There's a place back home this reminds Eddy of. Mama hangs out there, when she's meeting with less reputable folk. The dust his broom-turned-bo staff passively kicks up is indistinguishable from all the smoke in the air.
A few seconds pass before Eddy's eyes adjust to the lighting, but when they do, an uncomfortable jolt of rage kicks through him. This time Eddy recognizes the man, younger perhaps, less gray, less wrinkles, but this is the man he'd witnessed Pouch hand his heart over to not long ago. The man who had smiled and sweet talked. He doesn't want to see this memory, but he watches.
Eddy's muggle experiences are limited. A couple months in this school or that one in that time between Lubbock and finding family with Wyatt and his mom. He doesn't remember much. Lots of hand held gaming devices and cellphones. The muggle world has changed so much since this memory took place, but he doesn't understand that.
"Pass," he says and knocks the glass over towards Bland. It's childish and his mother would be aghast, but she's not here right now and it makes him feel just an iota better.
The glass doesn't fall, because Burton Bland catches it. He turns his head and smiles a warm, cinnamon smile. "No need to rescue anyone here. Everything's happening just as it should."
Chanel will never admit it later, but she jumps about five feet into the air. Or maybe that's just the fact that the shoes she's wearing are too tall. None of the memories have interacted with them before.
It feels, suddenly, that they've fallen into a horrible trap and all she can summon is every ounce of mean girl energy she's accrued over 17 years, arching one perfect eyebrow even as she rests her hands on her record-swords.
"Didn't you die?" She sounds horribly unimpressed.
Eddy's reaction isn't much different, just add some loud expletives to the mix. Shock and surprise quickly turnover to renewed anger at this man's voice, his smile, his confident words, and Eddy's first instinct is not talking, but he restrains his fists, for now.
"Did a fucking grand job of it," he snarls, stepping shoulder-to-shoulder with Chanel, and shifting into a guard stance, both hands firmly gripping his staff and ready to spring if this man tries to do anything to her.
Burton Bland reclines back in the booth with a lift of his eyebrows. He is so easy in his manner, so affable, but here, in this context, it radiates danger. Slowly, carefully, he slips his hand over the back of the booth, like he's finding a comfortable way to sit, making himself look open. "Oh? Oh, no. I did exactly what I was supposed to do. It was the ingredients that were bad. The fire that burns the wall between those of you with magic and those without is just..." he tips his head to the side, "Well, it was stuck. Now it's going to do what was asked of it."
Another smile. Burton Bland takes a drink of his beer. "That and so much more."
"And what more?" Chanel presses her shoulder against Eddy's, desperately recalling how deeply she felt her roots grow in the memory with all the weeping cicadas. She tries for just a little of that resolve, standing her ground. And she keeps prodding. She wants answers. The wall, the fire, are upsetting, though, and she can't wrap her head around it just yet. There's lower hanging fruit. "You know, that's a part of this I've never understood. How do you expect a...a tacky purple invasive plant to take you to eternity, anyway? It certainly isn't doing any wonders for campus decor."
Every little shift makes Eddy's fingers tense on his staff further, and he gets the distinct impression that this man isn't feeling the least bit threatened by them. He wishes he felt the same way. This memory is all dark corners, but taking eyes off this man for more than a few seconds seems like the greatest risk.
Should have asked Pouch to find his damn wand.
"Place looks like shit," Eddy agrees, pressing his shoulder back against Chanel's. Whatever happens, they're in this together. Two Thorntrails, standing their ground. It's still all false bravado when he adds, "Got the heart back. Brood's coming back. Seems like you're still fucking up."
"Well, taste is subjective," says Burton Bland with a tip of his head to the side. "And that," he pokes a finger forward, toward Eddy, and winks, "Just a minor setback."
Burton Bland downs the rest of his beer, though the glass is full once more when he sets it back on the table and leans forward in his seat. "The heart was a key for a door that's wide open, now. I'm here. And there's nothing you can do about that..."
Something seeps from the sleeves of Burton Bland's jacket. Gray mist, shadows, something like worms.
This man is infuriating, but, she reminds herself, they are talking to a shadow. At best. This is still only a memory. She stands more firmly. “Doors can be closed.” She says, “and roots can be pulled up.” She spares a wink up at Eddy to clue him in, stroking the bladed knuckles of her cestus, readying herself. “...And anyway, darling, you’re leaking.”
She lunges out to punch-slash at Burton Stupid Bland, because if she’s going to die here, she at least wants the first hit.
Edited (I...assumed...cestus were sword...disregard ) 2020-06-10 21:31 (UTC)
A soft elbow bump of agreement, and Eddy allows Chanel her few seconds head start, but he's right at her back as soon as she moves. While Chanel shows off that her tongue is as sharp as her blades, the only linguistic demonstration Eddy performs is that his vocabulary doesn't extend much beyond "fuck" and with a strong kick, he sends the booth table toppling onto Bland's lap as he thrusts his staff hard against the man's chest, hoping to keep him an easy target for Chanel's blades.
Burton Bland is almost caught off guard. Almost. (ROLLED 5 + 1) Chanel can feel her fist hit his face, the blade cutting into ... something. His face splits, though not as intended, peeling away like a timelapse shot of a flower mid-bloom. Burton Bland is only half a man, from the waist up, he is something horrible. A green gray anemone growing out of a man's waist and it's already swinging for the two junior Thorntrailers.
