[closed] f is for friends who do things together

[chiastic]

Who: Gwen, Viren, Warthrop
When: Early Feoveuer
Where: Caer Chateau Morons
What: New housemates learning to live with each other.
Warnings: n/a, will add if necessary

[For three days, the smaller of the two upstairs bedrooms is deathly quiet. The door is appears to remain closed and there is almost no sign that the inhabitant—some man with blood under his fingernails and a name that no one bothered to give Gwenaëlle when she was first saddled with him—is there at all. Once in the night, there is some dark shape on the upper floor landing and the creak of stairs. Once, the door to the basement is left just slightly ajar as if someone had stood there for a moment, but couldn't bring himself to go further.

As far as unwelcome company goes, there is very little in the way of charm. But surely there have been more dreadful apparitions to come falling through a mirror and into Aefenglom, one might reason. Anyway, there are other more pressing events than the odd man haunting the upper floor of the house. There is a festival, and a trial, and a rather spectacular series of beheadings—

Then comes the first shattering crunch from the main floor kitchen in the middle of the night. It is more pop than a crash - some glass dropped on accident, perhaps. These things happen. The crashes which follow soon after are more significant.

By the single light of the kitchen, a wraith like figure is drawing down bits of unused dishware from the cabinets one at a time. He holds each piece, studies it seriously, and then gamely flings it to the floor, before moving on to the next plate or bowl.]

Comments

[trouvaille]

( after the first time gwen finds her door open and putin laying down just outside of it, she gets into the habit of locking it before she goes to bed. the night after the executions, it feels—better, which is stupid, because everyone who hurt her is dead so it doesn't matter if her door is locked or not.

she still feels safer, after.

it isn't locked when she hears the first crash, and she's already on her feet and going to investigate when the second—the third, the fourth. she had been rushing, almost, at first, but as the shattering continues her steps slow, and the breath she takes is steadying, and she thinks, for fuck's sake with such familiar weariness. she hovers in the doorway when she reaches the kitchen, observing whoever-the-fuck-he-is apparently well enough to start smashing things and thus removing what last, limited vestiges of concern she might have been able to dredge up for his well-being, and upon consideration

she takes a plate, turns it over in her hands, and drops it. )

[chiastic]

[There's a pure, systematic quality to it - the rise and fall of his arm rote nearly to the point of being mechanical. It is not thoughtless. He is so fixed on the subject that when the secondary crash comes, it actually seems to startle him. In certainly interrupts the rhythm of pause-examine-destroy that he's worked himself into.

The man with his scraggly beard and long greasy hair looks at her. He regards at the bits and pieces of glass sprayed between them as if shocked by them, and her, and by the shape of the kitchen in which they find themselves. Then, with a curt nod of approval, he resumes his work.

He takes no particular pleasure in it - the clatter and pop is grating to the extreme -, but what else is there to be done? He has seen what ruining things does for desperate men, and has archly decided that it is worth experimentation on some small, reasonable scale. Isn't that right, John?

The thought makes him laugh. It's an unpleasant sound.]

[bloodwit]

[ viren arrives, somewhat belatedly; the first clatter of a dish breaking had likewise been dismissed, the second a draw for alarm. that it becomes almost rhythmic is a draw for further perplexity. he'd taken to (eventually) bolting toward the source - bundled up in some scarlet robe, looking frazzled in a way that contrasts a typically neat appearance. ]

[ he stops in his tracks. it takes him a moment to adjust to what he's seeing, gaze darting between the two. but then his voice can likely clap through even the noise of dinnerware shattering, ]

What—

[ there's a pause, remembering how many bizarre answers he's received to "—are you doing?" in his months here. this is exactly as it looks, he surmises. ]

—is the purpose to this?

[trouvaille]

Our new housemate is seeking catharsis, ( gwenaëlle announces, ) or petulance, I don't know, but I found it very cathartic.

( she dusts off her hands, surveying the damage and picking her way back out of the kitchen. )

You'll want to replace those as well when you get your groceries, ( she informs warthrop, matter of fact. to viren: ) Buzz me on the watch if you want to borrow anything from my kitchen in the meantime.

[chiastic]

Catharsis! [The ragged man barks out a laugh - Ha!. There is a last serving plate which he fetches down from the topmost shelf, weighing it gamely in his hands.] How very Greek. Blood purifying blood and curing the madness of Proetus' daughters.

[The platter is summarily flung to the floor, bursting into a multitude of porcelain.]

[bloodwit]

[ viren shoots gwen a testy look, his eyebrows furrowing in partial consternation (as if he hadn't just seen her break a plate herself, he thinks! and what's worse, he laments, doesn't know anything about these greeks) (but there must be relief there, somewhere, that he's permitted to use her stash--).

it's too late? early? to be this upset about dishware. he takes a few steadying breaths, moves a hand to knead between his eyes, even if his shoulders jump as he hears another plate shatter. ]

[ the hand gets thrown down back to his side. ]

And you will replace them, yes—?

[trouvaille]

( while her snap judgment of warthrop is admittedly cynical, gwen will be awfully surprised if being politely told he needs to replace the things he's breaking is actually going to be enough. that she found him in here throwing a tantrum sort of speaks for itself, as a first impression. she says— )

See if he leaves any to use and make a judgment on that likelihood.

( which might or might not be enough to explain her logic in shamelessly joining in. it's fine. if there are any left unbroken and this room isn't clean the next time she looks at it, she has a plan.

whether or not viren will think that plan is also insane remains to be seen. )

It's my experience that angry men prefer breaking things that inconvenience other people than themselves.

[chiastic]

[From amidst the cacophony of broken, scattered glass, the drawn thin mad with his ragged beard makes a short, aborted sound - as if beginning to laugh again, only to realize he can't stand the sound.]

What does it matter? We may as well eat out of our cupped hands, crouched around a fire like your ancestors did. Don't pretend [he spits, bristling suddenly. The thought has only just occured to him.] that we're any better than they are. We're all just animals, feeling around in the dark and finding a load of—

[Ah, there is another bowl up here after all.]

—shit to burn.

[Crash.]