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PIC PROMPTS / TFLN / RANDOM SCENARIO
HAN SOLO velocities	BETTY MCRAE bombsheller	RIVER TAM subsulcus	RIVER TAM (AU) comprehender
SIMON TAM vest	BRIA THAREN exulted	NADINE CROSS bridaled	GU JUN-PYO toddler
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Don Alonzo's second. That puts Duke and the rest of Edward's childer firmly on the backburner, for the moment. They had been risky options, anyway: getting a Childe to betray one's sire took both talent and time, neither of which Ouija feels confident in having here. There is some potential for other throne-hungry hopefuls; where Ouija wants for time, Edward wants for charisma. They cannot be the only individual who finds him ill suited for his position.

As usual Birdie is Ouija's canary in the coal mine. How uneasy? Ish. But the energy is different, and more palatable. More akin to a predator surprised than threatened, Ouija reasons to themself.

"Worms." Michelle repeats, letting amusement creep through the underbrush of her voice. No voice to rival a Daughter's, but a low and pleasing one in its own right. "All right."

"We know how to live it up in Vegas." Ouija calls back absently, entering the store and giving the cashier a merry little greeting, "Getting worms, going fishing, getting drunk."

"Isn't Vegas in a desert?" Michelle queries... either of them, on the possibility of fishing.

"You fish in the fountains at the front of the Visage hotel." Ouija explains patiently, picking up a small cardboard container of worms and dirt, "Maybe I'll show you sometime."

Michelle is quiet for a moment, assessing this answer, not sure whether to write Ouija off as a complete fool, or an incomplete one. It's probably dangerous to do either. She looks to Birdie, mulling it over, notices the snake in her pocket, and starts to point to it before realizing there's no way Birdie doesn't know it's there and probably the cashier shouldn't have to be about that weird customer life.

Canary in a coal mine or cat startled by a cucumber?

Not that Michelle is a cucumber. She's incredibly capable, and potentially a threat, but she's never had the same animosity and tension with Birdie as the other higher ups that happen to be of Edward's musical brood. Don Alonzo does a lot for Denver, and he and his Childer don't typically concern themselves with her, which is kind of a relief given how meticulously concerned Edward makes himself.

Birdie follows behind Ouija, trying to not feel too much like an idiot for whatever display that was outside as the banter continues around her.

She does notice Michelle notice the snake and, in turn, opt to not call it out. Her smile, now, is absolutely genuine, but she doesn't move to make more of a scene than they... are already definitely making.

"I'm of the understanding that the Visage has a really good selection of catfish," is Birdie's joking addition to this absolute nonsense. If she's the canary, that's the signal the air is relatively clear.

Michelle follows them through the store, amused despite herself. How this is a Keeper and a Primogen, she doesn't know, but from what Don Alonzo has told her it could be much worse. Or weirder. "Unfortunately, I don't eat catfish."

Birdie has positioned herself in an aisle so that the cashier, who is certainly wondering why he agreed to work at this place, can't see her as she does her best to gently nudge the little snake back into her pocket.

"Catch and release. Did you want to come with us?"

A veiled question -- mostly because having a conversation out in the open might be fine, but Roger might pop up from behind a cardboard display of rubber boots and then they're all well and truly fucked.

There are plenty of likeable qualities to Birdie, and really one of them is her odd, dreamy aspect. It's nice to be around, when things aren't stressful, which, in fairness, has been a lot. And if her comment about her sire being in torpor and held prisoner is even remotely as bad as that, then it's easy to see why she might be jumping at cucumbers. Or even their shadows.

At the catfish crack, Ouija snorts quietly, appreciating it, and digging out the money to pay for the worms. "Please recycle the container," Ouija tells the cashier, noticing that there's an entire warm tank behind the counter full of worms and dirt, and this is one of those more Mom & Pop places that probably feels the pinch even of buying extra little things like that. They buy a cup intended for the soda machine and pick some of the worms out of the container instead, and then offer the cup to Birdie. She should have the honor, really.

"Yes, let's look at Michelle's car in better depth." Ouija agrees cheerfully, and when they're away from the shop and back out in the cold night air, "I have always liked Lasombra. Unlike the Tremere, I don't need to pretend I have no dealings with you, so you don't accuse me of stealing your secrets. So is Don Alonzo also tired of the blues? A snake could really get to work with that."

