[The sudden break in the broadcast puts his heart in a bind. He sits and replays it twice, dread mounting. Paces. Snatches himself a small flask, still swishing with scotch, and the knife Steve got him for Christmas. Too small to stick much anything but a rat, but better than nothing. The idea of walking around with a chef knife, poised like he's Norman Bates in his mother's nightgown, doesn't sit too well with him.
Besides, any blade would be a moot point if his fears are realized now.
He teleports to the station immediately. Lights are flickering. The speakers keep iterating the same shit on repeat. "We shall continue to monitor the situation, however —" He takes a deep breath and beelines for Stasis.
Oh sweet Lordy, if there is a God let His wonders be known now, and keep everything sleeping.]
ii) OLYMPIA
a) Be Still My Beating Heart
[The exhibit is something to behold. Richie takes his time at each stand, moving in silence. The heart itself, fabled and glowing as if with pride in its own power, holds his gaze like a flickering flame. He stands, stupefied. The fine hairs at the back of his neck rise. There's that eerie sensation of being watched.
He catches your eye, startled and uncharacteristically wordless.]
b) Night at the Museum
[The locals were all so gung ho about their old trinkets and curios. And Richie, who was trying his best to learn and adapt as best as an old fart could, wanted to know more about this world he was cursed to live in. So in spite of feeling like he was playing at being fourteen and all too green again, he opts to spend the night at the exhibit.
Ignorance isn't bliss, but buddy, knowledge don't let nobody sleep at night. Case in point: here he is, jolting awake from his sleep by an unearthly whisper. Something something...the words were gone. But he'd heard it. Richie turns to the sleeping bag next to his.]
Hey — did you hear that?
iii) KHALO VILLAGE
a) Honey I Shrunk the DJ
[Expecting a smooth trek in when he'd already had to blow a joint just to pass the borders was, as he feared, an exercise in futility. As if the mushrooms at Murkwell Hollow weren't bad enough, he takes a wrong step and squishes some blooming purple offshoot underfoot. One minute he's regular, jiving at five foot nine.
The next he's squeaked down to an inch high and tumbling off that soggy violet fungal mess, landing in the grasses with the world's tiniest yelp.]
WHAT THE FUCK?!
b-i) Tall Tall Tales
[He'd been a little skinchy with the details of his time here. Not much of it was pleasant, after all, but he'd been affable as possible when getting grilled by a fairy person. (His initial balking had toned down some, he just had to remember Gamora and Rocket and Koltira — he had met stranger folk and everything would be a-okay.)
But getting to the library had him thinking it was all for naught. The moving quills held his attention hostage for a good ten minutes. Then he'd wandered a bit. Cosmic coincidences could never cease, for a tome he pulls out on a whim (freshly printed, too) spills open to a page with a ballad running along one side and a grim wood-cut illustration on the other. Seven children with their backs to the viewer stand dwarfed at the bottom, the silhouettes of thatched houses and trees (wrong details, wrong era, just like how the kids are dressed like Olympian tykes), all of which are engulfed in the shadow of the wicked djinn above. The face is painted in all the wrong ways, and the costume is jester-like with diamonds painting the sleeves and a jingle-belled cap sitting atop its head. But the smile is the same, shark-toothed and bright even rendered in ink.
Richie blanches at the sight. Starts murmuring the words.]
Beneath a town in the Valley of Maine There lives a daemon, called by no name. The folks above never have to think twice With the gift of a year long sacrifice...
b-ii) Sing Me the Song of Your People
[Or perhaps the story he picks up is your own. Maybe you catch him reading a limerick from over his shoulder, or he could be holding up the book and comparing the illustration against the real thing from across the room.]
Oh — is this one you? Snoopy little fuckers, aren't they?
c) Smoke Gets in Your Eyes (Gen OTA + Possible NSFW for previous CR age 29+ only)
[He'd really gone done a terrible rabbit hole, picking up smoking again. First came the smokes, which was right before the apocalypse. Then came the weed after. Then there came the pills and the lines after the resurrection, though Richie has stayed his hand there soon after. Sorted himself mostly out, settled back into his usual discomfort instead of seeking absolute oblivion.
The stuff they offer here is kinder. It goes down sweetly, plumes out in pleasing clouds. He takes a puff before offering a round to the chum next to him, grin already going lazy as he sinks into the plush pillows.]
Feels a bit like Morocco. I've missed shishah, it's been ages since I've done the lounge stint like this.
iv) WILDCARD
((If there's anything else you'd like, hit me with a surprise prompt or pm me to discuss things!))
