logsinthenight | EVENT LOG: GRAVES

EVENT LOG: GRAVES

EVENT LOG:
GRAVES

characters: everyone.
location: Bonfire Square.
date/time: July 12-19.
content: mysterious shrines appear and bring visions of death.
warnings: likely violence and potentially gore.

time to pay your respects.

It happens when no one is looking, when most of the town is asleep and the rest are inside. A makeshift cemetery has come to Beacon, taking up residence in the middle of Bonfire Square. Each monument, shrine, and altar is dedicated to someone who now resides here, a memorial of their previous life.

Some may be drawn by curiosity, others by fear, and some may simply have to pass through this strange graveyard to get to the Bonfire itself. Whenever a person gets near, the altars beckon with a mysterious urge— an urge to approach, and an urge to leave something behind. They will feel compelled to make offerings at the various shrines, but doing so has a curious effect; it causes one to experience the death of the person whose grave they've honored.

Whether you resist the compulsion or give in willingly (or something in between), you'll also have to wrestle with the fact that a grave exists for you. Will you let your death be known, or try your best to keep it secret? Destroying it sure won't work, as it will return— with a duplicate somewhere else in town.

However you choose to deal with this, one thing is hard to ignore— this a tangible reminder of your death, and the fact that it's probably permanent.

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[ raylan may be slumped on the table but his peripheral vision, hazy though it may be, is still in fairly good working order, at least enough that he registers someone nearby, a vaguely familiar scent the moment they're close. it takes some considerable effort to lift his head even with his hat nearby. he looks at her dimly, recognition slow to come. the hair, first, and then the rest of her. ]

To what— [ jesus. that sounded like it came out of a gurgling toilet that won't flush any more. he clears his throat and tastes the cider, the apple juice, the punch of alcohol. well – he's drunk, already. might as well be a dumbass about it ] To what do I owe the pleasure?

Take your pick.

[She's tipsy, but not nearly as far gone as him, which means she gets to regard him with equal parts skepticism and vague amusement.]

Seeing my own grave? Not particularly. Witnessing the moment of my death? Perhaps. Witnessing at least ten other deaths? Ah, well. That might just be your answer. And what about you, hm?

Don't know if you can tell, [ he sucks in a breath and it catches in his throat until he swallows, ] but I'm three – no, let's be generous, four sheets to the wind. And, [ he's only really come to realise this right now, at this very moment, ] you have my drink.

[She takes a moment to very carefully, very deliberately sip from the glass, her eyes locked on his the entire time. It still tastes foul, but this is about a point.]

Correct.

[Unnecessarily added as she sets the glass down, her fingers still tracing around the rim.]

Don't fuss, now. You'll spoil the conversation. Tell me why you're here.

Well, it bein' a bar and all, I figured I'd come here and get a drink. [ he makes a whadda you know! face and pauses a moment. ] Thought you were smart. Askin' me questions like that, I might start to think otherwise.

[She looks at him. It's a very slow, deliberate turning of her head, her eyes widening, not shocked so much as waiting for him to realize what a fucking stupid thing to say that was.

He doesn't, of course. That's all right. Men rarely do. Only once she's satisfied with the length of silence that passes does she break it, scoffing as she turns back to her (his) drink.]

My intelligence, Mr. Givens, so far surpasses yours that it would be like comparing an infant to-- well, you, point in fact. So let's not start down that line of insult, shall we?

If you want me to be more blunt, say so. For example: how many deaths have you experienced tonight, Mr. Givens, because I'm up to half a dozen so far. Or was reliving your own enough?

[ she's almost definitely right on that score. raylan's just going to let that one go – he's drunk, but not stupid enough to think he could argue his way out of a paper bag at this point. he just huffs out a sigh and draws a hand over his face.

that she's been putting herself through that, though – what does it say about her, to have put herself through that, over and over again? ]

Neither. Seein' the goddamn thing was enough for me. [ with an overly forced nonchalance that would have sounded more genuine were he sober, he asks, ] You see mine?

Yes.

[It's softer than he might expect, especially in the face of her icy snarling a moment ago. Rosalind stares at the far wall, her eyes lingering on a dusty bottle of god-knows-what. The glass is cool in her fingers, condensation already gathering, leaving the tips of her fingers a little wet. It's hot here, her corset stifling even with her skirt cut so short, hot enough that even taking a breath takes effort.]

. . . I'm--

[She pauses. Grips the glass, and then, with the sense she'd been about to say something very different:]

You wanted a daughter.

What did you imagine she would be like?

[ for a second he'd expected an apology, but of course she's not going to give one, and now that he's thinking about it raylan isn't exactly sure he'd want one anyway. rosalind has asked him a lot of questions since they first met, and seeing all that is – well, it's one hell of a shorthand. a lot of things he now doesn't have to explain.

the questions she gets instead, though, completely reverse that decision. she could have asked anything, literally anything else, but she had to ask about that. his jaw works. ]

Blonde like Winona. Maybe my eyes. Winona's nose. Better'n me. [ there's no self-deprecation in that, just a rare moment of honest self-awareness. ] Raised better. Less angry.

