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dondarrion) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
aviary2012-08-12 02:44 am
dondarrion) wrote in aviary2012-08-12 02:44 am
Entry tags:
CLOSED | prompt eight | RUIN
 |
prompt eight | R U I N dressing-room style. closed to rog. |
Halfway, I guess. [ He doesn't broach anything further back than the last ten years very often and sometimes it shows. (Despite how old he is, in some respects he's still young.) ]
Though, y' know, it was more like falling a very great distance than burning up. Which isn't to say that that didn't happen, too.
Though, y' know, it was more like falling a very great distance than burning up. Which isn't to say that that didn't happen, too.
[ She would, and so would he, if it came down to the line. There's not much to give up, to be honest — he's always made sure of that. But he'd set a match to it in an instant in her favor.
He doesn't say so — he never says much — but he offers up a slight smile, the expression still contained but undeniably warm. ]
He doesn't say so — he never says much — but he offers up a slight smile, the expression still contained but undeniably warm. ]
[ It had gone all terribly pear-shaped in the end. (It always does. No exception. They either leave, they move on, or they burn her. But sometimes, every once and a while, she thinks to leave first.)
Her tone attempts detachment and fails. ] Better him than me.
Her tone attempts detachment and fails. ] Better him than me.
[ He doesn't seem particularly inclined, one way or the other, to furnishing a response, keeping his gaze fixed on one of his shirt cuffs instead. ]
—'S no' going t' happen.
—'S no' going t' happen.
[ People talk to themselves, they use their cell phones, carry on halfbaked conversations with Waverly all the time. This guy (something Quinn, if she remembers his debit card right) seems to do it more often than most but she doesn't really mind; he seems nice enough.
Somewhere between the arhythmic beep beep of the check-out machine he mumbles something to himself and she stops. ]
—pardon?
Somewhere between the arhythmic beep beep of the check-out machine he mumbles something to himself and she stops. ]
—pardon?
[ Saul groans from his place on the coach, head thrown over one of the arms and his arms crossed over his face. He comes to Ruth's, more often than not, whether things are good or bad or in between.
As it happens, they're not particularly good, now. ]
Everything's fucking tinder, sissy.
As it happens, they're not particularly good, now. ]
Everything's fucking tinder, sissy.
[ There's no blame in Claret's voice and there never is. Not when it comes to him. She shrugs, awkwardly, one of her shoulders lifting and then falling again as she picks at something underneath one nail. ]
Sometimes people can't help it— y'know? Doesn't mean it's their fault.
Sometimes people can't help it— y'know? Doesn't mean it's their fault.
[ For now, he has mixed feelings on the matter. He isn't ashamed of what he's done (though he will be, in time, and oh how that guilt will rend at him), and as such he isn't scrambling to cover for his actions. But on the same token, sometimes, when he looks at her, he wishes he'd been born better. ]
If you've done something, then you've done it, [ he says, the phrase far from eloquent but clear enough. ] You can't shift that blame.
If you've done something, then you've done it, [ he says, the phrase far from eloquent but clear enough. ] You can't shift that blame.
[ He can't help things like fear, like guilt. (He's only human.) He does his best to cover them up — to the suffering of his wife, who accuses him of being too cold — for the sake of the colony, and for the most part, he's successful.
But the one instance in which Gavin King is easy to read is in that of the Strangler. His mouth pulls into a thin line of displeasure, brow set in a sharp line that expresses much the same. ]
'S not just humans that can burn.
But the one instance in which Gavin King is easy to read is in that of the Strangler. His mouth pulls into a thin line of displeasure, brow set in a sharp line that expresses much the same. ]
'S not just humans that can burn.
[ He shakes his head; shuts his eyes and makes a hushing sound. (That's enough.) Penn's living is made on his compassion, and he plenty to spare. ]
No. [ His voice is soft, subdued. Like an undertaker's. ] No no no. [ His smile is sad. ] What happened to you— that wasn't your fault.
No. [ His voice is soft, subdued. Like an undertaker's. ] No no no. [ His smile is sad. ] What happened to you— that wasn't your fault.
No. Maybe. I mean—
[ The majority of the time, this isn't a subject that Nellie has to broach. She moves around too much to stay tethered long enough to tell the story, and even when she does, it's not one she likes to tell, just the same as every castaway. Fingers knit together, she changes and changes their configuration, the line of her mouth shifting this way and then that. ]
—part of it is. Isn't it?
