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POSTED ON May 15, 2023 3:56:25 GMT

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Lower Slateport reeked of regrets and malcontent.[break][break]

Elisabeth breathed them in with the city air, a slow, self-satisfied smile drawn across her lips as she let herself linger in this part of town that felt so separate and removed from her other life.[break][break]

"People come here at their weakest. But we aren't weak, are we? Not anymore."
[break]

Hadn't she always resisted places like this one? Hadn't she always sought to repress her desire to indulge in vice, tempted to forget pain?[break][break]

How needlessly she'd restrained herself, out of fear of what might happen if she embraced her own selfish wants.[break][break]

It was amusing, in a way. How much fear used to rule her.[break][break]

She chose her bar at random: Maractus. Quiet. Empty, mostly, aside from one person. That was fine.[break][break]

That just made seating herself beside this lonesome creature all the more tantalizing.

[attr="class","ooc"] Callan Young[break][break]

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POSTED ON May 15, 2023 6:42:07 GMT

❝

The lone figure at the bar was none other than Callan Young, or he was. Now he was inebriated mulch, draped over the counter like a Slaking in leathers.

He reclined against the polished surface of the bar table, the gleam reflecting off his brooding features as Perry, the bartender, poured more amber liquid into his tumbler.

"Some might say I'm enabling you," Perry remarked, the corner of his mouth twitching with a hint of a tease.

"You are. But I'd fire you if you stopped," Callan retorted, his words carrying a soft, humming echo, lacking the usual precision and clarity.

The world around him moved in slow motion, the edges of reality blurred and softened by the taste of double smoked whiskey.

Memories swirled in his mind, not like piercing arrows, but rather like leaves, drifting aimlessly. There was something profoundly ugly about a man wallowing in self-pity, especially when said man had almost everything.

The door of the bar creaked open, interrupting his thoughts.

For the first time since its reopening, another customer had entered into Maractus. She bore raven hair, eyes of deep crimson, and skin so pale it was almost spectral, and a low cut top that said she was out for blood.

Callan's eyes stare into hers with murky observation.

She wasn't a fan, or someone looking to latch onto his fame or fortune.

Nor was she a friendly face from his past.

This woman was a stranger, and yet... there was something vaguely familiar about her, a sense of deja vu that was twisted and contorted until it was barely recognizable.

But... right now Callan didn't much care about the why. He was too far gone, his steps mirroring those of his father's past, stumbling through the fog of inebriation.

"I don't think we have any champagne, hon," he quipped, looking at the woman with a faint squint, the words laced with a careless, drunken humor. "Upper District is where you wanna go."

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POSTED ON May 15, 2023 6:55:20 GMT

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His dismissal of her spoke to some silent expectation she possessed of him. To have it confirmed in this small way brought a smirk to her red lips.[break][break]

"Absinthe, actually," she corrected him smoothly, motioning to the bartender. A leg crossed as she leaned forward over the counter, unbothered by the sulking of her newfound companion. "Are you always in the habit of assuming what women want?"[break][break]

She knew who he was. She'd be a fool not to, even if they hadn't met before. The Elite Four were almost as famous as the band that the rockstar had been most known for; she still recalled wandering Splashfest by his side, his face on ubiquitous TERVAOLT posters that drove a constant throng of admirers his way.[break][break]

Though fame and happiness seemed to share little company with one another, if his present demeanor was any indication. The resentment that wafted from him was as tangible as the heady notes of her jasmine perfume, and just as intoxicating to her senses.

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POSTED ON May 15, 2023 14:28:40 GMT

❝

Jasmine perfume floated his way, luring him from lethargy. Her smirk ignited a nostalgic flicker.

Callan hummed as she seated beside him, a sound that seemed to conjure an abstract matrix of thoughts as it escapes his lips, visible only to Elisabeth.

As it does, it snakes behind him: A matrix of thoughts, invisible to all but Elisabeth. Made of distorted white lines, the shadow clings onto his jacket much as the man is clinging to his drink. Callan smelled vaguely of apricots.

"Absinthe it is," he said, emptying his glass. "Make that two."

