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[gidge]

PICK YOUR POISON
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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Comments

[terrifies]

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."

[acaseofyou]

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.

[terrifies]

"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?"

[acaseofyou]

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.

[terrifies]

"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?"

[acaseofyou]

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."

[terrifies]

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."

[acaseofyou]

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."

[terrifies]

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?"

[acaseofyou]

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.'