elnysa | video; un: rtozier

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video; un: rtozier

[Surrounding a pair of stained and rumpled tomes is a jumble of a barbershop quartet. You have Yusuke Kitagawa, focus plastered to whatever he’s sketching in a tidy notebook. Red, last name unknown, is continuing to copy letters into her own collection and keeps her phone ready at her side. Richie Tozier and Dorian Pavus are the only ones paying attention to the video feed. Ironic, as neither one of them should even know what a livestream is.]

Greetings to the damned, coming in live from the asbestos-caked halls of learning down here in Olympia’s residential nerd district. My name is Rich, this is Dorian. Say hi Dorian.

Greetings, from your local residential… nerd? What does that even mean, dear Richie?

It means a well dressed man. [Richie smiles sweetly at the fossil sitting adjacent before turning his attention back to the camera.] Over here and ignoring the masses are people of lesser import. Anyway, we’ve all gathered here because we took up some of that under the table money in exchange for odd jobs, and today they stuck us up here in the book prison. We’ve been tasked with translating all this old hocus pocus and we found some interesting stuff, looks pretty well like a related spell. I know some of us remember that cuh-lossal skull in a cave. Terrible vacation destination, by the way, piss poor accommodations and it’s definitely haunted. Just a hunch, but I think something died in there.

More like they were rather exquisitely prepared, died, and then proceeded to serve a "higher calling." [Dorian rolls his eyes, leaning forward to take up more of the screen.] It’s a question of what that higher purpose is. Judging by the preparations of the whole thing, it’s either incredibly sanctimonious or incredibly… condemning. Shall we show them the texts?

[One of the people of "lesser import" look up at this time — the one with bright red hair — as if on cue ( really, it was just some good timing ). Takes a brief moment to roll her eyes at the dramatics unfolding in front of her, but she reaches for her phone nonetheless; soon, a text attachment shows up with the video. Otherwise, she doesn’t look like she has anything to add, and quietly returns to her work.]

There you have it. Take a looksee, it seems we’re missing a beginning and an end there. Any other fun tidbits would also be appreciated if you’ve got them. I personally have always wondered how bar mitzvahs are conducted in magical medieval empires. Do they have a ceremonial gremlin for it? I’m too scared to ask the locals.

[Richie suddenly frowns, sidetracked by the human noodle etching in silence across from him.] Hey Stringbean, what are you drawing? Is it me? [He leans across the table to snatch the notebook. Lovingly (and quite skillfully rendered) is the skull in said cave. Richie gasps in delight.] It is! It’s me when I’m dead! What a cuuuutie!

[He’s now leaning bodily over the table to pinch at the teenager’s cheeks. Red makes a face, the camera jumbles and goes flat and pitch black on the table. The last thing heard before the feed cuts is Richie’s yelp of pain (Red's boot has found his shin) and Dorian’s long groan.]

((OOC: The text will be added as a comment to the post! Any one of the four losers present may reply, but it's mostly going to be Richie and/or Dorian.))

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I admit, I'm less familiar with the ceremony than the result, myself. So - while reading about cannibals for fun and profit's one way to spend an evening - I'm not sure where we'd look for the rest of the spell. My little book of sacrifice, tucked down the back of a couch with suspicious stains?

[is he implying —

....yeah probably implying. "Familiar," you bet.]

Probably under the mattress, more like. These folks have a pretty big boner for witchery and the macabre. Have you been up in the library at all? Or...what's the equivalent in Wyver? I haven't spent much time there myself, but seeing as how both these passages are leaning southerly, it wouldn't hurt to check.

[Ritchie, look at the video screen. If he wasn't currently addressing you wearing a floral kimono it would still be clear that's what he's implying.]

A little revision of harvesting procedure and then off to sleep? Look what happens to a culture deprived of Harlequin Romance.

[Three guesses and a pin to stick in an anatomy textbook at figuring what the harvest may be.]

Speaking of restful nights - I got out of Wyver as soon as they let me, but I did spend some time inside the skull. I think I saw the parts they left out.

Who wants this translated, exactly?

[it could have been a girlfriend's...he's a dumb pre-internet hetero, let his caveman mind stutter and wheeze]

Are you planning on filling the void? I haven't seen Nora Roberts in the snooze tubes, perhaps your time is now.

[Richie frowns, suddenly a touch of the serious sits about his face.]

...You too, then, huh? I was hoping to pass it all off as too much Welsh Rarebit before bed, but you know.

