logsville | ( OPEN ) FEBRUARY CATCH-ALL

DEATH BECOMES HER.

prompt a. limit 1 responder. TW: BLOOD, VAMPIRISM
( she feels it sneaking up on her like a bad habit. crawling across her skin like an addict in need of another fix. to start, she wonders if it isn't just growing pains, finding herself human again. actually feeling a hunger, a need. a body requiring sustenance, and no matter how petulant she is she has to silence it.

only more and more, food doesn't do anything. it hasn't been appealing since arrival and now it's even more deplorable to force herself to eat something, as the gnawing hunger only seems to grow brighter. more feral.

she starts to understand as the fangs break through skin again. it's been hundreds of years since she was first turned, when she was a little girl in the baron's dungeon. it makes her skin crawl to be forced back there, even if her mind is better able to comprehend what's happening to her this time around.

it's about when she's maddened with hunger, feels it starting to slow her movements and tighten a body that isn't meant to move, is supposed to be dead and cold and still, when she stumbles outside to milk bottles at her door, lacking enough elegance that she knocks one of them over. blood spills across the sidewalk, and she hates that her first instinct is to try and suck it off the dirty ground like the parasite she is. it doesn't really feel like drinking it from the bottle has much more dignity, honestly, but it has to be at least slightly better.

it's only after it's empty that some of the feral need starts to fade. only after she's smearing blood off her mouth that her thoughts are clear enough that the anger can take over. she hurls the last few bottles away from her, letting them shatter in a macabre splash across the picture-perfect house. she'd rather be angry, but it fades too quickly, and she slumps into the grass like something inside of her broke all over again. a long time ago she refused to cry for herself, it was completely pointless. and yet the tears prick at her eyes anyway.

she's completely in her own head for long enough that she doesn't notice that her whole display was not performed solo. she closes miserable, heavy eyes and notes aloud, ) Fuck. ( there's no suggesting she didn't just drink blood when her face is covered in it and she just splashed it all over the house, after all. ) Just... just leave me alone.

( it's a broken, hollow request. she doesn't even have the heart to try and make it sound intimidating. )

prompt b.
( eventually, she cleans herself up. hides behind dark dated glasses and not just because the sun has started to bother her again. it's rather convenient that half the town is cleaning itself up right about now, a manic spring cleaning and everyone is taking part. because it means she can find a hose pretty easily and grimly douse the morbid splat of plasma off her house.

none of the townies seem to find it weird that her house is wearing a bunch of blood, so the fact someone wanders closer in curiosity does indicate they're not a townie. Carmilla breathes out a heavy lungful of cigarette smoke as she continues to douse the red into her rose bushes. ) These darn kids, huh? Must have been some kinda prank.

( that's her story. and she's sticking to it. )

HAPPY FAMILIES.

prompt a.
( once she's drowned the drama of revamping, she's back to relative normal. except for the fact she disposes of every stitch of food in the house, obviously. why keep it around? she doesn't need it. she's gotten a steady supply of O- since she turned (re-turned?), and she honestly hated having to eat real food anyway. the bottles are nicely lined up in the fridge and that's about all that's in the kitchen (besides any alcohol she prefers chilled, of course), and that's how she likes it.

which makes it all the more alarming to walk in and notice someone else. she should at least get points for how she subtly moves in front of the fridge, body blocking the potential intruder, just in case they might try and open the door.

with that properly hidden, she doesn't beat around the bush. ) What the fuck are you doing in here? ( not the warmest of welcomes, is it? whoops. )

prompt b.
( eventually, she lets down her hackles with the strangers coming in and out of her house (unless they're a husband, god bless the poor bastard that has to be her husband even for 5 minutes). she finds a new place to stash her bloody milk bottles. she goes back to living exactly as she always does with no consideration that someone else has no choice but coexist with her. it means leaving dishes all over, wet towels and dirty clothes scattered in piles, and black hair in the drain.

turns out she's not the only terrible housemate, though, perhaps she's a more visible one. case in point: casually reading on the sofa as literally every piece of furniture eerily floats, including the couch she's sitting on. something floats past her head and she just flips a page. )

I'm not putting this shit back. You can float the whole house for all I care. ( the spirit petulantly tilts the couch a little more, but Carmilla just hunkers down and rebalances herself. petulantly coexisting is something she's well practiced in at this point in her afterlife. she does notice her more corporeal companion sooner or later, and drawls, ) Some PA ghost is fucking with the furniture.

