logsville | ( OPEN ) FEBRUARY CATCH-ALL

NEW IN TOWN.

( A. it's been a hell of a learning curve, being transplanted in 1961 all over again. honestly, Carmilla doesn't have any strong fondness for the first time she experienced 1961 — a second go around was NOT what she's looking for.

honestly, it feels like it's some strange and ornate new form of torture from mommy dearest. she can't help but narrow her eyes at every helpful neighbor and sneer at any warm greeting to the neighborhood. it doesn't take her long to start poking around and asking questions, either to neighbors or fellow newcomers in one of the few black numbers she found in her closet. it's a safe bet she's either drinking (even if it's barely noon) or smoking. maybe both. )

So, you heard anything about an evil supernatural kabal or an angler fish god? ( she manages to ask the question with a perfectly normal tone, despite the content of the inquiry. it's a talent.

B. of course, eventually she has to leave her lair at some point. begrudgingly. and perhaps surprising, her first stop is to hit a local boutique. ) Please tell me you have something that doesn't scream Julie Andrews in the spring. I'm dying over here. ( the shop girl stares at her blankly, and with a long suffering sigh, she clarifies, ) Black, sweetie. I want something in black.

( a moment of reflection, and then a smile that is somehow both pretty and poisonous. ) My husband Mr. Fowler will take care of the tab. ( the shopgirl scatters like a mouse caught in the pantry, and rushes to prepare a room for her. Carmilla breezes to a rack and picks up a piece with a lip curled in disdain. her company didn't ask, but she still puts the dress against her frame. ) It's like sad granny wallpaper puked on it, right?

HOT LIBRARIAN.

( A. Carmilla hasn't had a job since... well, honestly? she can't remember. maybe being the vampiric slave of her overbearing mother isn't so bad after all, she never had to learn the true suffering of gainful employment.

and she had not arrived at the library meaning to work there, it was more a matter of being bored and needing something to do that she arrived. and she was quickly recognized and ushered behind the desk and it was vaguely explained to her what her job was supposed to be. Carmilla was definitely only half listening.

she figures she'll lose the job sooner or later because truth be told, she's not actively trying to keep it. but for now, she will sit behind the desk and read a huge pile of books that No, You Cannot Have, posture not particularly ladylike, what with her feet on the counter. despite the dress she's wearing. though, lbr, it's too floofy to see much.

and if she's supposed to gently reprimand people for speaking in the library, she must have missed the memo. maybe it was a sneeze, maybe something dropped accidentally, or maybe you really did think you could say something. Carmilla glances around to find the source of the sound, narrows her eyes, and suggests, ) Shut up, or take it outside.

B. of course, there's bound to be some brave individual that wanders up to check out a book. Carmilla is definitely present at the desk and that sort of implies she's supposed to do that, but uh... she distinctly turns a page and does not look up at present company.

perhaps she just doesn't notice??? maybe it's a really good book?? )

AROUND TOWN.

( A. have you ever witnessed someone miserably eat a grilled cheese sandwich?

probably not. because who would ever. they're divine creations. especially in the 60s, when nobody knew what saturated fat was.

so no one on earth or the planes above or below can comprehend why Carmilla has a curled nose, eating bites of a grilled cheese (with a fork and knife, what kind of monster is she) with a nose curled like it's the worst thing that's ever happened to her.

perhaps you notice on your own and have something to say. fear not if you're someone with manners and were silently allowing to eat her delicious treat like it personally wronged her. that's fine, because Carmilla has never been afraid to be a conversation starter. )

How about you stare at your own food, asshole? ( nobody said it would be a kind conversation starter.

B. so, having to eat again sucks, but guess what doesn't? alcohol. hell, it's honestly even better, since she's got a normal human, pint sized tolerance again. she is content to suck down a martini and read, and if the bartender gently inquires she will promise her husband will be joining her soon, and he needn't worry!

frankly, though, she doesn't seem to be looking or waiting for anyone. in fact, it's more that company arrives and she mildly notices it after awhile. ) Feel like buying a girl a drink? ( obviously she's happy to put it on her "husbands" tab, but hey. a stranger could also pay for her. that would be fine. )

Edited 2021-02-07 03:17 (UTC)

[It's one of those days that he's popped into the diner to grab a quick meal, which isn't an entirely rare occurrence. He doesn't even notice Carmilla at first, too focused on the menu (though it rarely changes) and his coffee, but he happens to glance around and spots her.

Honestly, it's more the recognition that keeps his attention at first, before he realises just how... unhappy she looks about her meal.

When she snaps at him, he laughs.]

You could order something else, you know.

