nysalogs | Why do fools fall in love? (Closed)

[At the very least, this time when he gets that rebellious itch and mosies on down to check what Voss has got on the docket, he isn't matched up for the task with someone half his age. Muy apreciado, temple acolytes, for giving him a break from having to play responsible adult.

Not to mention this time it's a rather sedate mission. Richie drops the book on the table and hooks his chair closer with the toe of his boot, setting himself down with a pleasant smile.]

I'm not putting it past them to have some finger-nibbling demon worm holed up in the bindings, but I gotta say, I'm looking forward to doing a job with minimal bloodshed. Have you got much experience with this stuff?

[Dorian might not be half his age, but that really doesn't mean he's taking up the role of responsible adult. The demeanor with which he pulls the book across the table is that of a child unwrapping a present, as if books are really the most exciting thing one could get their hands on. Maybe that enthusiasm is a good thing here, though.

It's too early to tell. Dorian eventually returns the smile from over the pages, idly flipping through them as he answers.]

With the reading, finger-nibbling demons, or the bloodshed? I'm quite adept at all of the above. I do hope it's not going to have to make up for any lacking experience.

[Perhaps they can both be free then, release the wheel and let this whole shebang speed into oblivion.

The man is spritely in his steps and gung-ho about whipping through the pages, so Richie's gratitude doubles. Perhaps he'll be the dead weight this time. He hopes not, he might ape around but he'd rather be useful than a hanger-on.]

Oh, all right then. Excuse me, I'll step outside and toss a fire cracker over the gates at Wyver, surely that'll bring me up to par on bloodshed witnessed. [Richie coolly thumbs a page over, eyes tracking the lines and lines of runes. He's got a notebook next to him, and marks down repeating symbols, corresponding illustrations...] Finger eaters on the other hand, I refuse to get acquainted with.

[It's hard not to banish the memory of Bill coming within a hair of losing knuckles to that moving photograph. Reaching for the image of the clown and his fingertips breaching the plastic coating, turning sepia to match the photo.

Blood springing out in artful arcs as Richie had ripped his hand loose.

Richie is careful to avoid all ink here, moving pages by edges alone. It's not the same deal, but enchantments were a thing unknown to him, and surrounding him on the daily. He'll opt not to risk it.] So you dealt with same shit in a different pile back in the day, I take it?

Oh, that's where we draw the line, is it? I suppose I understand, relying on talented fingers.

[He drums his against the table for emphasis, his smile becoming more genuine. It's good, that Richie is in good humor. He can't remember the last time he wasn't surrounded by old people taking their jobs far too seriously.]

Yes, well, out of the frying pan and into the fire. Or in this case, out of the shitter and into... wherever it all goes, you know. There are significantly less demons crawling out of the woodwork, but everything else is all the same. Exhausting.

[Rather than turning sepia and spurting any blood, Dorian's fingertips illuminate with a light blue as he reaches to touch the ink of a page Richie's already copied from. For a moment, a passage almost shifts the runes into something recognizable, but it immediately reverses and shifts into the same rune and again. He withdraws his hand with a sigh.]

And you? Lead a sheltered life?

Gets you thinking, though — I always wondered how you'd wipe your ass if you only had a fist. Would you have to mummy the stump up with the toilet paper and go to town?

[Amen to that brother. So many folks here stood stiffer than a morning chub. Why not have a few laughs along the way? Suffering was borne so much easier with a chuckle.

The flash of blue steals his focus from the page to the man opposite. Richie watches, puzzled and entranced as the painted strokes flutter, shift, translate. Then they snap back into form, immobile and alien as ever.

There's the ludicrous stuff, the tricks Yusuke and Akira pull, the enchantments that hold Sandra and Wally prisoner. The fucking mistletoe, mischievous and wicked as it was. This looks like something with a hint of practicality. Sensible magic, not just fire and brimstone and eternal damnation. Another knot unravels in the yarnish mess of his gut, and Rich feels a flush of relief that shocks him with its gravity.

He hadn't been aware, getting too used to sitting with the unease on a daily basis. Sitting there all coiled up like a Jack in the Box waiting for someone to pop the top, ticking the time down. What's going to be off about the next guy? What freakish absurdity were they withholding, what could he possibly do about it if they put Richie in the bullseye?

