video; un: rtozier

[summertimeblues]

[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.))

Comments

[priorly]

[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?

why is prior so cute, i hate u

[summertimeblues]

[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.

maybe it's maybelline

[priorly]

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.

[summertimeblues]

[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?

[priorly]

[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?

[summertimeblues]

[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.

[priorly]

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.