( is she too blaze about a haunting? is that weird? )

TOPSY-TURVY.

( it's been a lot lately, hasn't it? fumbling through families, opening a door and ending up somewhere else. waking up with fingers playing in her hair and when she bolts awake there's nothing but the faint scent of old roses in the air. her intricately crafted black wardrobe finding it's way out of her closet, leaving only swaths of pastel and pink.

it's a lot. it's really rather annoying. but in the odd dusk of spring and winter, snowflakes dusting over flowers that have only begun to open, her breath frosting in the air even though she's dressed like she intended to have a walk in beautiful spring weather when she left her house. )

It's beautiful, isn't it? ( something uncanny and wrong, a painting of contrasting and conflicting extremes. Carmilla's head lulls onto the back of the bench she's reclining on like a cat that hasn't noticed their sunbeam went cold. )

Edited 2021-03-11 05:48 (UTC)

[ Anduin isn't sure if he ought to be surprised or not when he wakes up in a bed that isn't his own, staring at an unfamiliar ceiling as consciousness begins to sink it's fingers in. The first glance lets him know it's another house within the town, the layout similar despite subtle differences and the urge to make a swift exit fades a little when he spies a nearby photograph of himself and a woman.

What was going on here? A quick inspection of the room shows his clothes already there, almost as if something had simply moved all of his gear from one place to the other. Had the town done this? Had he been taken somewhere once again without knowing about it? That has his blood running cold and Anduin quickly changes into his clothes before leaving the room, short blond hair still somewhat tousled.

Everything looks quiet for now and Anduin is loathe to admit he's a little curious. There doesn't seem to be any of the hostility from the last event and he relaxes a little as the young King heads towards the kitchen. If no-one is there he'll just get a glass of water and then contact Wrathion to let him know what was —

Anduin jumps when someone comes out of nowhere, demanding to know what was going on and Anduin certainly can't blame them for that question, sighing and rubbing his chest. One day this place will actually kill him.]

I woke up here. I take it this is your home?

Hardly. But it's the place I've been slumming since I got stranded here, yes.

( home is such a romantic, whimsical, emotional term. Carmilla isn't sure she even remembers what having a home is like. so no, this isn't home. but it is hers, and hers alone since her "husband" vanished. she was definitely enjoying it that way, which makes the random blonde teenager in her kitchen especially annoying.

she doesn't move from her place in front of the fridge. she eyes him, trying to place him, from around town or at the incessant brunch she was dragged to. he doesn't seem familiar, but he's also clearly not a brainless town resident. and to be fair she hasn't paid much attention to her fellow abductees, not recognizing him makes sense. )

Don't tell me you're in all the creepy pictures now. ( at first they'd all been her and the weirdo she was supposed to be married to. then they'd switched to just her, which had made her seem bizarrely self centered AND oddly fixated on going through empty motions, as all the pictures looked like family portraits and events, only she was the only one present. if he's in the pictures now, that likely means something bigger is going on than some random switcheroo that could be quickly resolved. )

[ Anduin can't fault that logic. He knows all too well the dilemma of calling such a place home when it is nowhere near that, though Anduin's thoughts have shifted slightly, if only because it's somewhere to rest and catch his breath after this place plays it's games....

There's a moment of silence as Anduin studies Carmilla, openly curious about who they even are and what their story is. Being forced into a family unit is a pain but Anduin simply knows it's an opportunity to know of someone else's world. There's just the notion that they have to act the part in public, though Anduin hasn't been asked by anyone where his father was since the man had vanished out of existence. He sincerely hopes the guy found his way home.]

Well then, I shan't tell you that I'm in all the creepy pictures with you now. [ There's a hint of a smile when Anduin says it, the young man unable to help answering back as such.]