At least here, it's a mundane thing. A reasonable use of a mystical power. Logic lives my good fellows, even if it's hobbling on crutches and lost an eye to the apocalypse.]

Nothing quite like that, no. I used to be a DJ. [Which is probably not a familiar term to most around here, so he quickly amends.] I used to arrange and announce music on the radio. Interview the stars behind it. It was a pretty cushy gig but it's left me at a massive loss around here. Reading at least, I can do.

[Dorian can't help but watch Richie's expression for something... negative. It isn't quite a stare—just a few casual glances, so much so that they can easily be taken for an observation of his features. It wasn't an uncommon thing to see reservations in strangers, even after a mundane display.

He's thankful Richie's not the sort to go spitting into faces by magic's very existent. Dealing with all that again would make for bad time, and Dorian's rather exhausted with having to argue on his own behalf.]

I've heard about your radios. They sound quite convenient. [He leans his chin into his hand, looking back towards the runes with a critical gaze.] Where I'm from, you have to head over to a tavern for any bard's songs... Which isn't a trial for a man like me, but you can imagine what it's like out in the country. No liquor, no music, no happy Dorian.

[But, lest he never get back on task,] I can't break the enchantment all at once, but I can focus certain runes at a time. You can write their meaning down, and we'll eventually piece together a sentence.

Jesus Christ on a jumped up chariot, I would die. I can't stand a life without a little rhythm and blues. I have a hard time getting focused without putting something on. [Richie smiles, leaning easy in the chair.] Gotta pace myself here, though, I've got ten records from home and I can't risk making myself sick of them too quick.

[The proposition is a workable one. Richie nods and scoots a little closer so he can catch the runes quicker.] Have at 'er, Chief D.

[It's long and tedious work, but it's interesting stuff. Even Richie can quiet down when something's hooking him along for a keen ride. When there looks to be actual words coming, he starts to sound them out, thoughtful and marking etches, swapping figure positions on his pad of paper.]

Head....poultice, I think, over here. Apply the poultice.

Apply the poultice to the open incision, then. Then there's a symbol for a dragon, down there...

[Dorian is in his element here, but that doesn't make it any less of an abysmal strain. Piecing together all this is much less interesting than the conversations they could be having, like what Richie means by rhythm and blues. He drums his fingers over the page, leaning over their notes with a soft sigh. ]

I'm sorry, this is all very fascinating, but what do you mean by records? [He says, productively,] As in... written records of music from your world? Like lyrics?

Oh, incredible, I always wondered how you cured a dragon migraine. Today is the day I get my answers.

[He busies himself jotting down a few more words of text before they reroute back into nonsense. Fuck, if the whole sentence took them an hour, he'd be shedding silver ball hairs and popping percocet before they finished chapter one. These librarians were sadists. Every last one.

Luckily Dorian's also getting wearisome. Richie looks up with a soft "Hmm?" before he grins. This, at least, is something he can speak on.] It doesn't just take the lyrics, it runs off with the whole tune, my man. Just like how these phones do. But the sound is unbeatable. Picks up better quality, even if it's a one trick pony. You can play them forwards and backwards, too fast or too slow, but you'll only do the last three if you're a real jackass and want to run the neighbours out of the building.

Either way, you've got top talent on deck any time you need to set a mood, feel a groove. Best thing that's happened since soap. I'd count condoms if they didn't take half the fun out of sinning in the sheets, but there you have it.

[Well, that's an answer that raises ten more questions. Thankfully, he saves himself the embarrassment and robs Richie of a few laughs over asking what a condom is because he's got a pretty good idea with that elaboration. But while he knows how to wrap that, he doesn't know how to wrap his head around this. He leans forward in his seat, a grin widening the more he goes on.]

But that's—it's not impossible, unless you're a playing me for a fool, but that's fascinating! You could just play someone singing, over and over again? You captured the quality of music like it's being played in the room?

Like you've got front row seats to the whole shebang. [He cups his chin in his hand and sighs.] Honestly, there's a part of me that wonders what the bigger miracle is: magic, or years and years of hacking shit together until something that looks like magic comes out. Not to knock what you're doing. It's plenty fascinating, I can't claim to know much about how it works, but all the same. A little determination and a lot of dead generations went into man-made luxuries like radios and records. Comparatively speaking, I only missed the age of bards by what? A century? Maybe more?