Voss and his cronies, na-chur-ally. Paying fifty silver for the hour if you get results too. Want to get in on the action?

[Prior's from 1986 himself. Dumb, pre-internet heteros are all he knows.]

I don't think so. I always got the feeling romance authors lacked a certain amount of void filling in their own lives.

[Prior can appreciate the ability to switch between the serious and the absurd like a lightbulb on the fritz. Often enough one's how you get through the other, after all.]

And me too, so either that's what passes for a movie theatre in the Wyver suburbs or there's real magic in that spell. They're paying well, too, for a cultural anthropology research project.

[i'm sorry for prior's eternal suffering]

What a crying shame. I bet you'd make a mint, the market's untapped. Virginal even.

[Oh buddy oh boy, you've hit the nail on the head there. It's Richie's truest vice.]

Damn. I mean, there's a line of thinking... [He frowns more deeply, pulling back to rub at the junction between his eyes. He halts here for a moment before the hand draws away, thoughts compiled. It's a lot of clutter to fish through, he'd ditched a lot of hookum and spookum as time wore on. Fetching back his childhood know-how of the supernatural still doesn't come easy.]

Some people think ghosts are less unfinished business and more like an imprint. A scar if you will, silly as it sounds. Some dirty dealings striking bad on the fabric of a place and leaving behind echoes of what happened thereafter. A lot of movies and shit used to capitalize on that. Old horror comics. Maybe it's something that holds water in a place like this.

Echoes, held in granite and replayed like videotapes. I've heard the theory. It does sound like a theory, though. Doesn't it? Neat, something you don't have to be terrified of. Practically scientific. The supernatural sanitized for the skeptical.

[He plays at something pompous in his tone. Or sanctimonious, to keep the alliteration running a little longer. Only for a moment: it's not a natural state to maintain. He reaches for a glass of water, drinks, and goes on casually, if with some small nod to dramatic flair.]

It's definitely the kind of thing I'd want to believe, if I didn't want to believe the shiver that just ran up my spine could do me any harm. And maybe it's true. There could be imprints and something more. If I'd been harvested, I'd want to haunt somebody for it.

[As it is, he's been haunted instead. And he didn't practically piss his pants over a supernatural video rental.]

[Richie takes on airs himself, eyes narrowed in suspicion and adopting a voice that might strike as a ghost of the past in itself. If Prior ever paid attention to the heyday of anthology television, that is.]

A land of instant replay, lost memories on parade. Secrets exposed and mysteries unsolved. This is the dimension of imagination. It is an area which we call...the Twilight Zone.

[Then he too slides out of the act, and privately decides he rather likes this spindly fellow. He's thoughtful and takes a joke, seems to know his way around a dictionary. Artistic type, that's a bonus always.]

I'd say you've got a fair case for revenge haunting, certainly. We don't have a spiritual soothesayer among all these firebreathing warlocks and secret agents, do we? I've learned to expect the unexpected but never the useful.

[It was the sixties, baby. What else was on. Prior laughs, clasping his hands together with the pleasure of recognition and - something mutual. It's so rare here. Though, as Richie goes on he shakes his head. He doesn't talk to ghosts, they talk to him.]

I'm sure I couldn't say. All this ooky-spooky talk's giving me a case of the vapors. [He fans himself, momentarily a Southern Belle.] And revenge may be a dish best served cold, but who knows how one serves revenge for having been a dish yourself.

[He pauses a moment, indulging a slight tic of worrying a corner of his mouth in thought.]

I'm no student of the archaic and arcane, but I am curious, I admit. I wouldn't mind a look at the text. [Who knows if revelation's as applicable to ancient lore as it is to people. He has a book of dubious mysticism written through his blood: like may call to like.] My concern is why the translation's being done - the timing of it. Somebody protected this, and protected it well.

[The laughter is like being showered in gold. More attention and applause, please, a former celebrity (minor but much beloved by listeners in LA and beyond) languishes without regular reassurance they still had it.

Even more delightful, Prior plays along and not shabbily, either. He switches to his own creation, Colonel Buford Kissdrivel: old southern money and pompous buffoon.] Well, I reckon anuhtha mint joo-lep oughta clear the air, mah dear, I'll meet you on the veranda with a pitchah and a pair o' highballs. [Normally, now.] I'd say standard spooks and rattling chains like old Jacob Marley might help. If you could drag the culprits down to hell with you that'd be even stevens.