[ The majority of the time, this isn't a subject that Nellie has to broach. She moves around too much to stay tethered long enough to tell the story, and even when she does, it's not one she likes to tell, just the same as every castaway. Fingers knit together, she changes and changes their configuration, the line of her mouth shifting this way and then that. ]
—part of it is. Isn't it?
[ There's a large ugly stain on the floor of Barrymore's living room, so bad that it's soaked through the rug and under the varnish of the wood. Spatter on the ceilings and across two of the windows. (Needing new curtains are the last of her worries.)
As for Barrymore herself, she's tucked in the corner, behind the far end of the couch, her face and hands all red. It was an accident. She swears. ]
As for Barrymore herself, she's tucked in the corner, behind the far end of the couch, her face and hands all red. It was an accident. She swears. ]
[ One knock, two in a row, one again. (It's me, open up.) Kirn has his own way of knocking, by this point, and the fact of the matter is that he doesn't always need Verona to tell him when he's needed.
(One of the big reasons why: there really isn't a time when he isn't.) ]
(One of the big reasons why: there really isn't a time when he isn't.) ]
[ She tips her chin like a proud thing, her hair loose and wild like fire. ]
I had the best teacher. Yes. I did.
I had the best teacher. Yes. I did.
[ In the end, Brother Perahia's death is an ignoble one. Prima Donna drives a knife through his gut (it's been fun). He'd served his purpose — he wasn't needed anymore. (Get a dragon to torch enough and you can name it responsible to nearly anything.) So they string his body up, after that, string him up. He isn't around to see what happens after that, but Downside isn't nice enough to just let things stand that way.
The girl with the fiery red hair and God's grace at her fingertips comes tumbling down eventually. ]
It wasn't— it wasn't a good thing, P—
[ Not Piano anymore. He forgets that, sometimes. ]
Perahia.
The girl with the fiery red hair and God's grace at her fingertips comes tumbling down eventually. ]
It wasn't— it wasn't a good thing, P—
[ Not Piano anymore. He forgets that, sometimes. ]
Perahia.
[ The stools in the kitchen are so high that Jane's legs don't reach all the way to the ground. Loosely they sway back and forth, back and forth, her hands folded neatly over her stack of schoolbooks, her cheek settled neatly over her hands. ]
Why?
Why?
Who knows?
[ In all honesty, it's the kind of question that applies to more than just storybooks, a fact that only takes on a sort of dramatic irony as Mr. Marling closes the book from which he'd been reading. Nobody knows what Mr. Marling does when his daughter is at school and nobody knows how Mr. Marling makes his living, period. They just know that it's enough to keep him and his daughter (who knows what happened to his wife) in one of the nicer houses in the neighborhood, well-fed and well cared for. But beyond that, there really isn't much anybody knows about the Marlings. ]
'S just a story, sweet.
[ In all honesty, it's the kind of question that applies to more than just storybooks, a fact that only takes on a sort of dramatic irony as Mr. Marling closes the book from which he'd been reading. Nobody knows what Mr. Marling does when his daughter is at school and nobody knows how Mr. Marling makes his living, period. They just know that it's enough to keep him and his daughter (who knows what happened to his wife) in one of the nicer houses in the neighborhood, well-fed and well cared for. But beyond that, there really isn't much anybody knows about the Marlings. ]
'S just a story, sweet.
[ Had Gene effectively burnt down his life? Yes. Had he meant to? Yes. But had they left him any alternative? No. No. No.
He's muttering things to himself. Dates, places. Mixed into the arhythmic stream, getting louder by the minute. ] I didn't want to. I didn't want to, they know that.
[ A pause, then he's turning, shouting at anybody who'd listening: ] WASN'T IF I HAD ANY CHOICE ON THE MATTER, HAD I?
He's muttering things to himself. Dates, places. Mixed into the arhythmic stream, getting louder by the minute. ] I didn't want to. I didn't want to, they know that.
[ A pause, then he's turning, shouting at anybody who'd listening: ] WASN'T IF I HAD ANY CHOICE ON THE MATTER, HAD I?
[ Gene's voice, when he puts his mind to that sort of thing, can fill up a room easy-peasy. It's not a bad trait, really, but one that can draw more attention, from time to time, than is necessarily warranted.
Almost immediately, Nellie is tugging at his jacket, one arm awkwardly across his shoulders (he's too tall for the gesture to be natural) as she turns him back toward her as opposed to the room at large. ]
Gene.