[ winona had said that. you do a good job of hiding it, and i suppose most folks don't see it, but honestly, you're the angriest man i have ever known. like it was nothing, like it was obvious. maybe it is. he doesn't think about it all the time, but it's there under the surface. whenever he has nothing else to think about, it always comes back to that.

raylan sucks in a breath and forces himself to stand straighter so he can wave over a forest spirit. ] Yeah, can I get another apple pie 'shine.

[It's a good answer. Not soppy, not really, but honest.

(Would she have thought such things? A baby was never in her future, but then Robert had happened, and he hasn't asked yet, but she can tell where his thoughts stray each time a child races past them. Would she treat it like that? Imagining features and hopes and desires? Odd).

The spirit hops-to, moving just a little too swiftly to be considered natural. Within thirty seconds he's got another drink set down before him.]

And what would you name her?

That'd be Winona's department. [ 'shine acquired, and yet somehow he is not immediately happy? sounds fake. he draws the glass closer to him and eyes it speculatively. ] She— [ god, he's drunk, which is not stopping him from skulling half the glass in one go. whatever he was going to say is immediately lost as the heat sears down his throat and settles in his sternum, and he wheezes out a cough that he doesn't even bother trying to cover up. ] Y'know what? I don't know why I'm talkin' about this. Sure as hell don't want to.

[ he draws his head up to eye rosalind as clearly as he can manage, which isn't very clearly at all since his head feels like it's on a swivel. ] Why don't you tell me how you're holdin' up, hm?

I'm fine.

[It's such an automatic answer that there's no pause. It rolls off her tongue easily, because she's always fine, even when she isn't.]

And even if I wasn't, Mr. Givens . . . what precisely will you do about it? If I told you I was full of grief or rage, what would you do?

Well, I don't know, Ms Lutece. [ he means for that to sound cold, but he comes across more like a petulant child than he'd have hoped. ] I'd offer you a drink but you already stole mine.

[She turns her head. Looks at him for a long few seconds, her head tipped, studying him with those cold blue eyes. And then, quietly, she smiles. It isn't happy. It certainly isn't anything friendly. But it isn't nasty either, and that's a lot, for her, at a time like this.]

Buy me a drink, Raylan.

[It's a quiet instruction, bossy but not. A moment, and she nudges her (his) glass back towards him. There's only a bit left, but. Gestures.]

[ well. at least it's a smile? raylan stares at her for a few seconds, as much as he can keep his focus. it's admittedly cleared up a little in the wake of this slightly sobering conversation, but he'd very much like for that to change, so he takes the glass back and drains it. it's strong enough to burn hard in the center of his chest and chase out a cough. he bares his teeth as he swallows, grimacing, and sets the empty glass down. ]

Two more, [ he tells the nearest spirit. she didn't specify, and she'd been drinking his 'shine, so. ] You know, some people... Not me. But some people. They might could be put off by your – demeanour.

Yes. I know. I spent most of my teenage years cultivating it.

[She wraps both hands around the glass as the spirit puts it down, pleased at the chill that shoots up her fingers. Her thumbs rub up against the glass, symmetrical motions that mean nothing at all. That moonshine is stronger than it seems, and she blinks once, slowly, her mind spinning just a little as she realizes she's tipping from tipsy to drunk.

Hm. That's not good, and yet she can't bring herself to care.]

Men-- hmm, men take too many liberties otherwise. They take the slightest friendly glance as invitation. Besides: if they're put off by a few cold words, there's little chance they can handle me.

[A few seconds pass. She considers this answer. It's accurate. It's what she might have said if she was sober-- but because she isn't, she adds, just a little sulkily:]

And I dislike most people . . . they're so dull.

[ this could very easily be some pointed critique of raylan and, probably at least to an extent, it is, but raylan can't bring himself to be offended. people have always had things to say about him, and it's been getting progressively easier his whole life to let it roll off him. only a little of it sticks, each time. ]

You remind me of someone, [ he says, quite apropos of nothing. ] Someone I knew back home.

[Shockingly, this isn't a veiled critique of him, if only because he hasn't tried to flirt with her yet. She just doesn't care for men. She glances over at him, mildly intrigued, if only because she is of the opinion that there are so very few people like her in general.]

A friend or an enemy?

[ it almost makes him laugh, the simplicity of the question compared to any weighty answer he might give. ] Little bit of both. He's got this way of talkin'. [ he blows out a breath through his nose, just shy of a laugh, and grins. ] Can't decide if he'd love you or hate you.

[So it's one of those things. Complicated, in a way she tries to avoid.]

I can tell you easily. Does his opinion differ or align with yours on most issues? And don't try and weasel out of the question, Raylan, it's one or the other.

And given that answer . . . do you find yourself more exasperated or fond of me? There's your answer.

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EVENT LOG: GRAVES

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