Funny that she jumps at cucumbers and shadows, then, but takes the cup of worms with a subdued delight and coaxes the snake back out of the top of her pocket once they're outside.

Birdie trails a little behind them as Michelle heads for her car, murmuring a nearly inaudible nonsense tune at the snake as if that will shield her from the conversation and reassure her that, yes, soon there will be worms.

"You know, I've never worked with a snake before. You might want to worry about stealing my patience more than my secrets." Michelle's humor is as dry as a bone, and she beeps the car open. Her expression, while amused, definitely communicates that Ouija is not making the best impression. Which... Well, it doesn't seem they'll care either way. She slides into the driver's seat and Birdie into the backseat, holding the cup of worms primly as the snake coils around her hand again.

"And what Don Alonzo is and is not tired of, I'm not at liberty to say. Though personally, I'm over the scene entirely." Ah, the Kindred fallback of innuendo and doublespeak, with a quick offer of, "No offense," back at Birdie, who waves the concern away with her snake-hand, one worm halfway down the little darling's gullet.

"He wanted to approach you with a proposition, depending on what your plans are for your stay in Denver."

This sweetheart. Ouija watches her without words, the way she sings a bit to the snake, in a momentary absentminded way. It's not quite Toreador thrall - that comes for Ouija only by way of their own special interest, which is forgeries, imitations, the shadows of truth inside lies, and how the careless eye can best be fooled. But they can, as kindred, (and just as humans could), appreciate and be held rapt by anything lovely. That includes the way she treats the little creature with such gentleness and affection.

Stealing my patience makes Ouija's lips twitch into an almost-disciplined smile, "You're not the first, and you won't be the last, honored Michelle. But I am often worth the sacrifice of a little patience... or so they tell me in the end."

They probably don't say that at first. Ever.

A proposition. That was interesting, for more reasons than one. This could have been done at the Broadstreet, or if that was too short a time to get Ouija's measure, then at their own lodging. And if that was unsafe, it was likely because Don Alonzo wanted a near-to-zero percent chance that Prince Edward would somehow learn of this. Which made it extremely valuable, potentially, for Ouija's own ends.

Silly politicking, or win/win situations? Either. Both.

"I am here for a fortnight at the outside. I intend to leave, if they will it, with more company than I brought with me. If you repeat that, I'll deny it, of course." This was daring, but trust needed to be won with trust given. Otherwise, circles upon circles of feinting and false assumptions. "If your Sire would like to enlist my help with some matter that would further my goal - or even if it is some extracurricular! - I'd be only too happy to hear him out for nothing."

Birdie, for her part, deeply enjoys the affection. She always has -- touch is a very easy way to connect, after all. The appeal of the snake is multifaceted, too. It isn't often, on one hand, for little creatures to come up and play with the dead so free of fear. Even rarer, in Denver, for her to be trusted with even her own schedule, let alone something living, on the other hand. Or to move and show affection without it, somehow, being used against her. She treats the snake sweetly, most of all, because Ouija is the one that has trusted her with it.

So she sits in the backseat of the car, feeding her worms one by one, and listening intently to the conversation, and her eyes go a bit wide at more company than I brought with me. Otherwise, she is still as Michelle backs out of the parking lot and moves to meander around the neighborhood a bit.

"Yeah, I expected as much. And nothing said inside this vehicle will need to be repeated, will it?" Michelle glances at Birdie in the rear-view mirror but doesn't wait for a response from either of them. "My Sire has no issue with any... Additional parties you take with you back to Vegas. He would just like the both of you to do a few things for him before you go."

They're making nothing but right turns, ambling, a little conspiracy rolling down the road. No other cars are following.

"He has already taken the liberty of providing some distractions for you this evening as a show of goodwill. All he asks is that you," she gestures at Ouija, "provide a suitable distraction later on, the nature of which you can discuss with him directly tomorrow night during Birdie's show."

From the backseat, quiet: "And what does he need from me?"

At that, Michelle actually laughs. Amused, kind of. Dark and ironic, mostly. "For tomorrow, at least, don't do what you usually do. Don Alonzo prefers to have discussions with a clear head."