( his new mom probably doesn't look particularly intimidating. she's slumming around her own haunt, she hasn't put in the effort to looking collected, capable, and cutthroat. she's all of 5'3, barefoot, her hair piled on her head and wearing something that technically suits the time period but would still get her a few looks in 1961 because slacks on a woman was rather unseemly. truth be told, without the sharp eyeliner and severe makeup she tends to favor, Carmilla looks surprisingly young.

which is another layer of annoying — of course she'd have meticulously controlled how she presented herself to this stranger intruding in her space, given the opportunity. and from now on she won't have the same freedoms she had before, having to keep her guard up even behind closed doors.

if she can't get rid of him ASAP, that is. his attempt at humor doesn't get him anywhere, and Carmilla wrinkles her nose in obvious annoyance, before bouncing straight to her next question. ) Who were you stuck with before? We'll just send you back. Wait, is anyone else in the picture? ( because she's mildly realized that he might not be the only unwelcome addition to the portraits decorating all the walls, and feels compelled to go make sure she hasn't inherited a new husband. she can't leave him in the kitchen, though, because he was heading for a stranger's fridge even before she ambushed him. she grabs his arm and none too subtly herds him toward the hall to find a picture, and there's obvious relief in the set of her shoulders to actually see it.

she's putting a cake in front of him, holding a bizarrely blonde baby (considering she's dark haired and dark eyed), slicking a bandage over a skinned knee. tousling hair on the first day of school. she's not exactly jumping for joy to have him transplanted in her house, but at least he's not supposed to be her husband. ) You got a name, or just sass?

( don't sass your momma, Anduin!!! how dare you! )

[ Anduin knows better than to judge someone's competency from just their looks. Back home there are warriors and champions from all corners and he knows for a fact that the smallest gnome could easily take out the tallest orc with a few well placed hits. At least he's dressed in slacks and a shirt, having the forethought to pull something on when getting out of bed.]

I was with James Mace but they have been gone a while now. [ Before Anduin can elaborate he's being dragged into the hall to look at the pictures and just seeing them is jarring enough for Anduin to fall silent. Such supposed cherished memories, all ones that the young King knows he would have shared with his father. This place almost mocks it, mocks the fact his own mother had died when he was a baby and that has his lips momentarily thinning before he gives himself an internal shake.]

Anduin Wrynn. Yourself?

( it's weird for her, too, but not as viscerally uncomfortable as the portraits that painted her as a happy little wife. she's never been a mother — too young to want to be when she died, and too undead to really consider it a possibility after the fact. she's looked after siblings, newly turned and ravenous, but it's never been maternal. sisterly at best. because Maman expected her to and she had no other choice but to fill the role her mother requested, or else, at worst.

she hadn't ever thought to want to be a mother, and thusly has no strong convictions about the falsified memories painted across the wall. it's still uncomfortable, though, in the uncanny valley sense. looking at herself happy, taking care and consideration in a life that wasn't her own or beneficial to her. of course that's bound to be disconcerting, but thankfully not viscerally disturbing. she can handle a fake kid, though hopefully she can ditch him fast.

though, that idea seems less likely, with the idea he already had a parent that up and disappeared. sounds familiar. )

Carmilla. ( would this make him a Karnstein, or was she still stuck with Ian's name, despite the fact he'd been gone longer than he'd been around? ) I'll drive you over. If the house is still empty, I don't see why you couldn't stay there. If anyone asks we can tell them you've left the nest.

I was already staying there on my own for some time before this place decided to move me without asking.

[ Only a small hint of bitterness there. Anduin has had it with this place doing shit when he's least expecting it. At first he'd thought that going through a door and ending up under some ice in the lake had been the worst and then things had simply escalated. He supposes waking up in a new house with a new parent isn't that bad, but he can understand how uncomfortable it must be for Carmilla who had been minding their own business before walking in to all of this.]

I don't mind going over there but I get the feeling that the house will either not be there or someone else could be living in it. This place does like it's games.

[ Anduin looks at the photos again, this time somewhat thoughtful as he mulls something over. He grew up without a mother (though his father and others often spoke fondly of her). It isn't as if he needs one now and Anduin nods to himself as if coming to some kind of decision. The smile he gives Carmilla is small, but honest.]

Don't worry, I am not expecting you to be a parent, I am quite capable of looking after myself.