( she hadn't initially recognized him, but the ridiculous hair is hard to forget. she's not sure how the townies don't have more to say about a gangly brit in drag — she doesn't remember the 60s being so progressive. or at all progressive. then again at least half the town seemed to be operating on exactly one brain cell, whatever small kernel of cognitive function the hive mind allotted, so maybe they just didn't notice.

she chews another sullen bite and narrows her eyes at Crowley for having the audacity to laugh at her. as if a tiny angry goth girl furiously putting back dainty bites of grilled cheese isn't objectively hilarious.

the reality is it doesn't matter what she orders, after three hundred something years of not having to eat it's a fucking hassle to have to. honestly it's kind of gross. being human is gross. she'd never thought it was possible to miss drinking blood as her sole sustenance, but here she is. grease and cheese and heartburn and feeling overly full because her stomach has maybe held a cookie or two in the last two decades and having to poop blows. she's not going to like eating anything but chocolate, and she knows she can't live on chocolate alone. but that doesn't mean she has to like slumming it and actually needing to eat a sandwich.

but of course she has no interest in discussing the discomforts of newfound humanity. instead, she points out, ) I missed the part where I asked for your opinion. ( that said, since she does recognize him, in a murky sort of magically impaired way, she tilts her head with bland curiosity. )

How's your floor? ( she vaguely remembers going stab happy on her porcelain clone on top of it. did that actually happen or what? )

[It is objectively hilarious, is the thing, even if he imagines that his first few meals were rather similar in his obvious distaste for the whole experience. It had been a difficult adjustment, especially when so much already felt out of his control, but he's settled into it well enough.

Learning to cook had helped, since it made him feel far more in control of the situation. It isn't much, really, but he has to take these things where he can.]

Still terrible, honestly. [After tidying up the porcelain mess, he'd realised that they hadn't actually ever replaced the carpet. It's been lingering in the back of his mind, but it's also not a priority.] You enjoying your wonderful new home?

[/sarcasm.

Obviously.]

A lot more now that my "husband" disappeared.

( she could not have possibly phrased that any more incriminatingly, like she was personally responsible for the disappearing. considering how happy she'd been to fucking stab her dopple, it would be understandable for someone to presume she murdered her "husband". honestly given a bit more opportunity she very well might have tried, it's just she didn't get the opportunity because his entire existence was quietly scrubbed away like a particularly unsightly stain on cheap laminate.

still, overall, )

But the 60s blow and I'd love to pull a disappearing act myself, if it didn't probably involve being murdered and/or brainwashed. ( she's still on the fence on whether Mother is the one pulling the strings around here. it's a little provincial and dull for her mother, but who the hell else would have enough magic to trap a whole town? or reverse her vampirism?

and yes, maybe she's dead and trapped in some horrific purgatory, but that she wasn't immediately sent to burn in a lower ring of hell made no sense. no need to purify this soul, it was a lost cause a few centuries ago. )

Did him in, did you?

[While his overall opinion on the intelligence of humanity varies from day to day, he'd like to hope that someone who murdered their spouse wouldn't be so stupid as to talk about it so casually.

Anyway, this place is weird. It wouldn't shock him that people are going missing. The man probably got himself eaten by one of those fucked up reindeer.]

The brainwashing wears off, actually. [Speaking from experience, now! Which is a cool and fun thing that has happened to him.] Not sure on the murder, there's all sorts of nonsense that'd like to kill us, though I've not heard of anyone actually dying.

[Those awful porcelain creatures are just many in an ever-growing list. If Crowley weren't so happy here, he might be more worried, but in the grand scheme of things, the occasional attempted killing is more than worth the trade off. Being free from Hell is nice, even if being human sucks.]

( she lifts her eyebrows and her shoulders in an incredibly sarcastic show of innocence. little ol' her? murder a man? surely not! but that's officially all she has to say on the matter. not even a proper declaration of innocence. everyone always assumes the worst of her anyway, so why bother? )

Speaking from experience? ( because if he has had his head scrambled, he probably knows what about causes it. and how she can avoid it. Carmilla has been controlled enough in her life, she's not keen to make it easy for someone else to pull up the strings. )

You haven't, huh? Don't you figure that's the between the lines on whoever disappears? ( like her dearest husband. she's got no proof Ian's dead but she certainly has been presuming as much. everyone calls her a widow now, which honestly kinda tracks. Carmilla could sure stand to be more worried about the guy, as he'd essentially been wiped off the face of the planet like he never existed in the first place. despite the fact that had been exactly what set Laura off on her war on Silas, girls going missing and nobody caring, Carmilla is more curious about what happened to him than actively concerned. )

Mm, best to avoid getting on the wrong side of the police, if you can.