Almost immediately, Nellie is tugging at his jacket, one arm awkwardly across his shoulders (he's too tall for the gesture to be natural) as she turns him back toward her as opposed to the room at large. ]
Gene.
[ He lifts his eyebrows mildly. The language is overdrawn, overblown and melodramatic — typical, he's come to discover, when it comes to girls Grace's age. In some small part it's reassuring to know she's capable of such adolescent outbursts; the rest, however, is exasperation.
Exasperation mixed with a soft plea of be patient; please. ]
Just so long's you won't be needin' company.
[ He jokes, he jokes. ]
Exasperation mixed with a soft plea of be patient; please. ]
Just so long's you won't be needin' company.
[ He jokes, he jokes. ]
[ She likes the way his face works. It's a dumb way of putting it (she's never been one for that kind of phrasing) but it's the easiest. She likes the way he smiles, likes the way she can read the lines of his face, likes how familiar his features have become since the first time he'd stepped foot into the brownstone she calls a home. (It's maudlin and foolish, but she thinks, maybe, that that's a good thing.)
Still, she lets out a huff, rolling over onto her stomach and tucking her arms folded underneath her, though her face remains turned away from the mattress. ]
Benedict Arnold, [ she tells him, though her voice, much the same as his, carries no true ill sentiment. Just a sort of fondness. ]
Still, she lets out a huff, rolling over onto her stomach and tucking her arms folded underneath her, though her face remains turned away from the mattress. ]
Benedict Arnold, [ she tells him, though her voice, much the same as his, carries no true ill sentiment. Just a sort of fondness. ]
[ Her back hurts and her muscles ache. And not just any ache, but a deep settled one; one that burns through every cord of muscle and every length of bone. But, to her credit, she suffers none of it. Like a campfire that burns against winter or the bitter cold of night, Alayne is filled with life-giving warmth by every singing nerve and stretch of sinew.
The night has been unkind to her. Her face is pale and her brow damp. ]
Words too harsh for such a gift.
[ And it is a gift that burns inside her. An undying ember. ]
The night has been unkind to her. Her face is pale and her brow damp. ]
Words too harsh for such a gift.
[ And it is a gift that burns inside her. An undying ember. ]
[ The night has been unkind but Petyr is anything but, seated by her side with a cloth in his hand and warmth flowing through every sinew of him. The very best of him brought forth by a small miracle, given life with a life, in turn. Though their tales run parallel he knows this is not a burden he will ever bear, so he makes it his duty to stay at her side for the duration. ]
I fear there will never be words soft enough.
I fear there will never be words soft enough.
[ She's a butterfly made of sheet music opening and closing its wings slowly as it sits in the seat of her palm. Sylvia prods at it curiously and it dissolves into a dragonfly which takes her finger as a perch instead. Much better.
Distractedly: ] I read a story like that once. The most awful ending.
Distractedly: ] I read a story like that once. The most awful ending.
[ Since his own mishap with her paper creatures, Isak has been cautious around them, keeping his distance if possible though he doesn't shy away. He doesn't try to come close now, either, instead staying by the door as is his wont. ]
Sorry.
[ A beat. ]
Didn't mean to remind you of it.
Sorry.
[ A beat. ]
Didn't mean to remind you of it.
[ It's not an idea that Sansa readily understands, if only because she's had very little in her life. A symptom of a brief existence spent upon the Estate, there is nothing she's owned that was not a trinket or a bauble or a book (she has no concept of true ownership, like responsibility, like love; the headmaster claims it is better that way).
Frowning, she rereads the sentence before turning the page. (The book itself is a gift, one of many given to her by Mr. Baelish since coming to live in the attic.) Sansa murmurs to herself as her blue eyes skim the page and settles herself more fully into the high wingbacked chair in which she sits. ] How very strange.
Frowning, she rereads the sentence before turning the page. (The book itself is a gift, one of many given to her by Mr. Baelish since coming to live in the attic.) Sansa murmurs to herself as her blue eyes skim the page and settles herself more fully into the high wingbacked chair in which she sits. ] How very strange.
[ He glances up from his armchair as soon as she speaks, a makeshift desk laid across the arms as he goes through a few papers brought down from the school, glasses perched precariously on the bridge of his nose. They don't always speak but he makes a point to listen when she does. ]
— Sorry?
— Sorry?