( she doesn't hold it against him. there's few things Carmilla resents more than a loss of agency, and yet it seems to keep happening, whether she likes it or not. forcibly dragged back from undeath, a ring she didn't ask for slapped on her finger, and putting her back on blood the second she actively started to realize how happy she was to be human again.

she supposes things are bound to get worse the longer she stays here, what with the mass kidnapping and surgical experimentations that went around a little while ago. keeping her head down and her disinterest obvious is apparently not enough to absolve her of the town's shenanigans, which is annoying, because that's her usual strategy to keep her head above water and the rest of her out of the crossfire. )

It's worth a shot. I liked having my own space as much as you did, I'm sure. Actually, probably more. ( and if it is occupied, well... believe it or not (and many people wouldn't), she's not quite so heartless to leave someone homeless because she doesn't like to share. and not just because she suspects the Santa Rosita police force would forcibly return her not-son if she banished him to sleeping on park benches.

his offer that he doesn't expect her to be a mother earns a husky laugh. ) There wasn't much of a chance of mothering either way, but I do appreciate the carte blanche on neglecting you.

[ falco comes in from the front door when he'd honestly just gone through his bedroom door ripe and ready for school, messenger bag hanging from his side and dressed appropriately for a boy stuck in 1961, right when she talks about floating the whole house. ah— he recognizes the voice, and the dark hair hidden halfway behind the couch's inside back. everything is— floaty, yes, and for the time being, that's all his eyes could really follow. especially the glass that hovers right in front of him and straight into the kitchen.

until she said fucking, ah yes, that's all he needed to hear. well, not falco. his beeping little friend that wails harshly to censor the vampire's mouth! the boy winces and squeaks when the sound only eases off by a pinch, and by then carmilla might just know who it is without needing to turn her head. ]

Ack—! [ the single glass that was enjoying a flight in circles before him falls with a sharp crack as glass scatters. of course, he's just missing the jaw extensions, good as new and looking as normal as a boy should. he doesn't even have the scars to prove it happened. ] O-oh, no—

Edited 2021-03-19 18:18 (UTC)

( the beeping is admittedly familiar. her household has been notably transient lately, with people showing up in rooms and pictures and then fading out again within a few days, sometimes even hours. it's pretty annoying, honestly. she's spent more time out more often than not to avoid interacting with people, because interacting with people is the worst.

sadly, there are also people outside of her house, in addition to inside of it. so it's really picking the lesser of two evils, and she's not interested in dealing with townies today. she lifts onto her elbows to turn and look at the incessant beeping, and her expression colors with familiarity. )

Oh. It's you. ( of all the strangers ambling around her house unwelcome, Falco isn't the worst. ) Even swearing does it, huh? ( the beeping, she means. the couch tilts uncomfortably, like trying to tip a cat out of their bed even as they petulantly refuse to notice gravity. )

. . . Yeah. [ he’s trying to figure out how he’d get it out, but for that he’d probably need levi again. or someone fine with knocking out a kid and opening them up. falco reaches down into a crouch to begin cleaning the glass chunks, starting with the larger shards and pinching them cautiously into his open palm. the furniture is still at it and so is carmilla to the point that he’s wondering how she’s managed to stay like that until now. ] Sorry about your glass, Miss Carmilla. I’ll clean it up.

[ before the poltergeist gets ideas. ]

Whatever. It's not really mine, anyway.

( she slinks off the couch with catlike grace, apparently possessing a skill in navigating hauntings that one wouldn't have anticipated. this isn't letting the ghost win, all right, because Carmilla is too petulant to hand over a victory when she's dug her heels in. it's just that she has something better to do and that makes the ghost the loser, not her.

almost as if to spite her, the couch settles gently back on the floor once she's abandoned it. Carmilla does not dignify the insult with a response. ) Knock it off with the miss. And get a broom before you slice your hands up.

( Carmilla has never used it personally but surely there's one floating around here somewhere. maybe literally, depending on if her poltergeist has hit the kitchenette yet. )

[ at least she seems alright with all of this . . . was that good? calm was always good in the right place. ]

Yes— Okay. [ he was about to say "ma'am", assuming that also falls under the "miss" formality— he's knocking it off and scurrying off to find the broom with a soft "excuse me" as he explore the rest of the house leading to the kitchen. and there it is: just out of his reach. falco tries for a stretched reach on his toes first, ] You seem to be doing, [ he hops and would've caught it; the ghost finds it funny to lift the handle just out of his reach again. ] alright with these—

( are the poltergeists the ones meant to be the one excusing her presence, or herself? Carmilla says nothing and the ghosts don't seem to respond positively, instead floating the broom perilously just out of reach. apparently the ghosts haunting Carmilla's house are just as petulant and rude as she is. )

This s... stuff happens all the time back at home. ( is that too leading? maybe, maybe not. this sort of thing was not at all weird at Silas, though granted, Silas was a hotspot for supernaturals thanks to her mother's residency as Dean and tendency to tuck powerful creatures under her wings for delegation purposes.

she plucks the broom from the air (and has to tug at the resistance trying to keep it aloft) before she hands it to Falco. ) You're like the 8th spontaneous intruder in the past three days. Strangers in and out without warning is way more annoying than a haunting.