[He can't... remember exactly what they did. He recalls deciding to check out the projection booth with Archer, some of their arguing back and forth as they snuck around, but then it all gets sort of fuzzy until he'd come to himself in the kitchen, with a very cross Aziraphale waiting. It had, if nothing else, reaffirmed his decision to not fuck about with the police if he could avoid it, no matter how curious he might be about what's on the other side of the tunnel leading out of town.]

Could be, sure, but there's no proof. No body, no funeral. Maybe they've carted him off to put some personality chip in his brain?

[This is........ a joke.

But like in the way where they're in a town styled after the 60s, where all the locals act like robots, some of them worse than others, and if someone cut open one of them and found microchips in their brain, Crowley wouldn't be surprised.]

( she purses her lips in consideration. note taken. she's not exactly great at following rules or laws, but, Carmilla is indeed smart enough to hide that fact from the people most likely to give her consequences for it. and as a dumb squishy human, honestly, how much trouble can she honestly get up to?

a lot. the answer is a lot. but she's not going to admit to that.

she begrudgingly eats another bite of grilled cheese like it personally killed her puppy, before agreeing with a huff of a smokey laugh, ) Yeah, he could have used one. ( honestly girl your husband is disappeared and/or dead and you're going to kick him while he's down???? she waves a dark tipped hand, noting widely, ) Considering the status quo around here, I doubt people disappear to get more personality.

[Ma'am have you considered like, salads.

Not that Crowley can blame her for looking the way she does while trying to eat a grilled cheese. The whole concept of dairy is monumentally fucked up, in his opinion. He gets why humans resorted to it, with all the nutrients and protein and things, but at what cost?]

Oh, you know what I mean. [Does she? A bold assumption.] You ought to keep an eye out for him, see if he turns up with a placid smile in a few weeks.

( she'd hate salads just as much. why can't a girl sustain herself on chocolate, champagne, and cigarettes? honestly i can't promise she wouldn't be begrudging about having to eat, even then. it just gets old. she was more than happy to only eat a chocolate chip cookie and occasional brownie every decade or so.

she wrinkles her nose at the implication she should look out or have some kind of human empathy toward her dearly departed and/or missing husband. )

I don't give a shit if he does or not. The town thinks he's dead and I'm more than happy to do the same. ( widowhood suits her far better than actually being married. especially to a man. she's not so dramatic to say her heterosexual fake marriage had been the worst thing that ever happened to her, but that doesn't mean she'd give it a particularly favorable yelp review. )

[He immediately wrinkles his nose at her, as if somewhat affronted by what she's saying. Please, Carmilla, like he'd expect someone to have empathy. Disgusting.]

I'm not telling you to get a shite about him. M'just saying it'd be worth knowing if he turns up again completely mind-wiped. Give us an idea of whether they plan to do it to the rest of us.

[It's been relatively benign as far as he can tell, aside from the kidnapping. Even the tranquilizing was done because he stepped out of line, which isn't so much a goal as a punishment.]

( maybe it would be useful information. and it's not as if she won't keep her eyes open — but actively searching for her fake husband? definitely not her style. Carmilla wouldn't even actively search for missing coeds, and she's definitely more inclined to hot girls than unwitting husbands. granted she knew where the missing girls were the whole time, but shh.

she knocks her plate away with maybe a third of it consumed. that's all she's got. she fishes through a bag to find cigarettes instead, which she consumes far more easily than solid food. smoke and death in her lungs makes more sense than proper sustenance. it's only after she lights it and finishes her first drag that she shrugs and says, ) Well, if he shows up home, you'll be the first to know.

( that's about all she'll do. maybe. it's only a maybe, honestly, because being helpful??? that's not her vibe. stewing on information and not sharing with the class until she's tied to a chair and kept on a starvation diet for a few weeks? that's more her style. )

Aww, ta.

[Crowley puts a hand on his heart, expression a mockery of appreciation, because he's nothing if not an asshole, so he's fine with playing this game with Carmilla.

He almost considers asking for a cigarettes, but decides she probably wouldn't give him one.]

Name's Crowley, by the way, don't think we did proper introductions.

[Not that he offers to shake a hand or anything, he's apparently too busy taking a sip of his coffee and wincing a little at the taste. What he'd give for a trip to Italy for a decent espresso.]

( would she share cigarettes? in particularly perfect circumstances, maybe. it's always nice to not be the only one crippled by vices in a room. she's more giving after alcohol, though, and grilled cheese and ice water doesn't temper her mood quite the same as champagne.