Perry, his stare lingering on his employer, interjected. "We're only doing it with soda tonight." Callan tapped his fingers on the table, his gaze flicking to Perry's Mareep-like goatee. "...Fine." He muttered, with a resigned sniff.

Two cocktails arrived, absinthe laced with soda. Atop each glass sat a delicate spoon holding a sugar cube. Soda fizzed over the sugar, transforming the potent green liquid into a milky hue.

His fingers traced the untouched rim of her glass. "Why not?" he finally answered, amusement lining his words, "I've already created an entire backstory for you." A dry chuckle escapes his lips.

It had been a lie. They did in fact, have champagne. It was a feeble defense mechanism.

He tried to ward away the ghost, but it persisted. Ah well.

"At least now, I'm justified in partaking of something that's bad for me." And it wasn't the absinthe he referred to.

His playful gaze hardened, probing beneath her poise. He leaned in, disregarding personal boundaries. "Cheers," he clinked his glass against hers, "what does my new, yet familiar friend want?"

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POSTED ON May 15, 2023 16:40:00 GMT

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There were things she knew of him. People were surprisingly open about their personal lives with their florists.[break][break]

Something about a daughter, a failed marriage, a life full of regrets and a crippling fear of loneliness. These things had dissuaded her from becoming too close to him, back when she shied away from the truth of who she was.[break][break]

Here and now, those things seemed an invitation to claw a festering wound open, instead.[break][break]

"Far be it from me to prevent you from indulging in vice."[break][break]

Her eyes followed the way his finger traced the rim of her glass, his body daring closer to her than she'd usually allow. His drunken stupor made his intentions obvious in every way, their probing intent something that would have sent off silent alarm bells in her in another life.[break][break]

But self-preservation seemed such a paltry thing, for a woman twice-damned.[break][break]

"What's my backstory, then? Humor me."

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POSTED ON May 16, 2023 17:35:14 GMT

❝

Callan's eyes gleamed as he lifted his glass, a snicker escaping him before the rim touched his lips.

"Arceus... this is horrible," he declared, the acrid tang of absinthe lingering on his tongue. Each mouthful was a battle, a distraction against the throbbing in his skull, but the taste was drowned by the floating rush in his body.

The liquid seeped into him, promising relief.

"Yeah... but first..." he began, pausing to lock eyes with Perry, the bar's only other occupant. "Perry, you mind heading out early for the night?" His request hung in the air, an unspoken understanding passing between the two men. As he doe, he pulls Elisabeth to seat herself on his lap. His arm folds around her waist.

"Oh, I thought you'd never ask," Perry retorted, as he made an exaggerated gag. "Straight people are the worst." He stepped back, the cabinet door swinging shut behind him. He tossed the keys to Callan, their cool weight settling in his hand. "Don't let him vomit on you." Perry mentions briefly to Elisabeth.

Callan watched Perry's retreating form, his eyes tracing the distance. A hundred meters, two hundred... When his friend was no more than a speck in the distance, Callan's gaze swept back to the bar. Silence enveloped them, the rhythmic drip of a leaking faucet, the distant hoot of a Noctowl.

A smile tugged at the corners of Callan's mouth as he turned back to Elisabeth. Gone was the murkiness in his eyes, replaced by a vivid unflinching stare. He sips the absinthe. "You were a Skorupi, that needed to cross the lake." He pauses, looking at the woman before him.

"Do you know how the rest of the story goes?"

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POSTED ON May 17, 2023 2:53:37 GMT

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Men really all were the same, weren't they? Predictable creatures.[break][break]

Kalos. Hoenn. Rocket. League. Anyone. Anywhere.[break][break]

They always wanted the same, stupid, insignificant things.[break][break]

Her carmine eyes flickered with amusement as he dared to pull a woman cursed by two gods into his lap, hands moving to possess her as if her body truly remained her own to give.[break][break]

"You're not used to being refused, are you?" she quipped, though she didn't resist the shift in their dynamic, either. Looming over him like this, he seemed so very malleable to her. "Or perhaps you're too drunk to imagine that possibility."[break][break]

She took her payment in thieving the absinthe from him, drinking of it deeply while holding his stare, defiant. The alcohol burned her throat, but held no true power over her.[break][break]

Alcohol was just another poison, after all. And she'd become numb to the things that killed her.[break][break]

"Mm. A Skorupi?" she repeated, letting the word linger on her tongue with the bitter taste. "I wonder. Does that make you the Froakie offering me a trip across the water?"