Eddy manages to pin Bland's waist in the booth at least (ROLLED 8) crushing him hard into place. The reach on those tentacles is just enough, though, (ROLLED 4) to slaps Eddy so hard he spins.
Ah, time for a good ol' bar brawl. The aisles are narrow enough in here that the blow causes Eddy to take a chin to a table, but he catches himself before any serious damage is sustained.
After the cultists, the reality of Burton 'Tentacle Hell' Bland shouldn't be surprising, and yet, "The fuck?" There he goes flexing that vocabulary again.
"Ew." Is her assessment. And, no, that's helpful. Eddy wouldn't be able to wonder what the fuck if he's too hurt. So now Chanel only has to spare a half-glance to make sure she's okay. She tries to jump on the table behind the tentacles, then punches back out at the one that had hit Eddy. No one got to do that.
Edited (I can read I promise) 2020-06-10 23:22 (UTC)
"Yeah," he grunts as he gets back to his feet. This staff is neat and all (literally), but Eddy's used to doing things with his goddamn fists. With a short running start, he throws himself over the upturned table, grabs onto some tentacles and yanks with all of his noodley might.
Eventually, through the magic of RP Time, Burton Bland crumples to the floor, just a pile of dust. The scene rewinds, the man in the tweed suit resuming his place at the booth, as if he never even noticed the two teens eavesdropping on his conversation.
"And what in the Hell is all this shit, man? Looks satanic," Henry shuffles the stack more, flourishing out a collection of handwritten notes. Symbols and diagrams cover the page. Words and phrases like "heart" and "leyline" stand out. "It ain't you, Burt."
"That, Henry," says Burton Bland with a casual flick of his wrist, "Is what's going to dissolve the wall that separates us from them."
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peckenpaugh2020-06-01 11:18 am
MEMORY: Planting A Seed
A few seconds pass before Eddy's eyes adjust to the lighting, but when they do, an uncomfortable jolt of rage kicks through him. This time Eddy recognizes the man, younger perhaps, less gray, less wrinkles, but this is the man he'd witnessed Pouch hand his heart over to not long ago. The man who had smiled and sweet talked. He doesn't want to see this memory, but he watches.
Eddy's muggle experiences are limited. A couple months in this school or that one in that time between Lubbock and finding family with Wyatt and his mom. He doesn't remember much. Lots of hand held gaming devices and cellphones. The muggle world has changed so much since this memory took place, but he doesn't understand that.
"Pass," he says and knocks the glass over towards Bland. It's childish and his mother would be aghast, but she's not here right now and it makes him feel just an iota better.
"Who're we rescuing here?"
MEMORY: Planting A Seed
MEMORY: Planting A Seed
It feels, suddenly, that they've fallen into a horrible trap and all she can summon is every ounce of mean girl energy she's accrued over 17 years, arching one perfect eyebrow even as she rests her hands on her record-swords.
"Didn't you die?" She sounds horribly unimpressed.
MEMORY: Planting A Seed
"Did a fucking grand job of it," he snarls, stepping shoulder-to-shoulder with Chanel, and shifting into a guard stance, both hands firmly gripping his staff and ready to spring if this man tries to do anything to her.
MEMORY: Planting A Seed
Another smile. Burton Bland takes a drink of his beer. "That and so much more."
MEMORY: Planting A Seed
MEMORY: Planting A Seed
Should have asked Pouch to find his damn wand.
"Place looks like shit," Eddy agrees, pressing his shoulder back against Chanel's. Whatever happens, they're in this together. Two Thorntrails, standing their ground. It's still all false bravado when he adds, "Got the heart back. Brood's coming back. Seems like you're still fucking up."
MEMORY: Planting A Seed
Burton Bland downs the rest of his beer, though the glass is full once more when he sets it back on the table and leans forward in his seat. "The heart was a key for a door that's wide open, now. I'm here. And there's nothing you can do about that..."
Something seeps from the sleeves of Burton Bland's jacket. Gray mist, shadows, something like worms.
MEMORY: Planting A Seed
“...And anyway, darling, you’re leaking.”
She lunges out to punch-slash at Burton Stupid Bland, because if she’s going to die here, she at least wants the first hit.
MEMORY: Planting A Seed
A soft elbow bump of agreement, and Eddy allows Chanel her few seconds head start, but he's right at her back as soon as she moves. While Chanel shows off that her tongue is as sharp as her blades, the only linguistic demonstration Eddy performs is that his vocabulary doesn't extend much beyond "fuck" and with a strong kick, he sends the booth table toppling onto Bland's lap as he thrusts his staff hard against the man's chest, hoping to keep him an easy target for Chanel's blades.
MEMORY: Planting A Seed
Eddy manages to pin Bland's waist in the booth at least (ROLLED 8) crushing him hard into place. The reach on those tentacles is just enough, though, (ROLLED 4) to slaps Eddy so hard he spins.
MEMORY: Planting A Seed
After the cultists, the reality of Burton 'Tentacle Hell' Bland shouldn't be surprising, and yet, "The fuck?" There he goes flexing that vocabulary again.
MEMORY: Planting A Seed
MEMORY: Planting A Seed
MEMORY: Planting A Seed
"And what in the Hell is all this shit, man? Looks satanic," Henry shuffles the stack more, flourishing out a collection of handwritten notes. Symbols and diagrams cover the page. Words and phrases like "heart" and "leyline" stand out. "It ain't you, Burt."
"That, Henry," says Burton Bland with a casual flick of his wrist, "Is what's going to dissolve the wall that separates us from them."