Carmilla isn't great at introductions and is happy to not participate in them whenever possible. to be fair, she adopts new aliases every few decades, and it's easier to be a shadow if you never leave much of an impression. still, it's a unique situation she's found herself in. and Crowley proved decent with a shotgun and was surprisingly not that mad about the whole throwing her murderous double in his direction thing. so it's probably worth it to play nice. ...nice-ish. )

Carmilla. ( no last name. not her own and not her missing husbands. but enough of an identifier for now. she definitely judged him for his inability to drink coffee just now, as if she hadn't been offended by his judgment on her inability to eat grilled cheese. ) How long have you been stuck here?

[There's some importance to names, regardless of whether they're chosen or given, but Crowley doesn't think too much of Carmilla. Not the most common name, but not entirely rare, either. The lack of a last name equally isn't a concern, especially considering he only give a singular name to identify himself.

Not that it shows up anywhere, were someone to go looking for him, except perhaps on some old photos and papers that are littered throughout his house. He's a Fell, according to this place, which is sort of funny, really.]

S'a bit tricky to say, exactly. You might've noticed time doesn't much work right, here. Was here in October, seem to have skipped November, and then I've had December and January. It was 1961 last year, too, for the record. We're repeating the year.

( look, maybe she should have supplied another anagram. but you try coming up with unique shit for the same 8 letters. also, she's lazy. she's seen no evidence that anyone from Silas has followed her here. and if mommy dearest managed to survive a magic sword impaling, it doesn't matter what name Carmilla supplies. Lilita always manages to find her anyway. she likes Carmilla, she's been going by that long enough that she has some kind of fondness for it. so why not?

it doesn't seem to set off any alarms for Crowley, and it hasn't for anyone else. she's probably safe enough holding onto the same moniker.

she contemplates over the smoke flowering in her lungs. ) Huh. ( a time loop? that's curious. she remembers, vaguely, watching the new year roll in in a foamy pink nightgown, even though technically she arrived after that. so she gets what he means about weird, ephemeral time. hell, that's when she met him for the first time — some strange dream that was and wasn't. ) And nobody in town thinks it's weird they have to do-over a year that wasn't even fun the first time around? Interesting.

( seems very likely that whatever brain worms keep the population complacent also kept them from being alarmed that they were reliving the same year over and over. )

[One would think that Sayori's self-preservation instincts might have improved after that dream with the mannequins. This would be a foolish assumption. Though maybe it's just that, compared to those things, a standoffish librarian isn't even remotely scary?

That's giving Sayori a lot of credit. Regardless of the reason, she's not put off at all by any of the obvious signs of disinterest from the pretty lady at the front desk. She sets her books down on the counter and waits for a moment, but when no acknowledgment seems forthcoming, she just smiles.] Hey, what are you reading? Is it good?

[She is assuming so, but she can't be sure!]

( wow, first of all sayori, how fucking dare you. she's all of 5'3 in a dress fluffy enough to drown a man, and you're gonna come for her brand and say she's not scary??? it's true, though, something about leather pants and blacked out eyes instantly made her more intimidating. Carmilla honestly knows perfectly well how to blend into the 60s, complete with blackened-red nails that suit the style of the time. she could practically blend in with the townies if she wanted to...

it's just that she has made no obvious attempts to actually do so, besides looking the part. no townie would ignore an adorable schoolgirl that just wants to borrow a book, for example. Carmilla doesn't immediately respond, waiting until she's ready to turn her page to point out, )

You can read the cover just as well as I can, cutie. ( or at least she's hoping so, because what else is the kid doing in a library? she finally glances around her novel, and perks an eyebrow. ) You're not some townie, are you? ( the cheery inquiry does vibe with the Stepfordites, who also like to talk to Carmilla despite her obvious broad disinterest. still, she seems to have a little bit more sentience bumping around in there, especially considering she managed to inquire about an opinion. from a woman. that's not really the 1960s way. )

[Now, see, that's a response that scans as sarcastic at best and condescending at worst. Or it would for people with less patience and propensity to assume the best of folks. People who have higher standards for interaction, too, because Sayori hears cutie and there's an embarrassed laugh bubbling out of her before she knows it. That's not really the kind of thing that people usually call her!

Flustered, she stumbles over her own words a bit, self-consciously adjusting a bit of her hair (which, perhaps tellingly, is not styled to curly/wavy 1960s standards.)] Uh— ahaha, nope, not me! I just got here! [Pause.] Or— maybe I got here last month? I don't know, it was pretty weird.

[She's not going to pretend to understand the mechanics of this reality. Time turned out to be fake garbage in her own reality too, so that part doesn't really bother her.]