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POSTED ON May 17, 2023 18:19:49 GMT

❝

Callan's gaze met hers, there was inebriation, certainly.

But there was no inebriation that would be able to mask her. Not to a hyper-sensitive machine like Callan.

From her seeping self-loathing, a black tar clung to him, suffocating his virtues and ideals, his gratitude and joy. Feeding his sense of failure and self-pity, encouraging self-reproach.

In this room, the reminder of his failures, Callan feels himself slip up once again. Or perhaps it was intentional. She had picked the moment of his failures, and simultaneously his redeeming qualities, to rend asunder truth from lies.

"On the contrary," he said softly, a note of prayer in his voice, "I want you to say no."

Just like before, when the silence filled an empty street, and green eyes shifted uncomfortably away from a man that was blinded by neediness. Part of it was to see if there was anything left of the the old her. But moreso it was to allow him escape, to not denigrate the memories of his willingness to give up his dreams in order to provide.

The florist had swapped her armour for a bed of thorns. Stinging everyone around her first as while embedding it deeper in herself. It was a scene he read on a phone, moments before he had flung the device into his screen, cracking the display.

As Elisabeth continued with her contextual understand of the tale, Callan grinned. As if having confirmed something. "No," he continued, a smile shaping his words, a small light in the gathering twilight of their conversation. "The Froakie that knows you are a Skorupi will not ferry you."

"I am the same as you. It is in my nature." To destroy oneself.

Callan's hand, once idle sinks itself into her blackened hair, his thumb traces the sharp, thin jawline that once portrayed dignity. His lips found hers. A chill shudder runs down his spine, a personal failing, a disappointment, bone deep.

But what did it matter?

He was alone.

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POSTED ON May 17, 2023 23:58:05 GMT

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It was breathtaking, really. How simply existing was enough to make a man undone.[break][break]

She'd never understood her husband's jealous fits of temper, nor the way he hurled insult after insult at her and her presumed infidelity. Not until she'd succumbed to being the monster he punished her for being, that is.[break][break]

Not until she saw how easy that power was to seize with her own two hands, letting men ruin themselves by reaching for things they had no right to touch.[break][break]

And oh, how quickly Callan let himself be ruined, now, begging to be devoured as he pulled her into a greedy kiss that tasted of absinthe and regret. Was this all it took to tumble a pillar of the League, then? A pretty face, at a lonely moment, in the right bar?[break][break]

"He doesn't care what we want. Men never do. They only care about what they can take."
[break]

So she took from him, then, kissing him back but with no heat of fervor. Instead, a chill would seep through him as resentment burned cold on her skin, crawling through him like a spider skittering across every inch of his body.[break][break]

This was a vampiric devouring.[break][break]

she can also touch others to instill her own resentment in others, or to draw out deep-seated grudges to fuel her own spite. this effect, however, is temporary. (REQ: RPER PERMISSION)
[break]

She's so very alone, isn't she?[break][break]

Not us. Not the woman you're holding in your arms, now, desperate for a human life raft to ferry you to shore. You are no Froakie, nor Skorupi. You, sweet fool, are but a leaf, lost in the current of an ocean of resentment vaster than you know.[break][break]

And will you find her, this woman you've wronged? How scorned is she, this beautiful creature you've loved and lost?[break][break]

That's right. Elinor Anderson. You remember her, don't you? Do you regret? The way you left her? The way the League abandons her, now, just as you once did?[break][break]

Or is oblivion enough for you, here and now?
[break]

Her teeth cut onto his lip, callous and careless as she pulled away from him to breathe. She wiped away a welling droplet of blood, faint laughter spilling from her, before she leaned in close to whisper in his ear:[break][break]

"We wonder. How long has it been since you've seen your beloved councilwoman?"
[break]

Sharp fingernails grabbed his chin, unflinching in her demand as she forced his eyes to meet hers. Her smile was a slow, cruel thing, splitting her red lips back to reveal teeth.[break][break]

"Perhaps there's a message we can send her for you. We can be very accommodating."

