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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Ooh, that was a rather unfortunate lack of support there.

[Someday he'll find someone who loves the sound of his voice. And given what she's about to say, was that bit of sarcasm really necessary? Apparently so.]

And oh, I don't mean to imply that it isn't useful. You're-- and don't let this go to your head, please-- right in that any scrap of information is vital. But . . . well. You saw how obsessed they used to be with ritual and rivalry, yes? Branding outsiders, Wyver and their obsession with magic and shamans and ritual, Olympia and their proud, obsessive way of puffing themselves up . . . sanctimony, and believe me when I say I'm very familiar with this, is dangerous.

I'd guess that this was meant to be some kind of weapon. Wielding the dragons, perhaps? Amplifying someone's power? Who knows. But I'd guess it was meant to be some kind of offensive tactic on Olympia's side, perhaps used under the guise of defense.

Silent solidarity is all.

[It's difficult to knock the pep from your step when you know you've already snookered them. They're in too deep to break free, Ros, save yourself.]

All good points. I'm very sorry, it's hard to think of a proper reply. It's all...[He bows his head and clutches agonizingly at his temples.] It's all going to my head, I can't help it, it's swelling! It's going to be huge! I can't contain this knowledge, this abso-loot powah!

[She watches him silently, waiting patiently.]

Are you done?

[He pops up from the fit like a weasel in a mulberry bush.]

Maybe. Tell me how blue my eyes are.

[Moving on, though.]

Anyway, me and the gang were thinking maybe it was leaning towards Wyver's style more than Olympia's. Some of the other stuff that didn't culminate in a full paragraph made several references to landmarks in the south. And honestly, dragon worship's more up their alley.

Fair enough. Heaven knows they're interested in ceremonies themselves; I can't tell you the number of shamans I alienated there.

The question becomes . . . hmm. Well. If there's any possibility of dating these passages, perhaps, because then it would make it easier to pinpoint what area of time to research within Wyver.

[A beat, and she adds:]

. . . though I realize saying all this may lead to another fit. Do you still have those books on you?

They're all reference only, sad to say. You might have to make the trip down yourself if you want to take a closer look. If we find any specifics on dates I'll post it.

[She wrinkles her nose, annoyed by that answer, but nods.]

I'd appreciate it. Are you staying long?

[Because she's absolutely getting up to come down there.]

Not sure, but we've done most of our back breaking and are calling that tallyman to tally our bananas.

You're on your way aren't you

Edited (So sick of listening to ros, forcefully texts instead) 2018-02-19 18:00 (UTC)

I do like a man who's quick on the uptake. Yes, I'm on my way; I'll be there shortly.

[very shortly, in fact, because teleportation is a hell of a gift. Even if she can only zip a few blocks at a time, it still means it only takes her ten minutes. Suck it, city transportation.

She looks a little harried as she enters. She's carrying a rather large rucksack, and she keeps glancing down at it, making certain that whatever's in it is still safe and sound. But ah, she's a woman on a mission, and so--]

Mr. Tozier!

[You really shouldn't call out in a library, but since when has Rosalind followed the rules?]

I hope you haven't put those books away just yet.

[In turn, he'd made a hurried excuse to leave. Gotta go pals, I've got a stew in the crockpot and it's high time I turned the heat off. Richie's got his bag slung around his shoulder and his winter jacket back on, making his way down the stairs double-time.

It's not enough. She's already at the foot of the stairs. He stops abruptly, one foot hovering over the next step.

Goddammit. He puts on a sweet smile.]

Hiya Rosie. Mind keeping your voice down? If you speak too loud they come around and swat you with the biggest hardcover in reach.

[What an absolute asshole.]

A swatting would only do you good. You weren't leaving, were you? Just as I told you I was arriving?

[Of course he was, which doesn't help her temper any. She takes a few steps upward, smiling in a not-very-nice way at all, and turns one of her fingers in the universal signal for turn around.]

March, Tozier. Up you go. And don't call me that.