[Prior brings up a good point. One he shamefully failed to consider, it's an obvious thing in retrospect. Richie puts his chin in his hand, rapping his fingers thoughtfully against his lower lip.] You're right. It is suspicious. The text itself only refers to stuff around Wyver and the religions there, even if most of that didn't turn out into complete sentences. Maybe it's the big wigs up here trying to get a closer look into whatever tricks they might try pulling down south.

[That's quite a selection of voices. Prior shifts from Garland to Hepburn, O Hara to Dubois in the course of most common conversations: tributes less than pure vocal echoes, but good ones. Recogniseable to anyone who would know. And so few do that it fairly well flattens the point. The idea that someone might have a few points of common culture, at least, is almost enough to distract from that dull, dire, foreshadowing feeling settled into his stomach.]

As long as they're not thinking about trying a taste for themselves. We don't have dragons here, but I'd check the small print on any dinner invites for a while.

[There. He kept to the subject. And now leans forward, chin lightly cupped in his hands.]

If only the South here could have had a few more cocktails and corralled its dragons into derbies I might've given the place a chance. But where are you from?

[Richie chuckles at that.] Good call. I'm not keen on being a test market for Soylent Green.

[Oh? It's getting personal now. But normalcy amongst refugees was a blessing not to be sniffed at. Heck, he's just happy someone knows what the fuck he's talking about. Even if it turns into that strange dissonance of times and places (that Emma Swan and her Storybrooke come to mind, and he is damn certain is not any place in Maine he knows), even if later it's revealed he's some test tube MKUltra scion with the power to blow buildings in the blink of an eye? Richie just appreciates the laughs.]

Me? Derry, Maine, originally. Spent a few years in the midwest as a teen and huh-ated it, now I pledge my love and life to L.A. Or did. Such sweet sorrow.

What about you, buckaroo? I'd say there's a touch of NYC to those dulcet tones, but a helluva lot of people put on the accent to shake the last dust cloud off their small town boots, so what do I know?

[Prior sounds much like the old movie stars Richie mimics. A touch of East Coast, flavored with both old and New England in a lazy Mid-atlantic drawl. It's inherited as much as it is affected: he's of old money and an old, old family name.

LA, though? What tragedy. Prior's hand dashes against his forehead - despair, despair.]

Such a long move and so near yet so far from civilization. Did someone trip you on your way to the City by the Bay? Of course, Manhattan would have been the simpler choice - I'm a New England transplant, myself, but she's where I grew toward the light.

Edited 2018-02-21 08:31 (UTC)

[The more he talks the more he picks up of this. Forgive him for assuming New York only, but if he's guessing right and times haven't changed much between when Rich was living and this guy was, Prior'd be a fool to not go live with his people. There weren't many safe pockets outside those precious big city neighborhood where you could go as camp as you pleased and not take a sock to the gut for it.

Not that that stopped the bruising anyhow. But support helped. He thinks briefly of that Mellon kid. Mikey had said the fuckers were wailing on him in the first place because he was gay and daring to walk around proud of it. He might have done better by getting out of dodge, but he couldn't possibly have anticipated just how deep the roots of brutality went in Derry. Hate sprung out of it like water from a busted fire hydrant. The night he'd been walking home with the boyfriend something worse than bigots was taking a sledgehammer to the hose knob. The bridge beating might have been expected. What happened when he hit the ground under it...

This is getting pretty morbid. Cut the crap, Tozier. Enjoy a hint of friendliness for what it's worth.

Richie scoffs and makes a big show of holding his nose to ward off the stench.]

Oh, boooo! Don't give me none of that East Coast snoot. Gimme the sun and surf and the rock'n'roll, and you can keep all that's civilized with your damp and your snow. It's enough to make me stop missing planet Earth!

What about the time? Are you north or south of the new millenium? I'm 1985, practically a dinosaur to everyone except that guy asking about Ash Wednesday.

[There are certain survival instincts Prior's convinced are wired into his evolutionary code. Whatever chromosome or genetic sequence twisted just so in his case and maybe two, maybe ten percent of the population like him, it carried with it its own history of how to adapt and endure. Certain techniques, common to those who have come to require them, like spiders born with an instinct for fancy twists in silk.

Firstly: like recognizes like. Second, a certain form of nonverbal communication able to back up the first.

Third, or fourth, or somewhere among all the means someone like Prior has to keep himself safe, is the ability to recognize discomfort. Whether a flicker or a flare, one twitch can be the prelude to a fist, the flick of a blade: worse. And Prior has seen worse. Lived through it. New York has its safe havens - thank God - but Prior has always refused to play dress up in any way that fits in with the rest of the world.

