Richie "Bitch Baby Tears" Tozier (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
summertimeblues) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
elnysa2018-02-17 09:29 pm
summertimeblues) wrote in elnysa2018-02-17 09:29 pm
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.))
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.))
no subject
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?
no subject
[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.
no subject
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.]
no subject
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?