[ thank you for the self censorship! surely, he'll find a way to get this beeper off of him to avoid the problem. unlike his mandibles though, they weren't exactly visible . . . or even possible to rip out the way they had (but showed no sign of). falco's thanks to the broom retrieval is soft and accompanied by the acknowledging nod of his head, stepping toward the glass shards and sweeping them into a little mound. ]

I wonder if we could lock our doors— or keep them all open . . . [ but that would mean they'd have to still, like. interact with the frame that transported them from the bathroom to the supermarket. ] Ghosts happen—?

[ it's important to know. ]

( don't point out that Carmilla was a decent halfway human being and amended her vulgarities because she feels bad about setting off his censors or she'll probably go back to swearing like a sailor to prove him wrong. or she'd make some hamfisted excuse that all the beeping was getting on her nerves, which would be mean, so either way it's better to just not. )

Sure. Ghosts, hauntings, crow attacks, giant mushrooms that turn people into zombies. If Silas University crops up as a college option, cutie, do yourself a favor and don't bother.

( it at least means she's more or less used to weird bullshit going on around her, though Carmilla has yet to adopt a complete indifference to it. she's used to weird shit, but that doesn't mean she enjoys it. especially when it results in strangers waltzing through her house when they meant to be walking into school. no offense, Falco. )

What, that sort of stuff not a thing for you back home?

[ now, to scoop it up. he's looking around fora shovel that he swore he saw somewhere, maybe floating around? to his dismay in trying to find it, it's . . . on the ceiling. disappointed, falco's hands swing back down to his sides. better to make do than waste time trying to get that thing, right? all he needs is a piece of paper or something. ]

There're stories . . . But not the real thing. [ as far as he knows— he's never seen a dead person. ] Some people can turn into titans back home.

[ he wouldn't have otherwise mentioned it, but while they're talking about weird and unwanted things . . . ! ]

( well, since Carmilla isn't actually that much taller than Falco (only about eight inches, oof), she cannot help him with the dustpan on the ceiling. he's just gonna have to suffer, and make do. she sits on the counter to watch him clean up, because she cannot be content unless she's lounging in some way, and it appropriately emphasizes her lazy nature so he knows not to ask if she'll help. )

As far as you know, anyway. ( as a supernatural creature herself, she knows that most magical and undead things don't usually declare themselves as such. at least not to humans, if they can help it. but she doesn't point that out, because that phrasing is sort of telling, isn't it? and surprise, Falco, you have seen a dead person! hi.

she squints slightly at the mention of titans, curious enough to press further. ) Titans? We talking like greek mythology?

[ ever polite, falco even asks to excuse him when he finds the morning newspaper (maybe some days old, maybe not) to use that for their pan. as he diligently sweeps: ]

No, [ he's actually had this class! interesting, but not the same. ] they're not Gods. They were people, like . . . [ falco remembers something that pings better. ] Zombies. They eat humans.

Gnarly, ( Carmilla notes, even with a curled lip of disdain, as if she does not in fact eat people. look, she's at least self aware that it's kinda gnarly. )

What made them? An angry god? A curse? Some horrific mutation? ( is it weird to be so openly curious about cannibalistic monsters? uh, maybe! but color her curious, anyway. game respects game. )

[ gnarly..... a new vocabulary word that falco might use at the wrong time. ]

A lot of the stories we’re told say that one of our descendants made a pact with the devil— And others say she came in contact with something strange. [ marley had its sources, but one thing was certain, as he brings himself up to his feet and holds the pan close to his waist to look for the garbage, ] We don’t really know what, but . . . It’s kind of like a curse.

( OPEN ) FEBRUARY CATCH-ALL

OPEN PROMPTS. (MAR)

prompt a.

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happy families (b)!

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i SWORE i replied to this ?? and yet ??? ? ??

dw is spooky

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