Beryl heard her dice rattle like the click bones and her bones rattle like the click of dice. Her wrist cricked rapidly, she waved it in a casually violent counter-clockwise spin. Her hand, thus, flourished. Life, motion, polluted it.
She wore a sympathetic smile. Ophelia perhaps asked for sympathy as the first lost to the random chance of determinism. Michael perhaps asked for sympathy when he begged for irrelevant forgiveness, or! Maybe Beryl liked giving him sympathy regardless of the circumstances. Her sympathetic smile honed in onto a particularly plain section of wall like any other plain section of wall.
Her hand still spun vertically horizontal the second after she let the bones fall to the table.
Mathematically, she produced many iterations of a number. The most likely relevant, sixteen.
She continued to vaguely smile and vaguely nod and she didn't stare at anyone in particular, save for those moments when she enjoyed their company in the abstract.
Concretely, the dice cascaded with gentle cadence onto Philip's side of the table. Beryl's underhand aim proved to be a lazy drawl's worth of accurate.
"Sorry..!"
Two's worth of all of them were all saying it now, for whatever reason.
Random Reality
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Grand Moff Hissa
- Posts: 2756
- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 1:37 am
"It's cool, it's cool," Phillip said, trying to retrieve the dice cool-like, but he wasn't some slick gambler so he pretty much just picked them up. One he set to the side, for Lucas, who was now out along with Ophelia, which Phillip thought kind of fitting, like they'd arrived together and now they were both out together. He gave Lucas a nod and a sympathetic smile, then lazily tossed the dice up in the air like he was going to catch them again, like that cool gambler he wasn't. It didn't quite work out, though; he caught two but the third bounced off the side of his hand and fell on the floor and skipped off somewhere out of sight under the coffee table.
"One sec," Phillip said, "I meant to do that."
Blatantly untrue, of course, but he said it with an air of self deprecation that said he knew it was clearly phony, it was supposed to be, he was making fun of himself. He ducked down, leaned close to the floor, scanned for a second and found the errant die hadn't gone far at all. It was nestled by the leg of the coffee table, sort of on the inside edge, cozy next to a lost tortilla chip from some movie night gone by. Phillip just left that where it was like it didn't exist and scooped the die up and popped back into his seat, quickly rolling all three dice to cover his embarrassment and their momentum up.
And there it was, the one-two-three special as punishment for Phillip's failure to repeat his overblown rolling ritual. A total of six was atrocious. He wasn't necessarily out, but statistically the odds were looking pretty bad. But that's how fate worked, so he gave a little shrug and passed the dice to Michael.
"Your go."
"One sec," Phillip said, "I meant to do that."
Blatantly untrue, of course, but he said it with an air of self deprecation that said he knew it was clearly phony, it was supposed to be, he was making fun of himself. He ducked down, leaned close to the floor, scanned for a second and found the errant die hadn't gone far at all. It was nestled by the leg of the coffee table, sort of on the inside edge, cozy next to a lost tortilla chip from some movie night gone by. Phillip just left that where it was like it didn't exist and scooped the die up and popped back into his seat, quickly rolling all three dice to cover his embarrassment and their momentum up.
And there it was, the one-two-three special as punishment for Phillip's failure to repeat his overblown rolling ritual. A total of six was atrocious. He wasn't necessarily out, but statistically the odds were looking pretty bad. But that's how fate worked, so he gave a little shrug and passed the dice to Michael.
"Your go."
I bid you all dark greetings!
So... yeah... Phillip was probably fucked. The whole series of events that had occurred since Michael'd arrived felt like a condensed version of literally the worst trainwreck ever. Michael nodded and took the dice from Phillip.
"Hoookay..."
He rolled. Five, three, two.
"Ten." he said, before passing the dice to Beryl.
"Hoookay..."
He rolled. Five, three, two.
"Ten." he said, before passing the dice to Beryl.
none of you can prove im in v8
I'm losing my edge.
I'm losing my edge.
Beryl smiled.
"Me and you."
She passed the dice back to Michael with a gentle flourish of her overly colorful fingers.
"Me and you."
She passed the dice back to Michael with a gentle flourish of her overly colorful fingers.