Louis had his nondescriptly bad dress sense, his second-day stubble, his refusal to kiss or hold hands West of Chelsea. Prior had painted nails, a lilt to his voice, a tilt to his hips, and features cut from fine bone china that would have called him out without the rest of it. He didn't pass, would never pass, and could bear most kinds of ridicule but not the sort that would have come with any attempts to try.

So he's learned people well. And he sees some sort of recoil in the dark of Richie's eyes before they go wide with his play-acting. It's not a reason to recoil in kind, but it advises some caution, at the least.

And yet.]

Nineteen-eighty-six. [What are the chances?] January.

[In other words, snap in all but a matter of months.]

Lets see, though. There are a few odd little versions of Earth running round unchecked, so here's what's true for me: Reagan's the chief clown in the media circus, Trump's a jumped up little shitweasel running real estate, the snow this year has given way to disappointing slush but the city's not underwater, and I've never seen a dinosaur outside the Natural History Museum. And now, you. [A fellow triceratops, apparently. Prior's smile's sweet, genuine.] We're paleozoic, baby, who'd have thought.

[If he knew what Prior was thinking he'd be quick to shock but more deeply ashamed. After what had happened with Byerly, after living in a land of equal opportunity for batters of all teams, a fair few things about the homeland status quo have been brought to light. He'd always been ready to piss on bullies of any size or inclinations, but some jokes just don't seem as funny anymore, some things that he'd taken for granted look like gross injustices now. Richie does his best to be fair but sometimes you don't get to see your own failings until someone's holding up a mirror to you. His thoughts may line up with sympathy, but you could hardly blame anyone for assuming different.

Particularly considering when they're from. Both of them.]

Oh you're pulling my leg. Really? [His delight is difficult to mask. In the background Prior might spot a glowering librarian, though no approach is made to reprimand. Richie carries on, positively beaming.] Check it all off, cousin, save for the snow we're a perfect match! We oughta blow a kiss to the camera with Jim Lange! Last I saw of home was in merry old May. Less than a year, that's the closest out of anyone yet. Save for our Soviet friend, I suspect, but he's never given me a word in the way of specifics.

What's your... [He takes a closer peek at the user name. He trails off with a squint and a quick wet of the lips. Why does that sound familiar?

Oh.]

Priorly? That wouldn't be the same Prior arranging for our new Emperor's coronation, now would it? [He gives a giggle, hand clapping over his mouth.] This is the smallest world I've ever lived in. Make sure it's a party the kid likes, all right? He didn't seem so chuffed on the tube when the proposition came.

Edited 2018-02-22 20:50 (UTC)

[More coincidences: they share a place of work, and Prior's party planning for Koralle brings him behind the bar often enough, though it's been quiet lately, clearly. Enough that paths haven't yet crossed. Work takes second place when one is planning an imperial succession, naturally.

The bad memories that Prior had taken for a bad taste in Richie's mouth seem to sweeten up with the burst of familiarity, and it's easy enough to leave it aside for now (though not to forget, to keep him careful and maybe to question later if it seems the care isn't needed after all). It's so difficult to keep guarded when someone's giggling.

Well, outside of a horror movie, anyway. He beams, beatific a moment.]

It's nice to see my reputation precedes me. Though I'm going to have to work on the rumor mill, which should be spilling that the only disappointment at a party I host occurs when it's over. Besides which, they've requested a red, white and blue theme - imperial colors or something, dont you know. I've explained it will be a challenge but somehow I'll make it work.

[If he could find some Springsteen for the playlist, he would.]

I take it you're planning to stop by?

[As long as the silver-ruffled chucklefucker upstairs never pops his pod, maybe they can keep horror movies out of this equation entirely.]

You're serious? That's damn near nostalgic, toss in some stars and spangles and you can double it as the Fourth of July.

[Richie sucks air in through his teeth, pulling a face. How awkward.] Have to pass, sadly. His cousin's no fan of mine and I've got no interest in kicking around where I'm not wanted.

But hey, I'll catch you around some other day, yeah? I owe you a drink on the grounds of being the only living soul for miles with a good sense of silver screen history.

Well that was the intention.

[Fireworks are probably going to seem a little less fun in a few days when the whole city's a powder keg but civil unrest is generally inconsiderate that way.]

And you mean Byerly? [Not said with the kind of surprise that might imply he's affronted by the possibility. Not: what, Byerly, that sweet and gentle soul? Just a moment being startled at another point of recognition and then - less so. Byerly gets around like something pandemic, and has an equal talent for friends and adversaries. Still, Prior's not to be waylaid so easily.] But it's a party. Half the point is that they're crowded enough to avoid one's bête noires until they're too drunk to notice you.