[Medieval bards, perhaps not. But electricity was modern and the record player had only been around for a bit before the turn of the century, so if Richie had gotten around during 1840 or earlier, he'd have to wait for a band to show up or learn to fiddle himself if he wanted to hear a tune.]

I imagine in some cases you've got to study magic like it's math or literature, but in others it seems to jump right out and get useful on the spot. It's a little too neat, if you ask me. Unreliable too, but that's just been my limited experience.

[A flash of red catches his eye. His head turns, staring somewhere beyond Dorian's shoulder, and he spots a head of vivid crimson curls. A familiar one at that, and the boy sitting opposite isn't a stranger either...]

Oh. Looks like my neighbors are on the same case we're investigating.

[ Guards upon a doctor's doorstep are for, most predictably, the doorstep. When it comes to managing patients, most fail to consider the window. ]

[ Which is a relief, because Richie Tozier does not, under any circumstances, hold a candle to the trained professional in subterfuge he's got bagged and over his shoulder, but the professional in this situation still doesn't have any hands. He's got a much better handle on the social scene around the building, but it doesn't take a great deal of casual poking and prodding around to tell that they won't be schmoozing their way inside. ]

[ So, picking locks and picking guards out of the equation, window it is. Having crept around the side of the house in the graceful red-light-green-light harmony with the changing of the guard that they have so perfected, they chance upon a second story window largely obscured from the street. It's here that we find our heroes, hanging precariously off the sill after the one with legs is none too gently coaxed to find some footholds before the guards chance past again. ]

I am telling you, it isn't locked. There is no one inside, you just need to shove harder!

[ Hissed from the bag hanging off Richie's side. The claim that no one is inside the room beyond the stubborn window is a fact. The claim that the window isn't locked is a very strong hunch. This might be a terrible angle, but put those noodle arms to work, boy. ]

Shove 'ardir, shove 'ardir! [Comes the mockery, three to five pitches above either of their voices. His patience is as thin as an aluminum sheet at the moment. It's easy for her to get snippish, she's not the one about to crack her tailbone if the footholds fail. His knees bend and twist to compensate for the failing balance. Still he obeys, ramming his only free hand at the window latch with the devil's abandon.] What do you think I've been trying to do? I'm not hanging here stretching my calves because I missed a yoga class.

[It's very difficult to do this quietly by the way. He's trying his best, really, but unless the stupid asswipe moves—

At last, one monster shove creaks it open. It shifts up with a wooden thunk and Richie only just keeps from topping backwards with the effort.]

Thank fuck.

[It's laughably easy to slide it wider and higher. The house's private joke. Teehee, just playing you, come on in!

Richie hooks an arm around the sill and begins the inelegant work of yanking himself inside.]

[ She still does, theoretically, have the capacity to crack, even if she hasn't found that point yet, rolling around in the street so many times as she has. But falling from a second story window and potentially snapping a spine over the top of the Crystal might just do it. If only, if only. ]

Oh, here you had me almost fooled, but I would have assumed your breaking and entering would at least endeavor to be slightly quieter than your stretching habits.

[ But, just as she's losing hope and casting about for guards in case they had to abort mission and roll back into the hedges, the telltale creak of a sticky window finally shunted has her swallowing her reservations about ever joining him for exercise class. ]

[ She appreciates that even with the perfect portable hiding place she provides, that he still has the gumption to do these missions, from this point on, essentially alone. For as painfully average as he is, he still makes a concerted effort to give it his all. For the money. For the chance to quell corruption and make a difference. For whatever. She might be being used, but it's still nice to be brought along with someone who tries. ]

[ But, you know. Catch her saying that. ] Now I should hope your lack of stretching does not come back to bite us, crawling in here.

[Thank god for what little recognition he can get. He's doing his best...

His "best" might include a mighty knee and elbow knock as he fails to enter via window without any agency or sense of up or down. He's had to pull his full weight in by arms alone, and he was a man who lived a cushy life. The adjustment to a life of subterfuge and adventure will not be quick. Richie hisses as he fumbles and hopes the thud that marked his entrance wasn't overheard anywhere. Steve had said Alan Foster did the window shimmy sometimes, maybe he should text the guy and ask for pointers.]