Easy to forget exactly how deprived Kindred life could be, when one had found a niche one was comfortable with inside it. How difficult it could be when animals might panic at one's scent or unfamiliar manner, how easily one might become touch-starved when one's peers were predators all, and how the simplest of kind gestures becomes invaluable in the onslaught of cynicism and despair that is... well, social interaction.

People are people, pointy toothed or otherwise.

"Oh no, I can keep a secret." Ouija assures her, declining to look in the rear view mirror - unlike Birdie's, this one is tilted at an angle favorable and they have no wish to see themself. Ever, ideally. But definitely in front of strangers. Looking at other things in a mirror is fine.

"--I'll have to miss Birdie's show." Ouija repeats 'Birdie' with some mild approval, "But that sounds like a worthy cause."

Ouija glance back at Birdie proper, giving her a tsking sort of appraisal, "Is that how this fool has kept his domain so long? Add to the many reasons he has for running this place as he does."

They look back at Michelle with interest. Perhaps wisely, perhaps just from good luck, uncommon to Ouija, they do not mention anything about Birdie's sire, or their plans to help her, or anything of that nature. Let Michelle think even that it might be some crush, or covetousness of Birdie as a person; let her think what she liked. Ouija didn't buy the clan rumor that Lasombra were de facto sociopaths, though some might have been, perhaps even a disproportionate amount, if they selected for that sort of thing from their human population. But if she was, if she thought Ouija was here only for malicious reasons...

It might actually help. Sometimes a malicious reason could be trusted further than a softhearted one to execute itself as anticipated.

"I assume it is a coup of sorts. A bloodless one. Even the Prince should have no objection to that. He does so hate bloodshed, from what I can see." Ouija adds, bluntly.

Isolation, as true an eternal companion for them as the Beast and hunger.

And, for now, this snake. Who seems to be very happy with her lot in life, being hand fed worms by a pretty dead lady without a single concern in her little snake head.

Birdie smiles when Ouija looks back at her. Small, hopeful maybe. That glimmer of a light at the end of the tunnel. She's tempted, but doesn't say anything about how there will be other shows. That she'll do another private concert whenever they ask. A small favor, since there's no boon in all of this, and one she's happy to owe for as long as Ouija asks it.

It's Michelle, though, that answers the question.

"Edward has kept his power since 1924 when the agreement to rule as a council was established," she says, wanting to be sure she is clarifying everyone's place in this scheme, "because everyone had seen the benefit of doing so. His recent fixations are... Only tangentially related."

Another right turn, back toward the bait shop.

"Things change."

Enigmatic elucidation at its finest.

In the backseat Birdie pets the snake around her hand, draws herself taught as a guitar string but not ready to snap -- something steely and tuned, instead. All of this is risk, and while it benefits Ouija to seem as elusive in their motives as possible, Birdie prefers clarity of tone for her own.

"I can do that, for tomorrow night and any other night he'd like me to. I hope that if I go, whenever this is over, Don Alonzo would be kind enough to help me locate my own Sire."

Michelle tenses, slightly, the smallest fraction of a tell in the dark. Not many know the full story of what happened with Lorelai, but those in this inner circle of the court know: Birdie's Sire came, she went mad somehow, she broke the Masquerade, and Edward is the one that put her into torpor. There are nuances and angles to it, of course. Opinions. Not everyone agreed Lorelai shouldn't meet the Final Death for the infraction but had little argument when the threat was neutralized so efficiently. Most of the rest of Denver just assume Lorelai is already dead.

Better, too, that she bring it up instead of Ouija. Let Michelle think they have no idea about how complicated this is, compared to simply stealing away a fascinating friend for themselves. And, in some measure, better to put her own skin in this game of liberation instead of making Ouija responsible for every play.

"And please," she keeps her tone pleasant now, a major chord, "remind him that I know more than lullabies, even though I choose not to sing them."

A threat, though it's sweetly said and could be considered an offer, too, if that's how they want to take it. There are a lot of feelings in the world, even in the dark. Calm and quiet, yes, but rage and fear, too. Both Don Alonzo and Michelle have been around Birdie long enough to know that the reason she hasn't done this already is the same reason she came to stay in Denver to begin with. No fighting, no blood in the streets -- but if they keep Lorelai from her, or if Don Alonzo manages this coup and decides to give out retroactive judgement, Birdie will make herself a problem.