[He clasps his hands together, a little plea.]

Besides, I could use some help with the ambiance. They go big on chamber music here, fine for a coronation but poor for the dancing afterwards. Nobody wants to party like it's 1799.

[It's not that he's mistaking the plea for flirting (they're both sitting on the edge of an awkward awareness, alike in so many ways save for that stark and severing singularity), but the earnestness with which Prior makes his case has Richie's ears burning. The color threatens to spread to his cheeks. He's not used to such begging. Most people that get fond of him start taking potshots to show their affection. What else do you do with a profane jackass like him? He had to be shut down, not egged on.

And really, the guy is just too sweet. Fuck, it is hitting his cheeks. The rare case of the aw shucks has hit and he can't do much to allay it except chuckle through his embarrassment and dodge meeting Prior's eyes for a second. Let him regroup, pal.]

You know, ordinarily I'd say you have a point, but the problem is we've got the same faults. Neither one of us can keep our mouths from running and we're both too keen to poke at scabs. It's better just avoided.

[He keeps fumbling over Byerly's sore spots by accident, and the other man is too clever to keep off the scent of his own. He'd had enough interrogations about the days of yore. Nothing would ruin a party quicker than a snarling match over the fate of Georgie Denbrough.

Why couldn't there be any useful magic around here? Splash the waters of Lethe over them both and erase ever knowing one another. The stuff keeping the worst of his childhood under lock and key wasn't generous enough to extend the favor.]

But I'll split the difference for you. Someone upstairs saw fit to give me a few records and a turntable. If you promise to have them back to me and in mint condition, you can play them in between rounds on the harpsichord. How about that?

[Prior could swear his whole life in this city involves people thinking he's spun sugar just because he hasn't had reason to cut them down where they stand. It's a sad reflection, really. He's not the type to take pot shots with nothing to aim at, no, and if that wins him the prize of America's Sweetheart, well he'll look pretty in the ribbon.

He's not flirting, either, although the glasses and the curls aren't a bad thing, and the blush has him narrowing his lips to avoid too satisfied a grin.]

Oh you don't need to list your reasons to me. I love Byerly dearly but he's hardly the first inveterate ass I've loved. My commiserations to your mutual faults. It probably means I'll like you.

[It means, at least, that he'll open the chance to find out. God, as if he wouldn't. Someone in this podunk truck stop who might know both what and where he means by there's no place like home.]

And I'll take you up on the offer, at least. Though - mint condition. You mean I shouldn't plan to use them as plate holders between plays?

[Here is where he misses the fuzz and pixels and grains of the dawning digital age. All that bashful stuff might have been masked with the impurities, a color shift too slight to switch the RBG, but these pictures come through too clear. He can see Prior covering for a smugger grin and knows the jig is up before he's danced it. At least he's not poking further.

The follow up is good chucks though, and Richie snorts at the sentiment.]

There's something of a masochist in you, ain't there?

[There would have to be, to put up with a louse like that.]

Excuuuse me, but that's grounds for war! I was a DJ, you know, disrespecting the disks is like scratching your ass with a menorah. [He tucks his chin in his hand.] Lemme know when they're needed, though. You can have Bowie and Zepplin and Hendrix and some of the newer folks too, though I'd stay your hand on the N.W.A. Rap got harder in the nineties, apparently. It's hilarious. If you're really itching for a throwback they gave me Little Richard and the Crickets too, but that's your call. Personally I'd abstain.

Something of an imperfectionist, maybe. No one all that interesting is universally beloved. We're all busy little bees, full of stings, making honey day and night - aren't we honey?

[A DJ. Now that's unsurprising the moment it's out of Richie's mouth, an easy guide to understanding a lot else that comes out of his mouth. Prior's not overly familiar with the world, but he's of the era where the right radio DJ can be the soundtrack for a house party. Where it's still an art, requiring twin gifts of talent and the necromantic ability to breathe real life into dead air.

You might think they'd rest the voice when not working, though. Prior's still wearing a small, amused smile through Richie's quick assessment of his offerings.]

Bowie. It's a party full of aliens - I do believe we've found our match. Though, if any showtunes drop out of the sky for you, call me. A girl has needs and they have long gone unsatisfied.

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video; un: rtozier

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cw for mention of hate crime/assault

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why is prior so cute, i hate u

maybe it's maybelline

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