I'll aim for as spry as spry can be. Just don't expect miracles. [He stands, peering around. It seems they've made into the second floor corridor. Perfect. Wonderful. The world was their oyster from here, and the place looks deserted.]

All right. If my name were Lenches, how furious with my parents would I be? But moreover... [He totters over to the first door, turning the knob with a meticulous twist.] Where would I conduct all my nefarious deeds?

[ His best might not be a particularly pleasant listen, all grunts and scuffles, but it does eventually and surprisingly get the job done. And that's what counts... more or less. ]

I never do.

[ Though miracles just sometimes spontaneously occur, like however he managed to clamber through the window and thud onto the floor inside just now. Sandra thuds too, and with significantly less righting of herself she has to do, she takes the time to Read for surprise or suspicion spawned of their clunky entrance. Nothing to speak of. No news is good news. ]

Hard to say. How furious with your own parents would you be had you ended up poor? [ What's wrong with Lenches. It might have been an odd name in her prime, but she can hardly scoff at anything anymore. ] This is the second floor, perhaps a bedroom? Personal study?

[ Nothing really for it but to start cracking open doors. All's safe and silent up here. ]

That would be more on me, I suppose. Poor finances and hard luck. Though starting on a bad square in the game of life doesn't help in getting ahead.

[The door drifts open to reveal a plush bedroom. Tastefully decorated in sepias and eggshell ivory, taupes, well cut furniture and artwork lining the walls. It makes Richie's heart ache some. He'd been this close to living life as a rich man, bobbing under that line by a hundred thou or so. He'd made the best of his current digs but shit, it stung to get the legs knocked out from under him when he'd been running a swell race.]

Looks like bedroom is the winner. [He doesn't turn on the lights. He's a greenhorn at spying, not an idiot. Richie slips inside and beelines to the shelving. He lights the titles with the white blinder from his phone and takes a slow stop over the tools on the shelf below.]

Nasty looking shit. [And right, she's not privy so he'll narrate.] Lots of textbooks on medicine, of course, but down here there's some surgery tools. Real mood setter, let's hope he's not using them on the girlfriend for a good time.

[He'll take a picture for their "employer."]

No, it does not.

[ Pointed, but gently. As if she needs to reiterate just what a bad hand she's been dealt for the hundredth time, but her comment on the rich seems to have touched a nerve of his. If not specifically, then ignited a passing despair upon the discovery of just how lavish a home they were intruding upon. He had always smelled of money to her, soft and city-bred, the polar opposite of her humble beginnings (save a few outlying points), but he rarely made a point to complain aloud. Kept on trucking with what he was given. Not really much else for it here, but there certainly could be worse ways to go about a new life. ]

[ Sandra remains silent, allows he with the eyes to case the joint until he finds something worthy of commentary. And when he does, he does. She lets in a hiss as if through her teeth, a put-off sound somehow morbidly intrigued. ]

Would you not put it past a man who makes pain his profession and passion to also make it his pleasure? [ A short laugh then interjected, ] Perhaps we ought to check the bed in case. Given the accusations, a little profiling of that nature would probably not go amiss.

[ All jokes aside, that's some weird stuff to keep in a bedroom. And plenty of people hide things in their beds, of that she is well aware. ]

Okay, fair point, but even then. I was hoping it was gonna be scientific sadism, not doctor roleplay. [At her prompting he makes his way to the next obvious choice. The bed is a sanctuary, and more often than not a holder of secrets. He'd stashed magazines from his Dad's desk under his own mattress as a wee one, pulling them out by flashlight and peeping at pleasures he wouldn't get to enjoy until he'd hit his teens. (Mind you, the girls didn't start looking as good as the ones in the magazines until college, but he had zero complaints. Teens and dimwits alike might die under the banner of an all out dime, but Richie'd soon found there was greater pleasure to be had in the back and forth of conversation than there was in the shape of an hourglass.)

Richie pulls the covers aside in a neat page turn and cautiously hefts the mattress. Sad to say, Sandra's suspicions were looking more than a little right.]

Oh, fuck this shit. [He pulls the photos loose and puts them in a spread on the floor.] It's pictures, Sandra. All of them halfway through the slicing, gee-yawd. I never knew what a man's innards looked like on a gurney. My curiosity's satisfied for life.

