aunamee ❱❱ anomie (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
marcato) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
diademlogs2026-02-04 04:15 pm
marcato) wrote in diademlogs2026-02-04 04:15 pm
february catchall | open
Who: Aunamee and you
Where: Panorama and the fringes
When: Throughout the month!
What: Aunamee is coping with his recent death by watching terrible ghost weddings, crashing his car, and pretending his god still loves him.
Warnings: Sadism, talk of death, more to come (probably)
[He's been here for eight hours.
No. He's been here for eight hours today. The cumulative hours are far greater -- perhaps closer to thirty at this point, not including the six hour drive in each direction. As tempted as he's been to sleep in his car and spare himself the commute, there are certain lines he won't cross, lines that make him look too --
(desperate)
-- imprecise, and so he forces himself to go home now and again. To shower. To sleep in a place with clean sheets.
Otherwise, he watches. Again. And again.
And again.
a. Sometimes, Aunamee observes from the third row with perfect posture, periodically glancing down at the notebook in his lap. He's counting down to something, his white-gloved fingers twitching in a regular rhythm. When the bride throws her champagne glass at 4:32 PM, he doesn’t flinch. Instead, he writes down the time.
b. Other times, you can find him weaving around the specters, sometimes silent, sometimes speaking aloud, predicting calamities with the calm voice of a priest. "You will remove the knife from your bouquet after he calls you a whore," he tells the maid of honor. "You will stop breathing ten minutes from now," he tells the groom. They don't hear him. He doesn't need them to.
c. Sometimes, late in the day, he takes a slice of wedding cake and eats it with a fork while the groom bleeds out six feet away.
d. One day, on the way back to his motel, he falls asleep at the wheel, just enough for the car to drift across the center line, tires catching gravel before he jerks awake with a sharp inhale and overcorrects. Does he hit your car? Do you swerve out of the way? Or do you watch his car go still after it collides with a telephone pole?]
[You see him in a bar, nursing a clear liquid that might be gin or might be water. You see him near the temp worker pickup spots in the Pavilion, where people gather at dawn hoping for day labor. You see him bruised outside of a gambling den after winning one too many poker games, gingerly smoking a cigarette.
He's always wearing white, and he always looks -- not calm, exactly, but emptied out, a husk of a man whose serenity is contingent on maintaining what little control he has.
And right now, he's in control.]
Hello.
[He turns on a smile. It's practiced, this smile, but all the practice in the world can't make his eyes look alive.
He leans forward, conversational. Conspiratorial. Up close, his eyes look as tired as they are empty, his sleeplessness concealed with foundation that doesn't quite match his skin.]
Tell me something true.
[ooc: Aunamee has an enchanted glove that can detect lies, and he'll be using it in this thread! It will only detect intentional lies, however, so if your character thinks something is true, it won't catch it.]
[Got something else in mind? Give me a ping at![[plurk.com profile]](https://plurk.com/favicon.ico)
dendrite or send a PM and we'll work something out! ]
Where: Panorama and the fringes
When: Throughout the month!
What: Aunamee is coping with his recent death by watching terrible ghost weddings, crashing his car, and pretending his god still loves him.
Warnings: Sadism, talk of death, more to come (probably)
the wedding
[He's been here for eight hours.
No. He's been here for eight hours today. The cumulative hours are far greater -- perhaps closer to thirty at this point, not including the six hour drive in each direction. As tempted as he's been to sleep in his car and spare himself the commute, there are certain lines he won't cross, lines that make him look too --
(desperate)
-- imprecise, and so he forces himself to go home now and again. To shower. To sleep in a place with clean sheets.
Otherwise, he watches. Again. And again.
And again.
a. Sometimes, Aunamee observes from the third row with perfect posture, periodically glancing down at the notebook in his lap. He's counting down to something, his white-gloved fingers twitching in a regular rhythm. When the bride throws her champagne glass at 4:32 PM, he doesn’t flinch. Instead, he writes down the time.
b. Other times, you can find him weaving around the specters, sometimes silent, sometimes speaking aloud, predicting calamities with the calm voice of a priest. "You will remove the knife from your bouquet after he calls you a whore," he tells the maid of honor. "You will stop breathing ten minutes from now," he tells the groom. They don't hear him. He doesn't need them to.
c. Sometimes, late in the day, he takes a slice of wedding cake and eats it with a fork while the groom bleeds out six feet away.
d. One day, on the way back to his motel, he falls asleep at the wheel, just enough for the car to drift across the center line, tires catching gravel before he jerks awake with a sharp inhale and overcorrects. Does he hit your car? Do you swerve out of the way? Or do you watch his car go still after it collides with a telephone pole?]
the truth
[You see him in a bar, nursing a clear liquid that might be gin or might be water. You see him near the temp worker pickup spots in the Pavilion, where people gather at dawn hoping for day labor. You see him bruised outside of a gambling den after winning one too many poker games, gingerly smoking a cigarette.