Michelle, somehow, did not expect that from the little songbird that keeps everyone at the Broadstreet so serene. Certainly didn't expect it from Birdie before Ouija, this unknown Setite element sitting next to her and plotting with a dry wit that seems about to break the skin. But she nods approvingly. She can appreciate dedication to one's Sire.

"Of course. A bloodless coup would be ideal. Well, as bloodless as we get, anyway."

Wary of plotting ahead too quickly, Ouija is nevertheless already thinking ahead to how Birdie might like Vegas, the look on Edward's face, meeting her sire... any number of fun and interesting diversions. That's the stuff that they've been cautioned not to pay attention to, to keep their eyes on the prize. Setites have an amazing amount of discipline drilled into them when initiated, that they might lose sight or track of what they want to accomplish if they pay too much attention to what they want, full stop.

"You know I wouldn't miss it, without a good reason." Ouija adds, to her smile, and then looks back at Michelle, gently, "A Toreador in control of anything has no benefit. Some of my companions in the Camarilla of Europe insist that the Malkavian Princes are the cause of recent destabilizations, but if you know enough to construct a map of who rules what domains, it tells its own story."

Ouija looks out the window, then frowns and redirects their gaze, restless. They want to destroy him, but more, they want him to apologize, to acknowledge his failings. That won't happen, not even if Ouija had all the time and torture devices in the world.

Then Birdie steps up in a major way and Ouija does the verbal equivalent of a record scratch, listening between them mutely. This is a side of Birdie they haven't seen before but nevertheless was told existed, and they have a moment grappling in sheer delight at the hidden danger. That's excellent. That's the kind of thing that keeps them feeling excited, and alive.

"You would know better than me whether it is advantageous to kill or merely collar the Prince." Ouija adds, recovering with only a bit of stumble. "Whether his Childer would react badly, or seek only to fill the void he would leave. I'm... flexible."

Birdie lacks the discipline the Setites work so hard for. She's thought, already, of Vegas, and meeting the other Followers. Of the lights and of leaving. The many different ways she could go, of the ways she could make Edward despair on her last night in town. It was always easier, for her, to imagine the goal than to find the path that gets there. It's what made turning her ambition into a career so difficult. It's how she gets into situations like this, and makes plans without discipline unattainable hopes.

The resulting frustration from unfulfilled plans is how she gets so sour, like prison wine.

Michelle's car pulls in again to the bait shop parking lot, right next to Birdie's waiting car.

"His Childer, and how they feel about the change in the landscape, will only be a concern after you've gone." Michelle unlocks the doors, and considers that Ouija is very correct in their assessment of Toreador rulers. She certainly hasn't seen them in a favorable light. "Unless you want to make it your concern. And in that case, you can go over it with Don Alonzo tomorrow."

She takes a moment to look at the both of them in turn, cool and stony. "Thank you for your time, and please," she smiles, small but amused as she glances at the cup of worms still in Birdie's hand, "enjoy the rest of your evening."

Scheming goes well enough. There are excuses, and frustration, and, you know... Snake custody.

Don Alonzo wants the city, and Birdie is fine to let him have it. Getting it will be the problem, but things are already in motion. The appearance of a Setite Primogen from another Camarilla court was an opportunity he would be a fool to pass up, a distraction for Edward to mull over while his shadows worked setting dominoes into place.

And so it goes, to Wednesday and a very disappointing concert at the Broadstreet.

They're at her home after. Birdie figures, on some level and with growing hope, this will be one of the last scant chances to have Ouija over to see it before she leaves it behind.

"You know," she says as she unlocks the front door and ushers them inside and out of the cold that's starting to lean toward snow, "I think I got used to how bad it is? Just from the constant exposure."

'Kindred plan, Set decides' is one of those old axioms that isn't quite true but levels enough with the idea that one can have a magnificent scheme and it will bear up like a two layer cake-box holding a five layer cake. It's possible. It's a risk. The only way to make no enemies is to do nothing, so Ouija's out there every day trying to make the best quality enemies quickly, before anyone can decide for them.

"I have a spiritual headache." Ouija remarks, half-stalking into the front and stopping, judiciously, to take off their shoes. Even if it's not snowing yet, it's not polite to track in all and sundry. "I assume you mean the concert and not the general court of Denver."