[He'd had the treat of stumbling over Patrick Hockstetter's body in the sewers, he remembered that much now. They all did. The dim light of matches made it even spookier viewing, making the pits gnawed by rats (but started no doubt by something bigger and badder) into endless canyons that disappeared into his mangled skull.

He'd almost seen entrails, would have if Beverly were a worse shot. Haystack had been pinned to the wall by the werewolf and his big belly had taken its second slashing that summer. Bloody stuff, but mercifully not fatal.

Not that prior experience would steel him. He liked horror projected on screens, in the words of an ooky spooky book. Not in reality, not on living breathing folk.

Grimacing, he takes snaps a few shots with the phone.] I can't speak as to whether these are standard procedures for Olympian medicine, but considering where he's keeping them...

Edited (BUT WAIT THERE'S MORE.) 2018-02-22 23:37 (UTC)

I had assumed we would all prefer this to be an overzealous fantasy.

[ Baseless accusations on Voss' part, nothing but a strange fetish on Lenches'. No harm befalling the innocent. If only that was ever the case. They approach the bed, Richie's favorite uses for the underside of a mattress falling somewhere between the money and knives she'd kept in hers (once upon a time) on the sliding scale of virtue, though perhaps the both of them hope to find nothing else here to compare on it. ]

[ No such luck from the sound of things. ]

[ There's no verbal response from over Richie's shoulder, but the recoil is palpable, calm but firm. She has, in kind, seen her fair share of bloodshed through her years with the Sisters, though entrails were a relative rarity when jobs were executed properly. Kills were efficient, snapped necks or poison or cuts to the arteries, gut-spilling blows generally reserved for fights gone awry. And from the thought of things, the man seems to agree on at least that part. ]

Generally speaking, a man's innards being exposed is a fair indicator that he is a dead one... [ Her knowledge of surgery is primitive at best, reserved for amputations and small excisions. Splitting stomachs is no medical procedure, at least no sane, undesperate one, it is one of the wilder forms of torture. ] Even if it is not so, no, under the bed is not exactly a place for professional records... What is it he sees fit to keep in his desk, then?

[ The discrepancy will probably be a predictable one at this rate, but discrepancies prove points. ]

I could play devil's advocate and give you the ins and outs of open heart surgery, but I'd hesistate to call these serials on the miracle of modern medicine. [Also he's not a doctor, and his lecture on such a feat would likely hit three beats: you cut the chest, you scalpel into the heart, then you stitch it up and toss a penny in a wishing pond. Bada bing bada boom, your ticker's fixed.

If you wanted the nitty gritties you could probably probe Eddie Kaspbrak for them, should he ever see fit to wake.]

Nudes? [He ventures. They're playing opposites so why not assume the sexy shit lives where the business ought to be? He almost pulls up to go verify, but abruptly ducks down to peer underneath the bed. Lest they forget and all, and there is a little somethin'-somethin' sitting pretty under the snooze pad. He tugs the box out, turning it this way and that. It doesn't rattle and there's no lock, so he pops the latch and points his phone light inside.

Just a love note. "Remember the date of our anniversary."]

Adorable. [But hey, maybe there's some cryptic reason to keep a scrap of paper in a box under the bed. Who knows? He describes the item to Sandra after taking a quick snap. He returns it to its lair and rises, cracking his back before going to the desk.]

Man alive, I was joking about the yoga but maybe there's a point to it. I'm too old to be hopping into this without doing a bit of downward dog and namaste, or what have you. [He frowns at the spread. Takes another picture and takes the piss out of the thirty second spots that bookend Starsky and Hutch escapades.] Make this Father's Day one to remember: scalpels for him, by Hugo Boss. Now available at Macy's.

[They were tres chic, after all. The man knew a good knife.

He starts pulling at the drawers though, and it becomes clear that this is less Lenches' property than it is Sloan's. The paperwork has her name on it. And study it though he might, he can't seem to find anything that could nail her on the charges Voss was hoping for. He relays all this to Sandra — for once, with little embellishment, for the longer he goes on looking the more he's certain...]

..it just doesn't look like she's doing the people dirty here. None of these papers add up, babe. Not to anything illegal...if she's got forgeries going, she's not keeping them here.