[ Sansa makes a face at her uncle from the opposite side of the kitchen table, over the top of her magazine. Bran is in the other room, playing a video game, which means the both of them have to behave. Still, her long leg extends underneath the table, the arch of her barefoot curled over the top of one of Uncle Petyr's shoes, tapping to an absent rhythm. ]
What're you even talking about?
What're you even talking about?
[ She doesn't dignify the statement with a response, though her the corner of her mouth twitches visibly, marring the otherwise motionless landscape of her countenance. Where other people had faces, had eyes that played windows to the soul, Ruth had a mask with eyes as lovely but as ungiving as carve marble. Beautiful but inert and unresponsive, save when she hoped to glean something from someone (save when it involved her baby brother Saul).
Everyone knows that she wasn't the one who burnt everything down. No, Ruth's greatest crime (her only crime) was having a brother who lacked courtesy enough to die. Her crime was loving him, but not to death.
It did nothing but make them both weaker in the end. ]
Everyone knows that she wasn't the one who burnt everything down. No, Ruth's greatest crime (her only crime) was having a brother who lacked courtesy enough to die. Her crime was loving him, but not to death.
It did nothing but make them both weaker in the end. ]
Nothing t' say?
[ Saul, on the other hand, seems nothing if not hapless, allowing himself a quick smile and a shrug of one shoulder.
It's been two months since his last visit. Two more months on the road and two months more that he hasn't been caught. Coming to visit her is unwise, he knows — even if she won't turn him in, there are eyes and ears everywhere — but the simple fact of the matter is that, even if it isn't technically true, they can't live without each other.
And yes, if makes them weaker in the end, but it makes them strong, too. How many others can lay claim to a love like that? ]
[ Saul, on the other hand, seems nothing if not hapless, allowing himself a quick smile and a shrug of one shoulder.
It's been two months since his last visit. Two more months on the road and two months more that he hasn't been caught. Coming to visit her is unwise, he knows — even if she won't turn him in, there are eyes and ears everywhere — but the simple fact of the matter is that, even if it isn't technically true, they can't live without each other.
And yes, if makes them weaker in the end, but it makes them strong, too. How many others can lay claim to a love like that? ]
[ Grow up in a family like the Rossis and you learn not to take shit from anyone.
In a lot of ways, it's what makes Gem's current position so odd. There's nothing like upward mobility, there's no insurance of any kind, and no immediate benefits to speak of, save being able to nuke the powers of any supernatural who should care to come too close (something she wouldn't have to deal with in the first place had she not taken this job). And she hasn't forgotten the shitstorm that went down with Belial's attempted coup, either. But still, she stays on, because as clever as Flauros is, his purview has thus far failed to keep him in most good books, and Evelyn, though a pretty little thing, hasn't quite cottoned on yet. Besides, it's easy to stay above the water as well as unattached, on a gig like this.
Absently: ] It can't have been that bad.
In a lot of ways, it's what makes Gem's current position so odd. There's nothing like upward mobility, there's no insurance of any kind, and no immediate benefits to speak of, save being able to nuke the powers of any supernatural who should care to come too close (something she wouldn't have to deal with in the first place had she not taken this job). And she hasn't forgotten the shitstorm that went down with Belial's attempted coup, either. But still, she stays on, because as clever as Flauros is, his purview has thus far failed to keep him in most good books, and Evelyn, though a pretty little thing, hasn't quite cottoned on yet. Besides, it's easy to stay above the water as well as unattached, on a gig like this.
Absently: ] It can't have been that bad.
[ They say every man is an island. And that right there, that little bit of pity existentialism — that's Gem Rossi in a nutshell. That's Flauros' girl. Not that babysitting one of Hell's most ignoble lords qualifies as 'island' territory, but Flauros is a free agent in a world full of sides and there's nothing, absolutely nothing that the other dukes of hell and heavenly host can do to touch any of them because of Flauros' beat.
So it's with an air of ancient nonchalance that he huffs out a laugh, whistles drawn out and slow. ] You've met the family, right?
[ Grow up in a family like the Rossis and you learn not to take shit from anyone. In that respect, they're not that different. Growing pains, family ties. Fucking expectation. ] Not exactly the Hallmark crowd.
So it's with an air of ancient nonchalance that he huffs out a laugh, whistles drawn out and slow. ] You've met the family, right?