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POSTED ON May 18, 2023 3:53:23 GMT

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❝

As she consumed him with a kiss, Callan felt an unbearable chill of existence - a joyless, passionless merging of their lips. His vitality drained, like the lifeblood sucked out by a leech, his existence plunged into the darkened pit of despair.

It was a stranglehold, a merciless force. As he directed his hatred and blame to everything around him.

Life, from his birth to his meteoric rise to stardom, mocked him in its injustice. Successes, achievements, all turned to ashes in his mouth as he watched others stumble through life, untouched by repercussions.

His mind lingered on the antics of the Elite Four, each one parading their follies unscathed: MATIAS SILPH, Katherine Fairburne, Melody Miro. Why couldn't he, Callan Young, stumble without condemnation? From some whore in a bar, no less.

He watched as Laurence Anderson's insults of the commissioner turn a meeting into a clown festival.

He bore witness to FERNANDO SILPH’s ruthless maneuvering, sinking the hooks of the Silph Corporation deeper into the League's skin. He watched as others stood by, uncaring that this occurred.

He observed PENELOPE LIVY's flagrant inconsistencies, talking out both ends of her digestive system while somehow doing things that contradicted both. And at the same time damaging both herself and the League she represented.

He watched dahlia goode's clinical discarding of people under a veneer of order. His frustration smoldered like coals, burning into his skin.

Why couldn't his interests take precedence? Why couldn't he blunder and avoid the aftermath?

Why had he discarded his band for an organization that scarcely valued its own loyal members?

Excuses dripped from him like an uncorked flask, a masquerade for his inadequacies.

Resentment did not feel terrible, the more he sank, the more he wanted to sink.

Callan was adrift in a sea of self-loathing, cursing the world for his miseries. His humbling beginnings, his aspirations of being a husband, father, musician, citizen - all shattered when he realised they were shams to the very core.

Then, the resentment then directed him. Towards himself, and his deepest regrets.

Memories of Elinor Anderson, real and conjured, washed over him, each wave infusing new vigor into his ripe regrets. Ordinary days spent on a beach, in snow-laden walks, and inside his music studio. Her voice drowned in the roaring crowds, echoes of which still haunt his phone. Normalcy, traded away out of fear of commitment, a single text dissolving their connection.

A maelstrom of self-pity sucked him in, pulling him down into its vortex. Its winds whispered the script of his life in gusts — a narrative born of chance, moulded by his inherent fallibility, created by Arceus. It wasn't his doing, the tempest insisted, it was the cruel hand of his destiny at play.

And as his resentment endeavoured to blame his daughter and Jen for his misfortunes, a force halted its course.

At the base of his spine, pressure builds, holds, and something inside of him snaps. Like a bone reset into position. A fissure mending itself, resonated with a single counteracting thought.

It's not about you.

Elisabeth's teeth tore into his lip, jolting him from his self-induced stupor.

Blood welled up from his lip, the sharp sting clearing the haze of alcohol. Time, it seemed, demanded he pay heed to the present. In a way, he thanked her, for waking him up to what was needed.

As her fingers clamped onto his chin, his body didn't resist.

"You wear the face of a friend. You can sink hooks into my mind and toy with my emotions. Who are you?" Callan's voice carried a ghostly echo in the room's sombre lighting, simmering with fury. But more than that, growing anticipation, and urgency. Fear intermingled there, as a silent backdrop.

"And how could you possibly pass a message to Elinor?" And beneath that question, a more pressing concern roiled - had she been successful in breaching his defenses?

