: ([neu] Fairytale.)
Isabelle woke up – for once – a little bit later than usual. Maybe it was down to exhaustion. The Angel knew the dark under her eyes had not gone anywhere over the last couple of weeks.

Still, now that she was up, she pushed herself upright without wasting any time laying down. She stretched her arms, then looked over at Flick.

[ooc: NFB, for that guy, CoLS]
seveninchmotto: ([neu] Shadowhunter.)
Isabelle had been trained to wake early every morning, rain or shine, and a slight hangover did nothing to prevent it from happening again. She sat up slowly and blinked down at Flick. It was weird to have him here, for so many reasons. But it was good too. She kissed his forehead softly, then swung herself out of bed. She rummaged in her bag for her gear, retrieved it, and headed out to find the bathroom.

It was halfway down the hall, and the door was just opening. )

[ooc: NFB, for the boy, City of Lost Souls. You know this.]
seveninchmotto: ([spec injury] Unstoppable.)
There was something eerie about fighting the cultists of the Church of Talto. They moved all together, less like people than like an eerie dark tide — eerie because they were so silent and so bizarrely strong and fast. They also seemed totally unafraid of death. Though Alec and Isabelle shouted at them to keep back, they kept moving forward in a wordless, clustering horde, flinging themselves at the Shadowhunters with the self-destructive mindlessness of lemmings hurling themselves over a cliff. They had backed Alec and Isabelle down the hallway and into the big, open room full of stone pedestals, when the noise of the fight brought Jordan and Maia running: Jordan in wolf form, Maia still human, but with her claws fully out.

The cultists seemed barely to register their presence. )

[ooc: NFB, to be continued in the comments! Taken once more from City of Fallen Angels, which concludes here because I am efficient, omg.]
seveninchmotto: ([neg] Refusal.)
There were no messages stuck to Jordan's apartment door, nothing on or under the welcome mat, and nothing immediately obvious inside the apartment, either. While Alec stood guard downstairs and Maia and Jordan rummaged through Simon's backpack in the living room, Isabelle, standing in the doorway of Simon's bedroom, looked silently at the place he'd been sleeping for the past few days. It was so empty — just four walls, naked of any decoration, a bare floor with a futon mattress on it and a white blanket folded at the foot, and a single window that looked out onto Avenue B.

She could hear the city. )

[ooc: NFB, NFI, OOC-okay! From City of Fallen Angels. Warning for unpleasantness with dead children.]
seveninchmotto: ([spec] Party dress.)
Years previously, when Long Island City had been a center of industry instead of a trendy neighborhood full of art galleries and coffee shops, the Ironworks was a textile factory. Now it was an enormous brick shell whose inside had been transformed into a spare but beautiful space. The floor was made up of overlapping squares of brushed steel; slender steel beams arced overhead, wrapped with ropes of tiny white lights. Ornate wrought iron staircases spiraled up to catwalks decorated with hanging plants. A massive cantilevered glass ceiling opened onto a view of the night sky. There was even a terrace outside, built out over the East River, with a spectacular view of the Fifty-Ninth Street Bridge, which loomed overhead, stretching from Queens to Manhattan like a spear of tinseled ice.

Luke's pack had outdone themselves making the place look nice. )

[ooc: NFB, NFI, OOC-okay! Edited from City of Fallen Angels.]

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Isabelle Lightwood

November 2018

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