They frown at nothing, hanging up their coat. "You have a beautiful home. It'll be a shame to leave it... I can help you bring anything irreplaceable to you, that's partly why I brought so little down with me."

They pause and wait for her, glancing back surprisingly soulfully at her. "I don't know if Vegas will feel like home, and if you move on, I'll help you do that, but you deserve better than this."

The real hell of it, the icing on the cake, is that doing nothing also nets no friends. At least not anything but fair weather friends that run at the first sign of discomfort or trouble. Or maybe that's just the effect Denver has had.

Inside, the house is warm and lowly lit with a couple lamps in the living room. It looks less lived in than this one entrance corner implies, full of mess and coats and shoes. It's to her taste, furniture plush and dark, records stacked in a corner, but there's nothing on the walls. This part of the house, at least, is a little like a squatter in a model home. Birdie is kicking off her own shoes once the door is closed and locked, shucking her coat carefully around the snake wrapped around her wrist to toss on the nearby chair. That they use the coat rack is sweet, though, and gets a smile.

"Little bit of both, if you want me to be honest," she says, sounding tired in the only way kindred can really be. "If you don't want me to be honest I'd tell you they're ready for one of those talent shows."

The joke isn't as cutting as she wants it to be, but then Ouija is turning to look at her like that, make offers kinder than any she's heard in years, and it pins her more surely than anything else.

"Nowhere feels like home," is her honest, quiet confession. Then she reaches out her free hand to them, "Come on, I'll show you my favorite part of this place. Anything I'll want to take is down in the basement."

Edited (I forgot a whole FOUR letter word this time) 2022-02-13 15:46 (UTC)

That is also true. One could sleep in torpor for centuries and gain nothing from it, but lose nothing by it either. One could sleep in this house, really. It doesn't feel like a home, at least not to the immediate glance.

"I always expect others to be honest with me, but it hardly seems fair for me to have to be honest with them." Ouija returns, absently, but the tiredness doesn't go unnoticed. They straighten up in response. "Well. Nobody's going to follow you around in Vegas, unless it's in hopes of happening upon another little haunting strain. I'm sure you know how to handle groupies."

Nowhere feels like home.

Ouija opens their mouth, closes it again on the quip that often feels right but here is less than ideal. There's something about the honesty that feels like it needs... safety, and a joke is only as good as where it lands.

"Going right to the basement? I'm excited and frightened." Ouija recovers after a moment, deciding just to not touch it, and readily taking her hand again. The snake, now accustomed to Birdie and quite happy with her, remains on her. "You won't get any more snakes out of me just yet, but keep trying, it's nice to hold hands."

No, not a home, but a vague approximation.

Birdie smiles. "Give it some time and you can leave as honest a review as you want." The anticipation is getting out of hand, makes her feel wired and sensitive and a little overwhelmed. Then, to groupies, "Yeah, groupies aren't too much trouble. No one knows me in Vegas but you, and I'm happy to have you follow me around as much as you want."

Honest, like the remark about home. A dangerous thing, usually. It feels like an indulgence to say it, to feel it, to lead Ouija through the dining room (there is a mirror, there, behind the bar; obscured by fake flowers, but there) and the kitchen toward the back door and then down, to the left, into the basement.

"Are you implying I'd only hold your hand for a snake? As if Angel Hair means nothing to me?" Mock offense, playful, as they go down the stairs. She's probably run through a few pasta-related names over the last few days.

In the basement is a stark contrast to the main floor of the little house. At the end of the stairs is a little nook that seems dedicated to the vice and virtue of music. The windows are all covered snugly with carpet squares over wood, and the walls are covered in an array of mismatched fabric and tapestries like some psychedelic 60's opium den. The lights down here are covered in old scarves, keeping it dim and warm. Against one wall is a couch, plush and comfortable, and beanbag chairs because why not? On the other wall is a stereo set-up with a record player and a slew of records stacked around it.

"You're right, of course. And I'd like to hit him right in the spiritual crotch, where it hurts." Revenge in all its forms was always tempting. But more, now, they bend their energies toward constructive intent. "But. If he asks around, and he might, he'll find the rest of his clan burned enough by me, but not pursued. I know a Toreador's art, mediocre or otherwise, is what they love most." They shook their head, almost sad, but there was nothing they could do to change what they saw as undesirable behavior, and it would do little good to attack a favored spot, only indulge personal spite.