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POSTED ON May 18, 2023 17:04:47 GMT

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"'Friend'?" she echoed, and the scornful word sang with a profound, morbid amusement. "Let's not lie to one another about what you think I am, Mr. Young. You've already written my backstory, after all."[break][break]

"The way all men do."
[break]

You were either the Madonna or the whore. Fuckable or unfuckable. Of use or discarded.[break][break]

They'd always decided she was a temptress without considering what it was she wanted.[break][break]

A decade of evidence supporting that embittered cynicism flashed through her mind. Those memories condensed into a single seed of spite that had nurtured and flourished in her soul long, long before any vengeful deity could claim it.[break][break]

"How much do you care about her, though, really? This Elinor of yours." The question came out almost bored, as if the fury in his eyes looked performative to her. Nothing but heroic bravado and meaningless bluster. "You seem all too eager to forget her with someone else tonight."[break][break]

Abruptly she released his chin, placing her hands instead on his wrists: a quiet threat, warning him not to stand. It brought her closer to him as she spoke, her breath tickling his skin.[break][break]

"But to your question, let's just say I'm someone with friends in low places."

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POSTED ON May 18, 2023 18:35:23 GMT

❝

"False equivalency." Callan dismisses, as he twitches his hand in her grip. He listens as she pierced the conversation to its core - his convoluted feelings, or lack thereof, for Elinor. And his ease at which he brushed it off.

Acknowledging her point with a nod, he confessed, "You're right, I did entertain the thought of forgetting her for tonight with you. Were that an option for me for the last two weeks, I'd have slept better as well." That was, until she apparently became a literal representation of all of his weaknesses, of course.

Her words were bait, intending to reel in his repressed resentment and wring out his inner tumult. A moment of contemplation preceded his response, as if weighing the worth of his forthcoming words.

Taking a slow breath, the answer she'd receive would not have any satisfaction within.

"You did just snake into my mind and extract my thoughts from me." Callan retorted, his tone masked with indifference. "Otherwise, you wouldn't have this leverage over me in the first place, would you? Consider how this situation would have been completely different if the weight of Elinor's rescue didn't hang on my conscience. That's your answer."

"A florist-turned-Rocket associate, granted an audience in a Sootopolis Prison with one of the most valuable hostages in their prison?" His sentence was dry, highlighting the absurdity of the situation.

"Sure. What do you demand in return?"

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POSTED ON May 19, 2023 1:35:03 GMT

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"How very uncharitable you make me seem. I'd give her a message for nothing at all."[break][break]

But her wicked smile suggested this was the deal with the devil he presumed it to be.[break][break]

She arose from his lap in a delicate descent, releasing him now that she'd successfully gotten his attention. He might attack her, certainly, but it was less likely given she had things he wanted to know.[break][break]

Things that killing her would make unknowable.[break][break]

"It's the other way around, you realize," she said suddenly as she stretched, glancing over her shoulder at him. "I've always been this. Everything else was the pretending."[break][break]

The ice in her absinthe melted on the counter, its milky froth forgotten. She'd slaked her thirst for vengeance on other things.[break][break]

"As for what I want? That depends on what exactly you want to know. And how badly you want to know it."

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6’3” height

I’d rather watch your star explode

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POSTED ON May 19, 2023 5:25:50 GMT

❝

"I'm sure you understand my apprehension." Callan countered, his smile a facade.

He does not attack her as she lifts herself from his lap. As she releases his wrist, he takes a tissue and presses it against the bite that drew blood on his lips.

He raises a brow as she stretches and comments on finally being able to be herself. "I see I'm not the only person that's inebriated." Callan's voice is laced with false amusement, "The only difference is your choice of drink."

Her query, however, sliced through the carefully constructed aloofness.

The ball was tossed back to his court. What pound of flesh would he offer to sacrifice for answers? Callan's eyes briefly turn towards the cabinet, as he himself stands up, moving behind the bar, he slides open the wooden drawers, taking out a bottle of scotch.

He pours a glass for both himself and Elisabeth, he leans over the bar, his eyes unflinching on her.

"A game." He proposed, his words deliberate. "Since we believe we know each other so well."

"You can see my past through my resentment." Callan began, "Link your resentment with mine, and we will statements with each other and determine the truth of our characters. If I recoil first, I will do any task you wish of me. If you do, you will give me a way to find Elinor."

MADE BY MIZO

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Scarlet

Lisa Bortiforte

She/Her

August 30

Camphrier Town, Kalos

Bi/Heteroromantic

Bioterrorist

Underboss

5'9" / 175.26 cm height

Bury me in the roses and rot; I'll come back thorned.

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