"Five."
none of you can prove im in v8
I'm losing my edge.
I'm losing my edge.
"I win."
She'd gotten the dice back from Michael quickly. She didn't sound too excited about her victory, nebulously so maybe.
But the dice were, by convention, hers to keep now. She thought. The implications of the rules could be read very differently based on how one assembled words in English. Beryl was fond of a 'assume the most of every single word' approach herself. Connotation was colorful.
"Well, I'll be literally putting you all to task," she quipped with a giggle that quickly vanished into it's own echo. "We're all still on board? I suppose now is the time to make sure." She supposed, supposedly. Some supposition.
She'd gotten the dice back from Michael quickly. She didn't sound too excited about her victory, nebulously so maybe.
But the dice were, by convention, hers to keep now. She thought. The implications of the rules could be read very differently based on how one assembled words in English. Beryl was fond of a 'assume the most of every single word' approach herself. Connotation was colorful.
"Well, I'll be literally putting you all to task," she quipped with a giggle that quickly vanished into it's own echo. "We're all still on board? I suppose now is the time to make sure." She supposed, supposedly. Some supposition.
Ophelia had dissociated out of her body. Gosh, that was boring. The only noises were coming from the industrial heater in the walls, the quick quibs from the people who were left in the dice rolling game, and the noise of the ruby hitting the table. She was eliminated the first round and had to wait for all of them to go through it. Most people were here weren't friends, Lucas was the closest thing to a friend here and she wanted to make him happy, so she didn't make a scene and left.
Thinking about Lucas, she wondered what was really his relationship with Beryl and the crew. He did answer her question about it earlier, but she was wondering if there was anything else. She squinted, trying to find any memories in her brain about him. She saw him in classes, in school, sometime when she walked by the cafeteria. She saw him in the library once, he was a reading a book. Wuthering Heights. She knew it was a Kate Bush song, she liked it. But a book? She wondered if Kate Bush had wrote it, but to her surprise that wasn't the case.
She decided to get the book at the library after Lucas was done with it. Reading was annoying, but she got through it. She thought Catherine was a bit of a cunt and Heathcliff had as much charm as a dead dog rotting in a boiler room. At least the movie was better, well, the BBC series. It was fun to watch. She did prefer the opera version, she liked when Bernard Herrmann's the most. There was something about his directing that made it so interesting. Bernard J. Taylor's version was a musical, but it didn't have Wuthering Heights by Kate Bush, so why even bother?
Oh! The game had ended and from a quick look of it, she would assume Michael had won. In reality, it was Beryl, but Ophelia didn't know yet. She clapped awkwardly while muttering a congratulation. That was the socially appropriate thing to do, right? Oh whatever, coming to home to Wuthering Heights, it's me Catie, let me in through your window, or something.
Thinking about Lucas, she wondered what was really his relationship with Beryl and the crew. He did answer her question about it earlier, but she was wondering if there was anything else. She squinted, trying to find any memories in her brain about him. She saw him in classes, in school, sometime when she walked by the cafeteria. She saw him in the library once, he was a reading a book. Wuthering Heights. She knew it was a Kate Bush song, she liked it. But a book? She wondered if Kate Bush had wrote it, but to her surprise that wasn't the case.
She decided to get the book at the library after Lucas was done with it. Reading was annoying, but she got through it. She thought Catherine was a bit of a cunt and Heathcliff had as much charm as a dead dog rotting in a boiler room. At least the movie was better, well, the BBC series. It was fun to watch. She did prefer the opera version, she liked when Bernard Herrmann's the most. There was something about his directing that made it so interesting. Bernard J. Taylor's version was a musical, but it didn't have Wuthering Heights by Kate Bush, so why even bother?
Oh! The game had ended and from a quick look of it, she would assume Michael had won. In reality, it was Beryl, but Ophelia didn't know yet. She clapped awkwardly while muttering a congratulation. That was the socially appropriate thing to do, right? Oh whatever, coming to home to Wuthering Heights, it's me Catie, let me in through your window, or something.