[Their investigation came with a small bonus incentive. It sits beside Sandra, snug up in that sling poch he's got over his shoulder. If they were to slide it in amongst the desk stock, they'd get a cool 500 silver more than bargained for.

Problem was, it was just as much a forgery as the ones Voss was so keen on catching her making.]

I will take your word for it that things have improved in the last millennia.

[ Even if they had in her world, in the Commonwealth, things definitely had not in the Downside, though its perils were far greater. She has no expertise in the matter of slicing without the intent to bleed a man out, and neither does he. At his suggestion, she groans, less the lewdness and more the recurring theme it seems to be in her life. (JJ.) Not to mention the man should have better sense than that. He knows what a mattress is for. ]

[ As for the anniversary note, that seems more of a note to be kept in a planner than in a secret box under the bed. If the box is meant for a collection of love letters, the romance sounds sorely lacking... Worth noting all the same though. As Richie crunches back up to his feet, Sandra has to scoff. ]

You really are that brittle, are you? I suppose we were not anticipating the second story window, but you have a point. We ought to limber you up before taking you on any of these little sneaking ventures. [ She's been slacking in her training, used to consorting with everyone already fit to partake in the Rites. There were no cushy desk jobs in the Downside. ] I will be sure to have plenty for you to warm up with, next time.

[ As for his nonsense plug, all she gets out of it is, ] What, more scalpels? [ This is just the bedroom. Does he conduct his business here of all places? But from the sound of things, the knives seem to be most of what belongs to Lenches here. She takes the verbal report without interruption, though she will have to take his word for it where he isn't reading word for word—they haven't the time for that—his end assumption, she will also have to take his word for. He is, at least, very good with words, and it makes for an easy word to take. ]

I do not think I would keep any particularly sensitive documents in the house of a man who keeps potentially incriminating evidence tucked away with his love notes beneath his bed. Not if I had a far more guarded house of my own.

[ Which, according to Voss, she explicitly has. Anyone that racks up any amount of time forging documents without being caught would be playing her cards close to her chest, no matter how much time she might spend in another's home... But at the same time, extra security in itself isn't evidence that she is hiding anything there, either. If there were a way to simply encourage some further investigation on the woman, fine, but to enter some false property to be used against her into the equation, when there is nothing to go on... ]

[ She's quiet, over his shoulder, for a moment longer. ]

So, if there is nothing to suggest her guilt here in this house, other than a gut feeling and the fact that she cavorts with such an unpleasant gentleman, I would, personally, suggest the Overseer make his investigations a bit more direct. [ Pay a little more coin. A man like Voss has to have connections. There is not a house that cannot be slipped into by someone. Perhaps not by Richie, but someone. If only she had a body... Or eyes... Or fluent literacy... ] We have only been in one room of the house, though. Perhaps she keeps more of her things in other places. Some dear correspondences concluded in good riddance, peasants.

((From here.))

[Richie soon realizes that Alan wasn't fooling. The worst of the burden he'd carried was laying low among the locals, working his throat and listening in, watching for the gestures and the ins and outs of exchange. Do a little reading on the rituals at the big old library, enough to shuffle them through this charade. In no time he's got the code cracked. He doesn't create a whole voice for this so much as swap his accent. The performance is live, not a cartoonish parody on the airwaves, so he'll tone it all down and keep the theatrics to a minimum.

When he arrives to meet the man, however, the grunt work's been done. There's already robes waiting for him, and no sign of the back they'd been torn off of.]

Do I want to know what you did with the body?

Edited 2018-02-22 22:24 (UTC)

I'll let you guess.

[ He seems far too pleased with himself for it to be anything innocent — very true, but the guy's not dead. He is, however, going to have a nasty headache and spend the next few hours talking about a very vivid hallucination he saw before he was knocked out. ]

[ Bruce hands them over. He's already dressed, he moves to keep a lookout. ]

Get changed.

((I'm back online! If you want to move on feel free to drop this!))

Colonel Mustard, in the ballroom, with the candlestick.

[Jesus. Remind him to never cross Foster.

He shuffles on the robes, thankful that they don't require any untoward disrobing. He likes the hug of a pair of slacks, and couldn't jive with the idea of going au naturale for the job. No doubt he looks a fair bit ridiculous, but they're both in this together. If he looks stupid, so does Alan. A pair of dumdums in Jedi linens.]

