Astarion Ancunin

[scrapdraught]

omg she's a reporter

it's Interview with a Vampire

Comments

WEEK 1: Sunday ((cw for self harm))

[scrapdraught]

[The theatre is empty. Who wants to visit a place where death hit twice?

It's a fact Camille is counting on as she runs her fingers over the broken planks of the stage. There — a sturdy splinter. Three inches long with an unforgiving point, sturdy base.

She pries it loose and scoots to the edge of the stage, breathing thin. She pulls her sleeve back and finds a word to trace. Just trace. It's fine to follow the lines.

Babydoll. Cherry. Ripe. Fix. Senseless and feminine picks. Or there's the longer and crueler ones, like duplicitous, or wicked. More fitting words for the situation are carved in less accessible places. She shouldn't remove her jeans to rewrite wretched along the back of her thigh, and she'd need a mirror for useless, which curved under her left shoulder blade.

Worrisome. That works. Along the forearm, easy to see and cover. Smaller text swarms it on every side, coming up to the wrist, but that one had been cut in when she had more space to spare.

Camille is dragging the splinter along the second R when the door opens.]

[haematocritical]

[ wow, awkward.

although, to be fair, it's not as though he can clearly see what she's doing from all the way by the door. especially when it's something small on somewhere as general as the forearm. ]

...

[ but there's an Energy that feels off, so it's easy enough for him to say: ]

Am I interrupting? [ what? he doesn't know. ]

[scrapdraught]

[She's gone statue stiff, heart jumped up to her throat. The tip of the splinter presses a white blotch into the scar, threatening to pierce.

He's far enough away that it might not be obvious. She's been frozen long enough to look suspicious.

She curls the splinter into her fist and shakes her head. Pulls the sleeve back down.]

No.

[Fine defence she's running this Sunday.]

[haematocritical]

Oh, wonderful. I completely believe you.

[ no he doesn't.

she couldn't have been less subtle if she'd tried. ]

[scrapdraught]

[Yeah, that's about what she expected.]

All right. [Said very evenly, eyes trained on him.] You are interrupting. This is a private pity party.

[haematocritical]

I see.

[ he doesn't leave, he chose to come here of his own accord and he's staying here. ]

[scrapdraught]

[She holds, waiting for a polite exit. Which he does not take.

Camille grits her teeth. Fine. She turns and hucks the splinter back into the hole. An offering for Aventurine, why not.]

Can I help you? Were you looking for the balloons? [She juts her chin to one of the crates off to the side.] They're right over there. Take your pick.

[haematocritical]

[ of course he doesn't.

his eyes follow the splinter -- not that he can see it, but he can see something be thrown away. ]

I did come somewhere for some quiet, but now I'm here there's not much point in going elsewhere. We are all under each other's feet all the time anyway.

[scrapdraught]

Kind of fucked up to come to the site of two murders for some "me" time.

[Pot, kettle. She's putting her foot in it, but what's the point in trying not to?

Camille pushes herself off the stage, folding her arms and taking post at the centre aisle.]

But go ahead, brood then. There's plenty of space for it.

[haematocritical]

Darling, you're here too.

[ yes he will just immediately point that out. ]

And thank you, I will.

[scrapdraught]

Yeah, well. I never claimed to be a good person.

[haematocritical]

I’m not sure where you got the impression I was parading myself around as a paragon of honour of virtue either.

[ hello he is not hanging out in the lawful good column either ]

[scrapdraught]

[who invited the lawful goods anyway.

Where is this going? Probably nowhere either of them wants to be. Either he's nosy, he has a genuine reason to come snoop around the place, or he just likes a good egging on. As much as Camille revels in meeting men who aren't easily-led meatheads, she would appreciate it if he were a smidge stupider right now.

So, she'll just aim lower.]

You did very kindly elect yourself to watch over me when I was all vamped up on Wednesday. With nothing but a knife too, very noble of you.

Couldn't have been you had other reasons. No prior experience at all.

[haematocritical]

[ KABBY KABBYSON GO TO BED. ]

Oh, I’m nosey and don’t like being bitten. I wondered if you’d lost control of your monster, quite publicly as well.

[ thinks about gale being like “honestly surprised no one’s figured out the whole vampire thing yet” the other day and gazes into the distance. ]

And now you’re lurking around murder locations, picking at your own arm. Always something interesting happening with you, isn’t there my dear?

[scrapdraught]

[I TRIED TO I REALLY DID]

Uh huh.

[Bullshit. She knows what she saw. And what she smelled — while she had the ability to sniff out a meal.]

It's my assigned housing. My stuff is here. I'm allowed to come lurk as I please.

[Deftly dodging arm talk]

[haematocritical]

[ YOU TRIED YOUR BEST. ]

Whether or not you believe me is no skin off my nose. [ i’m convinced there is a vampire role out there somewhere like 👀 lmao ]

Mm, and there’s no laws on lurking in other places either. What were you doing?

[scrapdraught]

[I WOULD BE SHOCKED IF THERE WASN'T TBH it's so classic

She smiles.]

Scratching an itch.

[haematocritical]

With something you had to throw away? Interesting tactic.

[scrapdraught]

[Camille rolls her eyes. She starts her tread towards the door.]

Well, it's been scratched. I didn't need it anymore.

[He's welcome to fish through the hole for it if he wants. There's still a mess of detritus down there, it'll keep him occupied.]

Besides, no skin off my nose if you don't believe me. Right?

[She smiles, turns the handle, and stalks into the darkness.

That's enough for one night.]