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MethodicalSlacker
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The game got a lot more intense once he had been kicked out of it. He had known that, had the game wound up in his own hands, everything would wind up fine. Everyone would go home happy, satisfied that they had been Morton's List'd out of existence and into a new stratosphere. Way up past the clouds was where they would find themselves dangling, fulfilled in their quest to end their boredom. Heads in the clouds, feet on the ground, really long legs in between.
But reality had other plans. In Lucas' opinion, the only person he'd rather have in control of the game besides himself was Phillip. It would be fitting for the master of ceremonies to be the one who had brought them all together in the first place, right? Ophelia didn't look like she quite had the spoons to handle a leadership role, and Michael was Michael and Beryl was Beryl. He'd take Beryl over Michael—at this point he had to—but he couldn't really trust either of them to deliver on the game's promises. No ill will towards the both of them, of course. They were both nice people. They just didn't really seem to have their shit together.
Ophelia clapped, which startled him a fair bit. He had almost forgotten how close she was to him. Lucas could practically feel the warmth coming off of her body which, if he was being totally honest with himself, gave him the heebie-jeebies. That feeling when someone gets really close to your neck, or your ear, and starts talking. He had a friend once who listened to ASMR videos on the regular, and when Lucas sat down to give it a go it was a straight shot to the Commonwealth of the Heebie-Jeebie for him. Which is to say he disliked it. He remembers taking the headphones off in disgust and placing them down on the table, though whether or not this memory is to be trusted is not his place to say. Lucas clapped along with her. Though the winner had been decided by chance, she was a winner regardless.
"I'm still in," Lucas said, "no ball-kicks necessary."
Not that he was planning to quit, no matter who won. He had his doubts, but he also had his dignity to keep.
But reality had other plans. In Lucas' opinion, the only person he'd rather have in control of the game besides himself was Phillip. It would be fitting for the master of ceremonies to be the one who had brought them all together in the first place, right? Ophelia didn't look like she quite had the spoons to handle a leadership role, and Michael was Michael and Beryl was Beryl. He'd take Beryl over Michael—at this point he had to—but he couldn't really trust either of them to deliver on the game's promises. No ill will towards the both of them, of course. They were both nice people. They just didn't really seem to have their shit together.
Ophelia clapped, which startled him a fair bit. He had almost forgotten how close she was to him. Lucas could practically feel the warmth coming off of her body which, if he was being totally honest with himself, gave him the heebie-jeebies. That feeling when someone gets really close to your neck, or your ear, and starts talking. He had a friend once who listened to ASMR videos on the regular, and when Lucas sat down to give it a go it was a straight shot to the Commonwealth of the Heebie-Jeebie for him. Which is to say he disliked it. He remembers taking the headphones off in disgust and placing them down on the table, though whether or not this memory is to be trusted is not his place to say. Lucas clapped along with her. Though the winner had been decided by chance, she was a winner regardless.
"I'm still in," Lucas said, "no ball-kicks necessary."
Not that he was planning to quit, no matter who won. He had his doubts, but he also had his dignity to keep.
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Grand Moff Hissa
- Posts: 2756
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"Excellent," Phillip said. "Wonderful. Great. Let's do this."
Okay, Phillip hadn't really considered how stuff would roll out if one of the least familiar players landed in the hot seat, but that was part of how this went, really, and the rules were the rules and while there were rules about which he didn't particularly care those were generally also rules he hadn't sworn a solemn oath to uphold. So now, all there was to do was to help make sure Beryl was the best possible at executing her newfound responsibilities. And he thought she'd do fine. Beryl was a creative, free spirit, it seemed, so chaos and improvisation should be familiar territory for her.
"Okay," he continued, "Beryl is now the Table Master." He almost said "Table Mistress" but like, the word "mistress" had connotations Phillip wasn't sure he quite fully liked or even understood, like one part "side piece" and one part "pimp," and not the good sort of pimp but the actual literal pimp sort of pimp. Or was that "madame" instead? He couldn't remember but it was 2018 so if anyone gave him shit for not regendering a made-up noun he'd give them shit right back for being regressive insensitive assholes. Girls could be masters too, let it be known.