All right, I'm ready. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Dragon. Praise be to Wyver.

[ — didn't figure him for a Cluedo man, Bruce has learnt something today. ]

We're meeting up with a procession about half a mile east. There might be some others walking the same way. If you're in doubt, let me do the talking.

[beats monopoly.]

And waste all those precious hours I've spent working that Wvyerian rasp? It's a real panty dropper, let me tell you.

[He huffs and lets Alan take the lead. It's pretty country, and he feels a tick abashed he hasn't spent much time trying to see more of the place. The he spots the size of the bugs in the shrubs and thinks no, the city suits him fine. Leave the nature walking to the granola crew.]

You know, you're pretty self assured for a guy who hired a DJ as back up on undercover ops. You're not gonna work some foofoo mind tricks on the suckers, are you? [Richie sticks an index finger to each temple and squints, channeling Uri Gellar before Johnny Carson took him down live on the tube.] I sense you want to keep your mouth shut...or Barbara might find out how much you really love horses...

[ Bruce cants his head a little, a brisk nod of oh yeah, he's sure. Richie lays on the charm thick, but it sinks in well. Look at Bruce now. ]

[ Deadpan, ]

You've found my secret. Now I've got to kill you.

[Richie throws his hands to the air.] Don't shoot! I'm just a man in a dress, ain't nobody gonna hear shit from me! My mouth's gonna keep as shut as a nun's knees, you have my word!

[ Shoot? Now that's just offensive. He's more the watch you fall into a vat of acid and let it do the job kind of guy. ]

No, it's too late for you now.

[ It's lucky he's not a smiler, that would've given this whole shindig away. He's grinning on the inside, that's what counts. ]

Be very afraid.

[Well you'd wind up with a decidedly less effective arch-nemesis if you tried that. He'd probably just cry over turning into a clown, let's be real.

He gasps like a Hitchcock blond and feigns a wilt, hands to cheeks in absolute horror.]

No! No! There's so much I haven't done! So much love I never got to give! Please have mercy!

[Then he drops the act, giving a snortish chortle and clapping the broader man on the back.]

You ought to play poker with a face like that. I almost bought it for a hot second. We getting close, you think?

[ He's not used to being touched — it's tolerated. Bruce simply covers it with a quick, pleased smirk. So little of his theatrics have harmless uses. ]

We are.

[ They pause to see some others ahead on the path. One of them points, and Bruce acknowledges with a nod. ]

Stay on your toes.

[TOO BAD richie is all hands, always. ~~you can slap him off any time as concession, several other people have~~]

Will do, boss.

[True to his word, Richie realigns and clears his throat. By the time they've met proper with the procession he looks and sounds like a seasoned local. His impressions weren't just solid on the vocal front. He'd ham it up big time in the booth, motion and full commitment helped sell it after all. They're greeted warmly, shaking hands, and Richie even deigns to give a traditional blessing when asked.

He shoots Alan a pointed look after, and mutters under his breath.]

One heresy and counting...

[ He's watching and approving, from his corner, Richie was the perfect pick. He fits in extremely well with the others. Bruce, for his part, has attached himself to one of the zealous members of the group, pretending he's taking stock of supplies and names to see who else might be joining them in the future. ]

[ As well as what they might have to do at the altar. ]

Why do fools fall in love? (Closed)

Dorian, sultry scroll reading quest

not getting dokis.... thread cancelled

wow was that the only reason you wanted this thread....for my spicy dokis????

sadly it's the only thing richie is good for......

he has a passable personality too....can be monster bait.....surely dorian has a use for such things

https://78.media.tumblr.com/69829117c2bfb45fcfc619e59644f0f3/tumblr_ndvj6wcyar1ql5yr7o1_500.gif

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no dokis, got it.

I've changed my mind, sandra is obligated to give dokis

is this because i started them off arguing

yes she must pay penance

gross no

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Cw for dead kids and gore....again....always dead kids....

ah the richie tozier special

Tags u on phone data at 3am in the jumble of my new home in between 4 auditions, feel honoured

#blessed ;-;

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all good I'm gonna try and boomerang so we can get this in

Cool beans hombre

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