He's always wearing white, and he always looks -- not calm, exactly, but emptied out, a husk of a man whose serenity is contingent on maintaining what little control he has.
And right now, he's in control.]
Hello.
[He turns on a smile. It's practiced, this smile, but all the practice in the world can't make his eyes look alive.
He leans forward, conversational. Conspiratorial. Up close, his eyes look as tired as they are empty, his sleeplessness concealed with foundation that doesn't quite match his skin.]
Tell me something true.
[ooc: Aunamee has an enchanted glove that can detect lies, and he'll be using it in this thread! It will only detect intentional lies, however, so if your character thinks something is true, it won't catch it.]
wildcard
[Got something else in mind? Give me a ping at
Wedding A.
He's been out of sight for a bit, so he's surprised to see someone else there who isn't a ghost. To find out it's someone he recognizes is interesting, and he feels comfortable going to Aunamee and sitting down next to him in the third row. He has an enormous plate of food. Jack doesn't need to eat, but he likes to.]
I tried to free them, but it doesn't work.
(no subject)
(no subject)
the truth
The man smoking by one of the gambling dens gets a glance as Cid walks past him, and maybe it's the way his step falters that draws the man's attention. Cid's no stranger to that particular look. The bruises, the lightless eyes, the empty smile. He's seen it a lot more than he'd like. Perhaps it's his own bias that makes it so that caution is far from his first thought.
Hello. Tell me something true.
Cid raises his eyebrows. That's clearly not the opening he expected, but after a moment he shrugs, inclines his head toward the wall where the man had been smoking before, and digs a cigarillo out of his own coat. ]
Have you got a light? [ Cid leans against the alley wall. He holds the cigarillo between his thumb and forefinger, just an inch from his lips. ] Truth is, you look like you've had better nights, but I don't think you need me to tell you that.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
wedding a!
Even after so many months here, it still surprises him to walk into this where going through a set of doors means the main aisle for the wedding is Right There. Sunday quickly steps to one side thinking he'll take a seat in the row he's walked into but then motion he catches in the corner of his vision pulls his attention there. Someone sits one row ahead, is seemingly deep in observation when he turns his head to look properly before looking back to the wedding.
Until the glass is thrown and more motion shows that's being written down... and then it's safe to say Sunday is intrigued for multiple reasons. The wedding continues even as tension in the room clearly escalates but he's busy walking to the other end of the row now, quietly but not so much to go unnoticed while approaching and so as to not (immediately) interrupt whatever notes are being taken. ]
Have you been here before?
[ That seems like a good question to start with, anyway. ]
(no subject)
wedding d
But following the commotion of rescuing Lucina, all the frayed emotions and accusations and confusion that had followed, she needs some time to clear her head. Driving out an hour or so isn't going to do any harm, she reasons, and if trouble finds her? Well, she's fairly certain she'll be able to take care of a few raiders.
As it turns out, the trouble is instead the fact that a car coming the opposite direction, making its way back into the city, decides to drift into her lane.
It's only lightning-quick reflexes that allows her to swerve out of the way before the car crashes right into her much smaller motorcycle. She jerks the handlebars and skids out onto the shoulder, sending up a dust cloud and causing rubber to burn against asphalt as she comes to a violent halt.
Since it seems like the other car has also screeched to a stop, she doesn't hold back on the urge to shout over at the driver. Maybe it's quiet enough, this late at night, that he'll hear her through the closed window. ]
What do you think you're doing?!
(no subject)
the truth
It's a habit he's slowly trying to break with the growing understanding that people aren't always so easily sorted into those categories, no matter how well it's served him over the past few centuries. But this man he watches, he can tell that there is something off almost instantly. He's too...at ease. Too...flat, almost. That's the only what Astarion can describe it.
Having seen him a few times, Astarion has kept his distance up until now. But the bar is busy and Astarion needs some place to sit with his own glass of a dark red, so he does his best to show that he notices the other man, but is uninterested.
It doesn't work.
Astarion raises the glass to his lips as he raises a brow. He knows the look of someone who is used to performing, forcing a smile no matter how well-practiced. It takes one to know one. ]
Something "true"?
[ He scoffs, choosing to drink before responding. ]
I've heard better opening lines than that. [ That is true. He scans the other man up and down. ] But they're usually better dressed. [ That is not true. Not exactly. ]