Richie Tozier | Khalo/Olympia/Thesa | OTA
[The sudden break in the broadcast puts his heart in a bind. He sits and replays it twice, dread mounting. Paces. Snatches himself a small flask, still swishing with scotch, and the knife Steve got him for Christmas. Too small to stick much anything but a rat, but better than nothing. The idea of walking around with a chef knife, poised like he's Norman Bates in his mother's nightgown, doesn't sit too well with him.
Besides, any blade would be a moot point if his fears are realized now.
He teleports to the station immediately. Lights are flickering. The speakers keep iterating the same shit on repeat. "We shall continue to monitor the situation, however —" He takes a deep breath and beelines for Stasis.
Oh sweet Lordy, if there is a God let His wonders be known now, and keep everything sleeping.]
ii) OLYMPIA
a) Be Still My Beating Heart
[The exhibit is something to behold. Richie takes his time at each stand, moving in silence. The heart itself, fabled and glowing as if with pride in its own power, holds his gaze like a flickering flame. He stands, stupefied. The fine hairs at the back of his neck rise. There's that eerie sensation of being watched.
He catches your eye, startled and uncharacteristically wordless.]
b) Night at the Museum
[The locals were all so gung ho about their old trinkets and curios. And Richie, who was trying his best to learn and adapt as best as an old fart could, wanted to know more about this world he was cursed to live in. So in spite of feeling like he was playing at being fourteen and all too green again, he opts to spend the night at the exhibit.
Ignorance isn't bliss, but buddy, knowledge don't let nobody sleep at night. Case in point: here he is, jolting awake from his sleep by an unearthly whisper. Something something...the words were gone. But he'd heard it. Richie turns to the sleeping bag next to his.]
Hey — did you hear that?
iii) KHALO VILLAGE
a) Honey I Shrunk the DJ
[Expecting a smooth trek in when he'd already had to blow a joint just to pass the borders was, as he feared, an exercise in futility. As if the mushrooms at Murkwell Hollow weren't bad enough, he takes a wrong step and squishes some blooming purple offshoot underfoot. One minute he's regular, jiving at five foot nine.
The next he's squeaked down to an inch high and tumbling off that soggy violet fungal mess, landing in the grasses with the world's tiniest yelp.]
WHAT THE FUCK?!
b-i) Tall Tall Tales
[He'd been a little skinchy with the details of his time here. Not much of it was pleasant, after all, but he'd been affable as possible when getting grilled by a fairy person. (His initial balking had toned down some, he just had to remember Gamora and Rocket and Koltira — he had met stranger folk and everything would be a-okay.)
But getting to the library had him thinking it was all for naught. The moving quills held his attention hostage for a good ten minutes. Then he'd wandered a bit. Cosmic coincidences could never cease, for a tome he pulls out on a whim (freshly printed, too) spills open to a page with a ballad running along one side and a grim wood-cut illustration on the other. Seven children with their backs to the viewer stand dwarfed at the bottom, the silhouettes of thatched houses and trees (wrong details, wrong era, just like how the kids are dressed like Olympian tykes), all of which are engulfed in the shadow of the wicked djinn above. The face is painted in all the wrong ways, and the costume is jester-like with diamonds painting the sleeves and a jingle-belled cap sitting atop its head. But the smile is the same, shark-toothed and bright even rendered in ink.
Richie blanches at the sight. Starts murmuring the words.]
Beneath a town in the Valley of Maine
There lives a daemon, called by no name.
The folks above never have to think twice
With the gift of a year long sacrifice...
b-ii) Sing Me the Song of Your People
[Or perhaps the story he picks up is your own. Maybe you catch him reading a limerick from over his shoulder, or he could be holding up the book and comparing the illustration against the real thing from across the room.]
Oh — is this one you? Snoopy little fuckers, aren't they?
c) Smoke Gets in Your Eyes (Gen OTA + Possible NSFW for previous CR age 29+ only)
[He'd really gone done a terrible rabbit hole, picking up smoking again. First came the smokes, which was right before the apocalypse. Then came the weed after. Then there came the pills and the lines after the resurrection, though Richie has stayed his hand there soon after. Sorted himself mostly out, settled back into his usual discomfort instead of seeking absolute oblivion.
The stuff they offer here is kinder. It goes down sweetly, plumes out in pleasing clouds. He takes a puff before offering a round to the chum next to him, grin already going lazy as he sinks into the plush pillows.]
Feels a bit like Morocco. I've missed shishah, it's been ages since I've done the lounge stint like this.
iv) WILDCARD
((If there's anything else you'd like, hit me with a surprise prompt or pm me to discuss things!))