"That means that only Beryl can touch the Boulder now," he continued. "Also," he added, handing her the tome, "she is the one who can refer to the tables and such. Nobody else looks until the rolling is done and the Quest and any applicable modifiers are revealed."
He nodded, smiled. He was pretty pumped, honestly, and he hoped everyone else was too. It was a little hard to get a great read on Lucas, Michael, and Ophelia, but part of that might have been that Phillip's attention was so strongly focused on himself and Beryl and the process, making sure everyone was on the same page so it didn't get messed up.
"You can roll whenever you want, and if you want to, you can make everyone do something as part of the rolling ritual, like, like do the Hokie Pokie or hang upside-down off the couch or something while the Boulder is in motion. Whatever you want, we have to do. I mean, unless it's something morally offensive to someone. But you're the Master, so it's entirely your call."
Okay, Phillip hadn't really considered how stuff would roll out if one of the least familiar players landed in the hot seat, but that was part of how this went, really, and the rules were the rules and while there were rules about which he didn't particularly care those were generally also rules he hadn't sworn a solemn oath to uphold. So now, all there was to do was to help make sure Beryl was the best possible at executing her newfound responsibilities. And he thought she'd do fine. Beryl was a creative, free spirit, it seemed, so chaos and improvisation should be familiar territory for her.
"Okay," he continued, "Beryl is now the Table Master." He almost said "Table Mistress" but like, the word "mistress" had connotations Phillip wasn't sure he quite fully liked or even understood, like one part "side piece" and one part "pimp," and not the good sort of pimp but the actual literal pimp sort of pimp. Or was that "madame" instead? He couldn't remember but it was 2018 so if anyone gave him shit for not regendering a made-up noun he'd give them shit right back for being regressive insensitive assholes. Girls could be masters too, let it be known.
"That means that only Beryl can touch the Boulder now," he continued. "Also," he added, handing her the tome, "she is the one who can refer to the tables and such. Nobody else looks until the rolling is done and the Quest and any applicable modifiers are revealed."
He nodded, smiled. He was pretty pumped, honestly, and he hoped everyone else was too. It was a little hard to get a great read on Lucas, Michael, and Ophelia, but part of that might have been that Phillip's attention was so strongly focused on himself and Beryl and the process, making sure everyone was on the same page so it didn't get messed up.
"You can roll whenever you want, and if you want to, you can make everyone do something as part of the rolling ritual, like, like do the Hokie Pokie or hang upside-down off the couch or something while the Boulder is in motion. Whatever you want, we have to do. I mean, unless it's something morally offensive to someone. But you're the Master, so it's entirely your call."
"Nice."
Michael briefly let an unconscious smile cross his face at the reveal of Beryl's victory. Half of him was like "phew great I don't have to do it" but a bit of him also felt like "oh no my life is in Beryl's hands" and that was like a lot at once.
Phillip explained what exactly Beryl had won, and Michael couldn't help but interpret some of his words in an overly ominous way. "The Quest" didn't not sound like a euphemism for human sacrifice. Apparently Beryl also got to potentially make everyone do something as part of a "ritual", and even if this """""""""RITUAL"""""""""" wasn't human sacrifice, he still didn't trust Beryl with it. Like, he could envision a plausible situation where Beryl would be like "OOoooOooK everyone tell us what your daaaaarkessssst seeecreeeeet is" and Michael would be like "I voted Nathan for class president because I wanted to feel good about myself" or "I spend an unhealthy amount of time on terrorist attack memorial websites because I like crying" and then everyone would know how much of a wreck he was inside.
He looked up at Beryl with anxious, pleading eyes.
Michael briefly let an unconscious smile cross his face at the reveal of Beryl's victory. Half of him was like "phew great I don't have to do it" but a bit of him also felt like "oh no my life is in Beryl's hands" and that was like a lot at once.
Phillip explained what exactly Beryl had won, and Michael couldn't help but interpret some of his words in an overly ominous way. "The Quest" didn't not sound like a euphemism for human sacrifice. Apparently Beryl also got to potentially make everyone do something as part of a "ritual", and even if this """""""""RITUAL"""""""""" wasn't human sacrifice, he still didn't trust Beryl with it. Like, he could envision a plausible situation where Beryl would be like "OOoooOooK everyone tell us what your daaaaarkessssst seeecreeeeet is" and Michael would be like "I voted Nathan for class president because I wanted to feel good about myself" or "I spend an unhealthy amount of time on terrorist attack memorial websites because I like crying" and then everyone would know how much of a wreck he was inside.