[ Grow up in a family like the Rossis and you learn not to take shit from anyone. In that respect, they're not that different. Growing pains, family ties. Fucking expectation. ] Not exactly the Hallmark crowd.
Edited 2012-08-16 20:21 (UTC)
[ It looks like he's come out on the rough end of a fight. There's a cut upon his right brow and a bruise blooming next to it, not to mention a new assortment of badges on every inch of visible skin. Still, no matter what the physical beating, he doesn't look beaten back in any other respect, a cigarette between his lips and the crack in his lip blossoming with new blood.
As he blows out a thin stream of smoke: ]
Sounds like a start.
As he blows out a thin stream of smoke: ]
Sounds like a start.
[ D. Remie's not a terribly demonstrative person by nature. She's capable of it, sure, on the occasions when she needs to be (presenting an abstract, winning her way past a velvet rope, making a new contact that promises to be a step stone to new and different places) but it's never something that happens by default. It turns on and turns off, like a switch inside her that she's generally loathe to flip, but which exists nevertheless.
As a result, her expression gives very little up, her mouth flatting out to something almost aggressively neutral. Sometimes she thinks that's exactly what she did: burn down her life, give up every thing. All to come here, to this shit town of a city, to follow a man around with her camera. (A man who'd rather see her gone on most days, if only to stop her from staring.)
She doesn't look up from her camera as she loads another roll of black and white into the back. Her tone is noncommittal. ]
You win some, you lose some. [ The back of her camera snaps shut and then she's winding and shooting her way to the red "1" on the display dial. ] How's that for pithy.
As a result, her expression gives very little up, her mouth flatting out to something almost aggressively neutral. Sometimes she thinks that's exactly what she did: burn down her life, give up every thing. All to come here, to this shit town of a city, to follow a man around with her camera. (A man who'd rather see her gone on most days, if only to stop her from staring.)
She doesn't look up from her camera as she loads another roll of black and white into the back. Her tone is noncommittal. ]
You win some, you lose some. [ The back of her camera snaps shut and then she's winding and shooting her way to the red "1" on the display dial. ] How's that for pithy.
Edited 2012-08-24 05:20 (UTC)
[ It's mostly Terry's initiative that sees Remie permitted to follow the Carcetti campaign. It'll look good, she says. A leg to stand on when it comes to convincing people he cares about education or the arts, or the young in general. Of course, what they get isn't quite what they were expecting. (Not that that's always a bad thing, but she's hardly the kind of person they want attached to his entourage. Photographer, fine. Punk, not quite. Baltimore's hardly the right place for that.)
Where she's on one extreme when it comes to being obvious, Tommy Carcetti, aspiring mayoral candidate, lies at least on the other side of the divide. On screen and in a chair, sure, he does fine, but the fact that he also possesses a petulant streak and enough patience just to balance on the head of a pin isn't the sort of thing that's terribly hard to divine. (That, and the fact that he tends to waver from the campaign trail if a pretty face proves too enticing, but luckily there haven't been any moments like that to put into the old scrapbook, at least just yet.)
As if to prove the point, he rolls his eyes, leaning his head back over the crest of his chair. Campaign headquarters are set up pretty nicely, all things told (the office they sit in doesn't filter in too much of the noise on the other side of the door), but it's still no suite at the Hilton. (He's not in a great mood. There's no use in being upset over having done a little double-dealing in a career like this, but that doesn't mean he won't allow himself a little time to grieve.) ]
Is that what we hired you for? [ She wasn't hired. He doesn't care. ] Wisecracking?
Where she's on one extreme when it comes to being obvious, Tommy Carcetti, aspiring mayoral candidate, lies at least on the other side of the divide. On screen and in a chair, sure, he does fine, but the fact that he also possesses a petulant streak and enough patience just to balance on the head of a pin isn't the sort of thing that's terribly hard to divine. (That, and the fact that he tends to waver from the campaign trail if a pretty face proves too enticing, but luckily there haven't been any moments like that to put into the old scrapbook, at least just yet.)
As if to prove the point, he rolls his eyes, leaning his head back over the crest of his chair. Campaign headquarters are set up pretty nicely, all things told (the office they sit in doesn't filter in too much of the noise on the other side of the door), but it's still no suite at the Hilton. (He's not in a great mood. There's no use in being upset over having done a little double-dealing in a career like this, but that doesn't mean he won't allow himself a little time to grieve.) ]
Is that what we hired you for? [ She wasn't hired. He doesn't care. ] Wisecracking?
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