Logs:Speak of the Dead
| Speak of the Dead | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | 2021-10-07 "What do you think you'd want people to know?" |
| Location | |
October. What month makes us think of death more? The smell of decay of the autumn leaves, the ghouls and monsters that feed on the living, ghosts of the past that linger on far past their time of expiration. As it approached, the anniversary of Dawson Allred's violent passing hung heavy on the hearts and minds of the people of Riverdale, a story understood but left loudly unspoken. Times like this bring out the creatures that plans their hunts in the night, as well as the people who are inexplicably drawn to them. Winona had suggested the location to work at for dual purposes, with one being the history of the 19th century former country estate of the wealthy real estate mogul Major Brodie Henderson, and also practical concerns like the luxurious furniture, relative privacy and very historically important booze collection that his descendants had collected there. Winona has been taking notes on her slim notebook computer, collecting any information that she can that might be relevant to the upcoming raid, and periodically checking in with her partner to see if there might be anything she can help with, but now she is rubbing her face as she tries to wipe away the weariness that is starting to set in. Dusk is perched nearby on the arm of one of those Very Luxurious couches. In the elegant settings with wings (their velvet nap a rich crimson shade on the insides, the rest of the supple skin a deep black) draped round his shoulders he's looking more vampiric than ever. His current pallor likely doesn't hurt either, nor his black-on-black attire. He's been buried for a time behind the screen of his laptop but surfaces when he reaches for his glass (a fancy squat crystal thing that until recently was full of very good brandy) and finds it empty. "Hrgh." His wings unfurl slightly behind him, not quite enough for a stretch though they give a small shake. "We really should get these people's fucking -- Drizly accounts before we evict them. GrubHub. Live large." He looks around their posh surroundings before amending, "larger. You need a break? You look like you need a break." Winona pauses in her face rubbing and peers between her fingers at Dusk, her swept rainbow hair partially obscuring her face further. "Yeah," she lowers her hands and pushes the cover of her notebook down so that it is not quite closed, but the glow of the screen is no longer on her face. She bites her lip lightly, "Under the right circumstances I could deduce a credit card at least." She picks up her own crystal glass, which hosts a shallow splash of scotch. "Should probably get some calories--" she pauses after her sip, her strained face betraying her relative inexperience with the liquor, "that are not in liquid form." Her eyes rest on Dusk again for some moments to admire his vampiric appearance and then the greater setting. She pats one of the pockets on her canvas olive green jacket, "And in a place like this, pocket granola bars don't seem like the most appropriate meal." Dusk's smile hooks a little crooked, a little wider, fangs briefly glinting in the light off his laptop screen. "Not liquid. Right. Wellllll... lotta delivery people mysteriously won't take orders here anymore but I do have a credit card and can try to rustle up -- something. More -- solid than --" He's lifting his own glass, squinting through its now-empty crystal sides. "What is appropriate for this kind of place at a time like this? Something with ambiance to it, I feel like. Definitely couldn't eat it out of a styrofoam clamshell, whatever it is." Winona's cheeks and ears redden a little when she receives a reminder of Dusk's fangs, and she toys with a few strands of her hair awkwardly as she recovers from her possible faux pas. "I dunno what people like the ones who lived here usually eat... probably richer than every meal I've ever eaten combined, like steak from near extinct animals covered in, um, gold flakes, caviar or whatever rich people eat." She removes her laptop from her lap and rests it gently on the floor next to her seat, "Steak would be pretty atmospheric, though, could put it on some of the china I saw. But I'd settle for a burger or whatever." Dusk is flicking through his phone now with a small thoughtful purse of lips. One brow quirks, his head shaking. "I don't see any panda burgers on this list or anything but this place says it's got, uh, dry-aged steak? Is that fancier?" He's looking up at Winona with a curious lift of brows. "You could probably see what kind of fancy-ass banquets these people used to have but I'd be creeped out, they probably hunted mutants Most Dangerous Game style." "I'm pretty sure--" Winona pauses, reconsidering. "I'd guess that dry-aged steak is fancier than regular steak? I dunno. My specialty is ghosts, cryptids, that sort of thing. These cake eaters are a whole other kind of beast." She purses her lips and meets Dusk's