He looked up at Beryl with anxious, pleading eyes.
none of you can prove im in v8
I'm losing my edge.
I'm losing my edge.
(With permission, Ophelia will be GMed as needed by all other handlers in this thread.)
Now she had an audience, but, she always had an audience. Theirs were merely eyes immaterial, contrasted to the vividly mortal ones that stared at her or off-center of her general direction: before that specific point of 'herself' in space and time flew some many fractions of a light year through yet more space and time.
She could dizzy herself imagining it, but, she now had more audience than normal.
She took the tome from Phillip with pleasantly warbling eyes. Eyes could speak as loud as mouths, as Michael's did at her in a language she didn't... understand, but she did rather enjoy it. She liked how it tickled like a whisper over the soft skin of her own neck.
That moment passed pretty quickly per some arbitrary frame of reference called in some languages as 'one second', but, she enjoyed staring at Michael with a wry smile for all of that one instant. That smile was meticulously carved, of flesh, of plastic, so on. Small, infinitesimally so, noticeable only as how a bubble of silence was noticeable in a cacophony.
She contemplated the Boulder with her fingertips, with the skin on her fingertips natch. It did not feel so much like a boulder and she did rather like how unfitting the name was.
Beryl pointed the direction of Lucas, at least where he theoretically could have been if her own eyes didn't deceive her? She spoke, not quite at him, her own shoulder was in the way, though no amount of flesh was a true obstacle to the spoken word.
As she intended to prove, disprove, all at once.
"Give Ophelia.. a blessing, who will give it to... Phillip, then..." And she pointed, at each face in turn. "Phillip will give Michael that blessing. Micheal will give that blessing to me... whispers, only. Sensual and intimate, lip shy.. of ear. And I.. shall give that blessing to," she chastely kissed a dull corner of the weighty dice in her hands, it's slightly warmed surface to her sealed lips.
Now she had an audience, but, she always had an audience. Theirs were merely eyes immaterial, contrasted to the vividly mortal ones that stared at her or off-center of her general direction: before that specific point of 'herself' in space and time flew some many fractions of a light year through yet more space and time.
She could dizzy herself imagining it, but, she now had more audience than normal.
She took the tome from Phillip with pleasantly warbling eyes. Eyes could speak as loud as mouths, as Michael's did at her in a language she didn't... understand, but she did rather enjoy it. She liked how it tickled like a whisper over the soft skin of her own neck.
That moment passed pretty quickly per some arbitrary frame of reference called in some languages as 'one second', but, she enjoyed staring at Michael with a wry smile for all of that one instant. That smile was meticulously carved, of flesh, of plastic, so on. Small, infinitesimally so, noticeable only as how a bubble of silence was noticeable in a cacophony.
She contemplated the Boulder with her fingertips, with the skin on her fingertips natch. It did not feel so much like a boulder and she did rather like how unfitting the name was.
Beryl pointed the direction of Lucas, at least where he theoretically could have been if her own eyes didn't deceive her? She spoke, not quite at him, her own shoulder was in the way, though no amount of flesh was a true obstacle to the spoken word.
As she intended to prove, disprove, all at once.
"Give Ophelia.. a blessing, who will give it to... Phillip, then..." And she pointed, at each face in turn. "Phillip will give Michael that blessing. Micheal will give that blessing to me... whispers, only. Sensual and intimate, lip shy.. of ear. And I.. shall give that blessing to," she chastely kissed a dull corner of the weighty dice in her hands, it's slightly warmed surface to her sealed lips.
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MethodicalSlacker
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Lucas blanked, for more than a few moments, after hearing Beryl's request, before slowly nodding and looking down very thoughtfully at his palms.
