elnysa | 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.))

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

you of all people should be intimately familiar with how much a little backstory helps you grasp the present

Edited (Fun fact if you accidentally write font color="courier" you get brick red letters, amazing) 2018-02-19 17:35 (UTC)

I "of all people"? All I seem to recall about backstories is your marked refusal to pass on information when there's a potential for crosshairs, etc., in the future.

[~~Go fuck yourself~~

~~Go fuck yourself~~

~~eat shit~~

~~Go fuck yourself~~]

I'm not dragging up twenty seven year old ghosts from a world that's dead for a red nosed snoop

Nor am I, poppet. Because your mad butcher isn't dead, is he? That part of your world is alive and well, if currently slumbering.

is someone paying you to be obtuse because you are a fucking professional

also quit saying poppet, you sound like a cartoon villain

Ah. Is that the genesis of your fear? That I am a wicked man, and if he wakes, we'll be wicked men together? Do you think I'd make an ally of your butcher?

please. you're annoying, not a baby killer.

Ah, but you can't know that for sure, can you? At the end of the day, evil could be lurking inside me. The only way you could have some advance notice would be if, say, some compatriot from my own home world gave you some advance notice.

if you're so bad then why are you so concerned? or maybe I should go square it with your cousin. at least one of you is halfway reasonable.

please find a new hobby.

Have you given any part of this story to anyone besides me?

oh you bet!!! i sit down with everyone I meet and hand them a crumpet while talking about the good old days, when they found my schoolmates floating in rivers and bobbing under sewer drains

It's a real popularity boost, you should try it someday

Just so. Run it past someone you trust a bit more than you trust me. See if they want to know the identity of your butcher.

[He already has. Been forced to twice now — Steve had been beside him when they first found the pod and had to drag him out on wilted knees. Yusuke had caught him in the middle of a nightmare, and Richie gave him what he could without spilling all the beans. He was so young. Which meant he was in a far better position to fight back, but it made Richie all the more fearful to let him near the problem. Being a kid made him likelier to die, and he's too headstrong to back down from a fight.

Make that three times. Boxer...fuck, he'd never gone on a high where the other guy got to see what you were hallucinating, but there you had it. Yet ol Boxy and his girlfriend Red were just as cautious, and now they all hung out without saying a word about their respective troubles. Secrets bared but never clarified. An understanding all three appreciated.]

Jesus, was all that needling and snarl you trying to get my trust? You're a goddawful interrogator.

How on earth, dear fellow, did you get "trust me" out of that command? No. I truly couldn't give less of a damn how you feel about me. [ Not true, but, well, you know. ] Let's just say that not being a child murderer also extends to not wanting to wake up one day to find a trail of tiny feet and dismembered chubby little arms. And forewarned, forearmed, etc. - and you, dear fellow, are quite a weapons-hoarder.

Run it past someone else. See if they share my fears. If they don't, then fine, tell me to go screw. But if someone else is also ever so torn up with worry for the tiny babies, then maybe you might want to consider spilling one or two of those secrets of yours.

Well gee you sure have been mighty keen on being the first guy to get the hot scoop.

And sure thing, I'll tell them to keep an eye out for an eighty-something murderer with a hip replacement and prostate cancer.