Oh come now, Ros, I told you I finishing up and you invited yourself over! [He makes a face and with a barely stifled groan, shifts his position. The tread up the stairs is weighted and slow, the polar opposite of the pace of his escape.] If you're so fond of swats you oughtta meet Red. The two of you would be the best of friends in no time. You'd do the slaps, she's covering the kicks.

[His shins have been blitzed twice now. This is a sad day to be Richie Tozier.]

What the hell do you need me for anyway? All I did was copy down what Dorian magicked into making sense. He's the one you should be dragging by the ear, not me.

I live with him. There's plenty of time for me to drag you both by the ear. Don't whine, please, it isn't attractive and it isn't doing anything for my mood.

[She comes up even with him, glancing over. She'd normally stride on ahead, but she's leery of doing that and having him dash away while her back is turned.]

I need you because I want to make sure I have the right books. And because I can always use an assistant. Besides: I'm certain you've nothing better to do right now.

Oh! Are you hoping for something attractive? [He pops the collar on his coat and leans suavely back. Rosalind, meet James Dean. Or the closest you'll ever get now that the world's ended.] Listen, bay-bee, you and me could make quick splits and hit the town. I know all the ins and outs here, ain't no one gonna bother a pair of rabble rousers like us where we're headed.

[He frowns at the accusation.]

I have many important things to do.

[She actually comes to a halt on the stairway, watching his little performance. Once again she's struck by it-- not that she has any idea what he's referencing, but the way he can manage to change his voice and manner so completely.

It isn't magic, because there's no such thing as magic. But there's something there, something more than just a talent with voices. It's fascinating enough that she doesn't interrupt, though her nose does wrinkle at baby.]

If you've time enough to stand around acting like that, you haven't anything important to do.

[She resumes their trek up the stairs. Over her shoulder, almost as an afterthought:]

And that isn't the kind of man to whom I'm attracted. Come along.

Seducing you isn't important? How humble of you to say. [Said mostly because the "baby" so clearly repulsed her. Maybe if he laid it on real thick she'd untwist his arm and give him the boot.

But also? He'd been taking shit all afternoon. It was high time he gave some away.

He trods after her, a bit more pep in his step now that he's got an angle to work. He's easily baited and perhaps one day it'll be the death of him, figuratively or otherwise, but he can hardly help himself. Even as a grown man when he cooked up something chuckalicious it tended to spill out of him like pasta water in a boiling pot.]

That so? What kind of man does get your bloomers unbunched? You're English so it can't be the French. How about a little e-spicy pepperoni, Italiano? Molto bella!

[She rolls her eyes. This is mostly for the bloomers comment, although his accent deserves some credit too.]

Shall I send you a list of the characteristics and personality quirks of every man I've slept with here?

[That is a response so wildly unexpected that Richie draws wholly back, brows hitting the ceiling and jaw dropping in delight. He's lost to laughter the next second, and a pinch-faced librarian shushes them from a higher floor for the outburst.

He only barely contains himself.]

Well bless my stars and my soul, you've figured out how to take the pins out of your hair after all! Please, please. [As they walk he mimes whipping out a note pad and wetting an imaginary pen with his tongue. He poises it above the phantom paper.] I'm ready. Give me the juicy details, darling. Do you like a little chest scruff? Is it the blue collar workin' man or the slick-suited high roller? [He gives her a nudge of the elbow.] How big?

Simply because I don't act a certain way around you, Mr. Tozier, does not mean I am incapable of acting in such a way. You'd do well to remember that.

[To his credit, her ears are a little red, but that's the only tell she has in response to his questions. She's really quite good at keeping her expression withering and arch. Rosalind leads them forward, turning into a row of shelves. Presumably the books are still out on the tables-- honestly, it's likely his companions are still around, up to and including Dorian, and heaven knows he doesn't need more ammunition to tease her.

Which means she ought to end this here and now, in one decisive blow. Hm. Rosalind skims the books with a blind eye, thinking to herself.]

What I like, Mr. Tozier . . .