gaze, "I already know this place has a pretty bloody history, though I bet the same's true of other places like it. Based on the kind of bloody stuff the Major got up to, wouldn't be surprised if they practiced that kind of sport hunting. At least that makes it so I don't feel the least bit bad about borrowing their collection." She raises her glass Dusk-ward and takes another small drink. "Fantastic, steak it is. Fingers crossed for a courier who hasn't heard of us yet. How do you tell cryptid sightings from just -- us, anyway? I mean --" Dusk's wings ripple, pointedly. "If someone said they saw a gargoyle come to life and stalk the city I'd just be like oh hey my girlfriend does that. Uh -- you want -- escargot? Mussels? Real fancy steak fries but in french? Here," he's handing his phone over to Winona with the Exceptionally Swanky french restaurant menu pulled up. "Shit," he sounds just a little bitter, "what part of this land doesn't have a bloody history? There's shit I used to feel bad about that --" His teeth click together as he bites his words back, head shaking slowly. "Just feel like you could ghost up a lot of horror under most any rock around here." Winona takes the phone when it is handed to her, and scrunches her brow. She mumbles, "I don't know what half this stuff is..." Distractedly, she continues as she scrolls around, "I'd guess some cryptids are mutants, or were mutants. But they're not really cryptids anymore once you've got the true explanation. If you only heard about your girlfriend from stories people are telling, but there's not really anything to show for those stories, then maybe she'd be a cryptid. But I hope she doesn't ghost you that hard." She taps on one of the choices, recognizing at least what filet mignon is and knowing it is french sounding enough to be an appropriate choice of main course. "Lots of cryptids are pretty much like. Animals. Like, the Loch Ness monster, Ogopogo, the Snallygaster, Olgoi-Khorkhoi... but yeah, there is also a whole genre of cryptids that are basically just really hairy people. Could just be a well-travelled long-lived teleporter with a thick pelt." She hands the phone back to Dusk, she starts to think about the non-cryptid statement. A low chuckle escapes her lips, similarly bitter, "Yeah. America's a whole murderous project, and looking back just makes it sink in more. But I want to learn history that's not written by genocidal pieces of shit." Dusk places the order and almost immediately starts googling Olgoi-Khorkoi, scrolling through the Dune-like images that come up curiously. Equally curious: "... you gonna write some?" "I'd like to be a documentarian." Winona's cheeks become flushed. "That's why I've been going to film school. I did-- I do a lot of writing, too, some stories are important to tell." Her expression darkens a little, "That's part of why I'm fascinated by ghosts. The dead deserve to speak for themselves." Dusk falls quiet, or close enough, a soft growl rumbling in his throat. He looks back to his laptop screen and the reams of data pulled up there -- looks back away with a sharp flick of his dark eyes. "Fuck." This comes out softly, just under his breath. He lifts a hand, scrubbing his palm hard against his eyes. "Not so many people want to hear them. You die, everybody's got some shit to impose on your -- fucking -- memory." The soft growl has continued underneath his words. His wings pull in tightly against his back. "What do you think you'd want people to know? If you died tomorrow, how your story should get told." Winona's gaze turns towards the floor, not focused on any particular spot, and she begins chewing on her lip when she register's Dusk's soft growling. "Our memory of them is important too, but-- Yeah. The listening is as important as the telling." Her chewing stops, and her jaw tenses up at the latter question. "Not sure I'm prepared to eulogize myself today. If I died tomorrow, I'd want people to know I shouldn't've. I still have lots to learn, and someday to teach. How much I love my friends, my family. That I lost my skating skills, but I was working on getting them back." Her knee starts bounce, and she looks aside, a wet shine in her eyes. "I want them to know I'm angry. There's people I'll never forgive. And maybe that's not real kind on my part, but I want my memory to haunt them forever and my name to be a burn that never stops hurting." She takes a deep, long, shuddering breath. Her voice is a very forced casual when she looks back to Dusk and says, "And you?" Dusk's eyes fix on Winona steadily as she speaks; his growling lowers but doesn't taper off entirely, his wings very still and very tight at his back. His head dips once, steady and serious, at the end of her words, like committing them to memory. He looks back to his laptop screen, the low rumbling in his chest cutting off. His eyes fix for a long while on the charts of Prometheus data, and -- just as forced in his casual, he stretches out a wing, deliberately shutting the lid of the computer. "I'm not dying tomorrow." | |