It's not that it, the task of coming up with some kind of blessing, was specifically very strange or alien to him. It was, after all, one of the rules of the game, or at the very least a suggestion offered by the book to ensure some "karmic flow" or whatever fake-spiritual hippie-dippie mumbo-jumbo the book was pedaling as the cure to boredom. It was really Beryl's pattern of speech with regard to the object, a casually cruel affection that made him feel like the die needed to be rescued, or at least finessed away, that set him off.
That, and the prospect of whispering into Oph's ear struck Lucas as almost weirdly, strangely, creepily even, over the line, off limits, out of bounds, across the boundary, the border of the ever-present and always visible Comfort Zone, leaning up against, to his horror, his shock and awe—and not even to say that he was entirely against the idea—his reluctance, his lack of confidence despite the image of aloof apathy he tried so hard to project, it loomed dangerously close to something oddly sensual.
He looked at her, and when he saw the absolutely sultry look she gave him in return he almost flinched away again.
I don't want to be feeling the frisson I'm feeling right now, he thought, preemptively crossing his legs. He leaned over to Oph, just barely noticing the slight lean in she gave to him, and spoke into her ear.
"Blessed be the boulder," he breathed softly, "and let boredom begone."
It's not that it, the task of coming up with some kind of blessing, was specifically very strange or alien to him. It was, after all, one of the rules of the game, or at the very least a suggestion offered by the book to ensure some "karmic flow" or whatever fake-spiritual hippie-dippie mumbo-jumbo the book was pedaling as the cure to boredom. It was really Beryl's pattern of speech with regard to the object, a casually cruel affection that made him feel like the die needed to be rescued, or at least finessed away, that set him off.
That, and the prospect of whispering into Oph's ear struck Lucas as almost weirdly, strangely, creepily even, over the line, off limits, out of bounds, across the boundary, the border of the ever-present and always visible Comfort Zone, leaning up against, to his horror, his shock and awe—and not even to say that he was entirely against the idea—his reluctance, his lack of confidence despite the image of aloof apathy he tried so hard to project, it loomed dangerously close to something oddly sensual.
He looked at her, and when he saw the absolutely sultry look she gave him in return he almost flinched away again.
I don't want to be feeling the frisson I'm feeling right now, he thought, preemptively crossing his legs. He leaned over to Oph, just barely noticing the slight lean in she gave to him, and spoke into her ear.
"Blessed be the boulder," he breathed softly, "and let boredom begone."
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Grand Moff Hissa
- Posts: 2756
- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 1:37 am
"Based be the Boulder," Phillip said, his mouth really really close to Michael's ear, "and blet boredom begone."
What on earth was "blet" anyways? Phillip was pretty sure (but not entirely sure) that he'd misheard some other more real word, and also pretty sure that if he'd taken a few moments to really parse things through logically instead of immediately pushing along to Michael he could probably figure it out through a reasonable process of deduction, but that wasn't the point of this. The point was full steam ahead, get this show rolling (and get the Boulder rolling too, one of these days) and what he'd said still sounded more or less okay, like it was all positive shit and the alliteration was nice. He was pretty impressed Beryl had come up with that on the spot, and he was starting to think she'd do a really good job of this whole table master thing.
He smiled, nodded. Yep. Show on the road.
Okay, thinking more on it, "blet" was either "let" or "blyat." "Let" made contextual sense, but "blyat" was some weird Russian swear word meme shit and that seemed up Beryl's alley. He couldn't even blame Ophelia for enunciating poorly or anything; she was maybe a little quiet but the truth was Phillip was just too excited to pay perfect attention to what was currently happening; he was really fixated on what was about to happen instead.
In any event, good luck to Michael. Phillip wasn't gonna call backsies to try and fix it. Nope. Blet was now somebody else's problem.
What on earth was "blet" anyways? Phillip was pretty sure (but not entirely sure) that he'd misheard some other more real word, and also pretty sure that if he'd taken a few moments to really parse things through logically instead of immediately pushing along to Michael he could probably figure it out through a reasonable process of deduction, but that wasn't the point of this. The point was full steam ahead, get this show rolling (and get the Boulder rolling too, one of these days) and what he'd said still sounded more or less okay, like it was all positive shit and the alliteration was nice. He was pretty impressed Beryl had come up with that on the spot, and he was starting to think she'd do a really good job of this whole table master thing.