"Give the little darling as many names as you want." Ouija invited, "I'll be dutifully reporting all of them to my superiors."

Her pad is lovely, though, it looks like a little sanctuary away from the wild and ongoing world above. There's plenty of escape to be had here, though it's all internal.

"Ah, I get to see your music collection, as promised." Ouija folds their hands behind them to best illustrate respectful non-pawing, and wanders over to inspect the beanbag chairs. This is the first time the young-ish Elder has ever seen anything like it.

"Are these forbidden Daughter orb magics?"

Birdie almost makes a comment about how Edward is virile enough without having a spiritual crotch to add to it (vague gesture at his brood) but opts to listen instead. "I assume that's what lead to your conversion," she asks, in a roundabout way, regarding the rest of the Toreador. Not a press for information, but... She likes to hear their stories, whether they're true or not.

Little Angel Hair Fettuccine Lasagna is familiar, now, with the space. And the many cycling names she's been given. Familiar, in particular, with being let off Birdie's hand when Ouija pulls away to inspect the bean bag chairs to sit under one of the lamps.

Orb magics, though-- it takes a lot to keep a straight face when she says, "Yes. When you turn around and put your bottom on them, they help you sit and commune with the music."

And the straight face doesn't last, so she turns to the record shelves and starts looking for one in particular.

"My-- oh." It takes them a second to really register the question and what it means, and they're already following the instructions to sit down on the beanbag chair, recognizing with delight that it's impossible to sit on and feel any dignity at the same time.

They hesitate a moment, then offer, "I create forgeries. Archeological ones, mainly, for Kindred and kine markets alike. I have made amulets, relics, that sort of thing, as bait for enemies of Tremere who contracted me, art for museums - about 30% of what hangs in every museum in Europe is fake, by the way, but it's not even remotely all mine. I started this..."

Ouija trails off, because it feels very unwholesome to lie to her, and then resumes, more certain, "Because I hated what I was. I hated the snobbery, the airheadedness, the two-faced daggers in compliment sheaths, the endless parade of voluptuous reclining nudes. I hated the way 'art', whether it was a creative expression or someone's ancestry, manifested as an object, bought for ludicrous sums and kept in a collector's study. I wanted to hurt those people, and I was very good at doing it. Authenticators want their cut, they'll gladly take a chance, and if it's revealed they'll blame the forger, who has since conveniently disappeared."

Ouija looked off into a middle distance. "I couldn't keep doing it forever, though. Even righteous hatred is a poison that eats you from the inside, and leaves you with no joy or peace."

They look up at her, freshly hungry. "What are you looking for?"

She turns, at first, to smile at them in the beanbag chair, but puts her eyes back to the records when Ouija begins to answer.

Her movement slows, giving attention and space at once. 'Funny and dishonest' has held true for Ouija, but Birdie doesn't want to crowd out honesty when it's what she'd asked for. For every part she cannot understand (if asked, she'll tell them about what a gift the Embrace was, in hindsight, to never hear her voice crack and wither with age) there is one she does. So she holds the space, listens without judgement or commentary, and puts on a record.

The Mamas & The Papas, If You Can Believe Your Eyes & Ears. 'Monday Monday' starts with the volume low, intended as an ambient palate cleanser after the terrible experience of listening to Seventh Son and Edward's gravelly crooning.

"Just this," as if it's nothing, is her answer as she walks back over with another record in her hand to pass to them carefully. Her own. The cover is a picture of her in the sunlight, hair down with flowers stuck into the frizzy halo of it, Birdie looking off to the side rather than directly at the camera, titled simply with her name as Bridget Lewis.

"You know," she continues sitting next to them, just as undignified but not without grace, "records are forgeries a little, I always thought. The art of it only really happens when you're making it. Copies are copies are copies, but they've got their job to do."

It's easier to talk like this to the back of her head, and to keep in mind that whatever they let loose is recoverable. Most people know Ouija as a 'master forger', the Setites appreciating them partially because they could spot a fake and simulate one too, so it's not protected information. But the motivation is. Hating the Toreador clan on a personal level long before they left for better, cleaner spiritual prospects...