Um, anyway— I can look at the cover, but that doesn't tell me if it's good or not, you know?

( no, Sayori's short hair isn't exactly styled to the times. the stiff curls and helmet head aesthetic aren't the easiest to emulate if you don't already have practice with it. maybe Carmilla is just really great at picking up new hair trends, it's not like she already lived through the 60s once or anything!

getting here both last month and this month is a relatable weird. Carmilla can vaguely remember a different house that wasn't really hers, and stabbing the shit out of her evil mannequin twin, even if the memory was slightly more hazy than her present. that and the awkward laugh at not even a concentrated effort to flirt does get Sayori a glance over the top of the book she's reading. )

Plath is a classic. Not my favorite of hers, but finding a female perspective in literature in 1961 is an exercise in disappointment, so I'll take what I can get. ( she will begrudgingly read just about anything, but the lack of rights women have in 1961 are oppressively apparent after being crashed back into the thick of it. Sylvia might be bleak but Carmilla has never begrudged a girl that.

she finally lets her book hang in one hand to stare down Sayori properly, a quick but incredibly obvious appraisal. young, sweet, nervous. probably an easy target — not that she's targeting anyone these days, but like an attack dog trained to fight, her mother shaped her to always be aware of weak points and the best openings for manipulation. Carmilla glances at the books in Sayori's hands and suggests mildly, ) Just take it. After being forcibly transplanted into a Stepford existence, I think you earned a few free books.

[While entirely the type to give someone the benefit of the doubt, Sayori isn't oblivious enough to miss the way she's being sized up. In that moment, she clocks a few things about Carmilla in return — observant, standoffish, probably used to having to read people. Maybe due to not-great circumstances; Sayori has never known anyone to be closed off because things around them are good.

But these aren't calculations, just realizations, and she keeps them hidden behind her innocently curious gaze. She doesn't think anything of the absurdly on point fashion. That's not her wheelhouse of intuition.

At Carmilla's suggestion, she laughs again, less embarrassed this time. More like Carmilla has just told a good joke.] Maybe you're right...but if I just take them, then nobody else can read them! I don't want to keep them all to myself.

[Literature is meant to be shared! That's the whole point of libraries!

Her eyes dart to the cover of the book again — and actually read it for the first time. Plath is a classic. There's a twinge of discomfort in Sayori's stomach, thinking about a real poet whose life ended in familiar tragedy, but she just keeps on smiling, obvious interest in her eyes.] So, which one is your favorite? [Then, mischievous, she puts a finger to her lips in the classic shh gesture.] I know the others haven't been published here yet, but don't worry, I won't tell anyone.

That's sweet. ( something about the way Carmilla says this makes it sound like it isn't a compliment. and it is, and it isn't. sweet gets you devoured, sweet gets you chewed up and spat out and left dry and empty and brittle. Carmilla is both tired of seeing sweet girls turn into bitter and lonely ones, and figures that it would almost be doing them a favor to get them to wise up and not break their own spirits in the hopes that it'd be worth something.

and somewhere in that thorny black heart of hers, she responds most to sweet girls, ones that still have it in them to love and hope and care. but she wishes she didn't and can convincingly pretend she's immune.

if Sayori refuses to abscond with some freebies, it does mean Carmilla has to do her actual job and check her out. she rises with a labored sigh, as if just standing is the hardest thing she's been expected to do all day, and moves to join the redhead at the desk. picking through her selection to carefully scribe due dates on the cards just inside the front cover, as well as the library's ledger. her handwriting doesn't vibe particularly well with her modern mannerisms, because she still writes like a wealthy countess from 1860. learning the conventions of modern conversation was easy, but her handwriting dates her like an expiration sticker. )

Winter Trees. Her husband published it after she died. Poets don't have to be dying or on their death bed to write good poetry, but I guess it doesn't hurt either. ( Carmilla shrugs. she doesn't think poetry can come out of someone who hasn't felt what they're spinning into words, binding into paper. makes sense Sylvia came up with her darkest and dreariest work as she waited to die. as someone who personally resonates with dead, dark, and dreary, Carmilla appreciates the vibe. ) You know Plath, huh? Does that mean you're gonna tell me your favorite, too?

( one of her eyebrows lift and she's wearing smug smirk to go with the wry tone. )

( OPEN ) FEBRUARY CATCH-ALL

OPEN PROMPTS. (FEB)

around town; a

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hot librarian, B

vagues the book she's reading for now pending a mod answer on literature hey how are you

IM GREAT IT'S FINE WE CAN VAGUE

mods confirmed normal earth titles!!!

oh heck yeah!!!

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