[She turns on her heel, facing him. He's at least half a foot taller than her, slender in that way men get when they shoot up fast, and likely stronger than her, but she doubts he'll be thinking to use his full strength now. So it's really rather easy to put a hand to his chest and push him against one of the bookshelves, stepping in front of him to ensure he stays right where she puts him.

It's not the closest they've been. She's pressed herself up against him before, that first night in the alley. Now, Rosalind keeps a steady distance between them, a solid few inches that she refuses to close.]

. . . is a man who can impress me. Money isn't appealing. Power can be. Competence, however, is the most alluring thing of all. A man who excels in his chosen field, who is in some way markedly intelligent, whether it be in a more physical arena or mental one . . . that's what draws my eye.

Or . . . someone who's different in some way. I admit I have an attraction to those who aren't quite normal. You can well guess why.

[A beat, and she leans in, tipping her head. She won't kiss him, not at all, but it's fun to play as though she might, ghosting her lips near his, her breath hot against his mouth.]

But you don't seem to fall into either of those categories, do you? At least . . . not from what I've seen.

[Rosalind lingers for just a second more before pulling back, stepping away from him, an insufferable sort of smirk on her lips.]

Pity. Come along, Richie. We've books to research.

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

[Seems like he's set to continue taking shit for the rest of the damn day.

He wasn't expecting much more than a scoff and another snap, a few shots at his manhood. He's under no illusions here. That the woman is not in the least impressed by him couldn't be plainer than wheat in a wheat field, and he's not sure he likes her company much either. Not one of their interests intersect, nor do their humors, and their conversations play out like someone was trying to rub a pair of cheese graters against one another. Both irritants, and in such opposing ways.

Then she throws him for a loop. Bodily so. He hits the bookcase like a true chump and suddenly finds all five-foot-six of her boxing him in, breathing husky and outlining many, many ways in which he is failing to live up to her standards. (He'd have a thing or two to swing back at her if this was still on Earth — you want top of the field? You want hard work and cash stacks? Heck, you want someone "different"? How about a trip to Derry, how about you see how shit lined up in a neat stroke of destiny and how effective aping Grandmaster Flash was in making a speedy getaway?)

The woman tops it all off with closing inches between their mouths. And he'd be lying if his pulse wasn't spiking. He didn't like her much, but she was hardly the type you'd roll over and regret seeing Sunday morning. He goes very stiff, certain this is a trick and yet hoping (despicable) that it wasn't.

But of course, it is.

Richie lingers on the bookcase after she's pulled back. Blinking once. Regrouping.

What a cheap shot. He grits his teeth and tuts.]

Shows what you know. James Dean was a prodigy.

[And this has nothing at all to do with him, personally. Of course. He peels off the bookcase and slips his hands into his pockets, rolling his eyes to the heavens.] You're making spending the day with you a real tough sell, Ros. Spare the rod a little, will ya?

[But after her he goes. The books had shuffled their runes into a repeating sequence of bullshit after they poked at them too long, but maybe they'd swapped back to regular text by now.

Who knows. Maybe it wouldn't be a total waste. Wait for him, oh gin bottle, he'll be home for you soon.]

[He can't see her expression right now, and so she lets a slight smirk flit over her face. Good, that's Rosalind one point up, then, and she really oughtn't treat social interactions like a competition, but that's just how she's wired. There are worse things, she supposes.

Besides. There's something immensely satisfying about frustrating others, leaving them wanting while she walks away smug. But far be it for her to torment him all evening; if nothing else, that would drive him away, and he's starting to become entertaining to her.

Isn't that lovely for him?]

Really? And here most men I know would have loved to go through what you just did. I'll keep that in mind for the future, though: Richard Tozier, doesn't care to be pinned to bookshelves.

[She glances over at him as she takes a seat. The tomes are still laid out on the table, and there's something lighter in her gaze as she looks at him. It's much easier to be friendly now that she's got the upper hand.]

Tell me, then: what is it you'd rather be doing, if I let you leave?

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