He smiled, nodded. Yep. Show on the road.
Okay, thinking more on it, "blet" was either "let" or "blyat." "Let" made contextual sense, but "blyat" was some weird Russian swear word meme shit and that seemed up Beryl's alley. He couldn't even blame Ophelia for enunciating poorly or anything; she was maybe a little quiet but the truth was Phillip was just too excited to pay perfect attention to what was currently happening; he was really fixated on what was about to happen instead.
In any event, good luck to Michael. Phillip wasn't gonna call backsies to try and fix it. Nope. Blet was now somebody else's problem.
Michael just couldn't wait for Phillip to do something to him in a "Sensual and intimate" fashion. He was really looking forwards to the sensual whispers of Phillip the clown man.
He was pretty sure this was how it went when John Wayne Gacy killed people.
Michael felt the moisture of Phillip's breath in his ear. There were many things he'd rather feel. The phrase was... Based be the Boulder, and bled boredom begone. It didn't make any grammatical sense, so Michael figured someone either fucked up or maybe Beryl was in on the whole clown cult thing because "bled" was pretty fucking ominous but whatever. Michael moved close to Beryl, cupping his hands to his mouth.
"Base be the Boulder, and bled boredom begone." he said, purposely whispering in an over-enunciated and stilted tone. He pulled away, giving Beryl a kind of "I sure hope I didn't fuck up" kind of look.
He was pretty sure this was how it went when John Wayne Gacy killed people.
Michael felt the moisture of Phillip's breath in his ear. There were many things he'd rather feel. The phrase was... Based be the Boulder, and bled boredom begone. It didn't make any grammatical sense, so Michael figured someone either fucked up or maybe Beryl was in on the whole clown cult thing because "bled" was pretty fucking ominous but whatever. Michael moved close to Beryl, cupping his hands to his mouth.
"Base be the Boulder, and bled boredom begone." he said, purposely whispering in an over-enunciated and stilted tone. He pulled away, giving Beryl a kind of "I sure hope I didn't fuck up" kind of look.
none of you can prove im in v8
I'm losing my edge.
I'm losing my edge.
Lips moved in fractal multiples of words. Beryl watched with the most idly intrusive of curiosity, watching speaking that came across silent. Neatly packaged, into the ear of another. How quaintly intimate. Beryl, of course, did approve though she was unsure she could give specifics on the how or the why. She wondered if intimacy would be present in any of their immediate futures. She could divine it in the air, if she grasped hard enough at the metaphorical straws until they bit into her skin like dog's teeth.
She let herself lean serenely into Michael's aura, such that strands of her untamed wilderness hair spooled intrusively over the table and his leg and what else there was that was merely an extension of self in how it reflected back onto her. His tone seemed like a joke, but she didn't quite get the punchline. She straightened, and observed.
He watched her for a moment, confused.
She looked back. Equally confused, but confidently smiling with eyes and with mouth for good measure. Energy tickled the spine. Also! She did like the verbiage they'd come up with. To her, it seemed profoundly succinct. From a simple prayer, they had worked a quirky sort of geomancy, wherein nature herself was called onto their game. As such:
"Bays be the Boulder, and red board on bygone."
She finished her whisper with a gentle flicker of her wrist, and the Boulder tumbled lazily through air, over table, off table as Beryl had overdone it. And, happily so.
She let herself lean serenely into Michael's aura, such that strands of her untamed wilderness hair spooled intrusively over the table and his leg and what else there was that was merely an extension of self in how it reflected back onto her. His tone seemed like a joke, but she didn't quite get the punchline. She straightened, and observed.
He watched her for a moment, confused.
She looked back. Equally confused, but confidently smiling with eyes and with mouth for good measure. Energy tickled the spine. Also! She did like the verbiage they'd come up with. To her, it seemed profoundly succinct. From a simple prayer, they had worked a quirky sort of geomancy, wherein nature herself was called onto their game. As such:
"Bays be the Boulder, and red board on bygone."
She finished her whisper with a gentle flicker of her wrist, and the Boulder tumbled lazily through air, over table, off table as Beryl had overdone it. And, happily so.