"The Setites always look for your weakness." Ouija explains vaguely after a moment, "Not necessarily to hurt you with it. A friend will support you, but a good friend will show you where you err." And Ouija's weakness had, ironically, been their all-consuming hatred of their clan, such that it became a blinding, pernicious addiction. The Setites' relationship with addicts was poorly understood by out-of-clan members, it was a tool with many uses.

That song soothes them, even if it isn't being sung magically with Birdie's Discipline. There's something ceremonial about putting on a record, something ritualistic, and the hiss and audio quality don't hurt. Meanwhile, Edward's love of music is the same love that cuts a flower to put it in a vase under fluorescent light.

They take the record, holding it like someone who's well-versed in handling delicate, hard-to-replace objects, absently joking, "You neonates and your cutting edge technology..." But their voice softens mid joke. She's sweet, there's something about the whole vibe of this that feels delicate and important.

They look over at her, and grin, at that sentiment. "Thank you."

Their secret is safe with her, at least as safe as any secret when you never know which friend can read your mind.

She bumps her shoulder against theirs, an awkward sway on the beanbag. "Well, you've seen plenty of mine at this point. I appreciate you not pointing them out yet."

There are the obvious ones about Denver and a Sire in torpor and music, but also there is simply this. The way she opens up so readily, artistic integrity getting intermingled with emotional honesty to the point that she trusts more quickly than she ought to. How the bubbly joy of flirtation just for the sake of it turns into fondness even quicker.

Ouija, in particular -- The way they look at her with what might be genuine concern, how they keep promises, carefully worded to give her escape routes at every turn. How they listen to her sing, plainly as she ever does, and seem to be satisfied with just her voice and talent alone. No Presence, no Melpominee, just a song she shares. It makes her want to trade in her title as an entertainer for a while and simply sit and listen to them, to any stories and lies they might want to tell, let herself be an audience to their observations and their faith.

Meanwhile the record plays on, Monday mornin' couldn't guarantee that Monday evenin' you would still be here with me.

Birdie smiles, at the way Ouija handles the record, the comment, the thanks.

"You're welcome." A pause, and she reaches out to touch the corner of the record in their hands. "I would've played it, but I don't want to look too vain."

It's not easy, interacting this way with other kindred who have terrifying powers and potentially awful intentions, but the idea is sound. The more you play the game, the better you get at it, the more you can defend your own interests and help advance the interests of your allies.

The bump is cute. They are reassured by the bump.

"There's always a time for it. I like to wait until people ask for my advice." Ouija's voice was soft and quiet, a gentle thing, in that moment, "And I'm in a glass house," They added, incapable of not ruining the moment with a silly joke.

She is adorable, she is fierce and she is sharp in all the best places, and soft in others, like a classic example of the predator/prey line they all must walk to survive.

"You won't look vain. You'll look like you're entertaining your guest with fine music." Ouija looks down at the record, and then adds, "At some point - I hope you'll make a copy, just in case. But for now, please play it for me?"

Birdie's saving grace is that, much of the time, the Fugue obscures things just enough to let secret things stay secret.

That the bump is reassuring is good, because she leans again. Though it's not a bump, this time. More a lean, a lingering brush of her shoulder against theirs.

"I won't throw rocks if you won't," said smiling and soft and a little conspiratorial. There's already plenty conspiracy going on already. Then, a little more seriously, "Maybe when we're in Vegas I can get a full assessment."

Not quite yet, not quite now. Not when she's moving to stand and take the record back from Ouija's hands.

"There's others out there still," as she turns to take the Mamas and the Papas back off the turntable. "Not sure what condition they're in, but I'd had a hundred made. Probably a couple in private collections."

Not unlike Edward's, or even her own. Hidden away and secret. Birdie fiddles with the records, putting away one and putting on her own, gently dropping the needle down before she heads back to the beanbag as her own voice comes through the speakers -- different, human, somehow younger and smaller than how she sounds now.

It's mostly covers, only two songs that she'd written herself. Standards, like 'House Carpenter,' sandwiched in with the ones that had been new then but are standards now, like 'Little Boxes.' It starts, though, with 'Thirsty Boots.'

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