#jazz and metzli

[muertarte]

PARTIES: @notpigmeat @muertarte

SUMMARY: Jazz is looking for a new date spot, and Metzli ends up being the only tour guide available. Jazz immediately tries to flirt. Will it work?

TIMING: Current

WARNINGS: None!

Jazz was in desperate need for a new place to take his dates. The ice cream shop he frequented started questioning why he brought so many women there. One could imagine the woman he had brought that last time didn't find it amusing. 

Jazz wandered the streets of Wicked's Rest. Coffee shops and bars littered the map. "These ain't it." He said as he passed yet another pub. He needed something unique. Something that would make his dates swoon. 

A place like…MuertArte?

The red door and black exterior stood out next to the monotony of beige, all but beckoning any soul curious enough to enter. So, he did. 

It was early afternoon when the speaker chimed, announcing another patron. Metzli peered around the corner, seeing a man on the search for something. “Hm…” They hummed to themself, placing the clipboard on the counter to scribble a few notes for the latest piece they were archiving for next month’s rotation. The artist wouldn’t be too happy that their piece wasn’t sold, but it would have another chance. Metzli was more than good at their job. They’d see to it. 

With a final flick of their pen, the vampire’s deadpan stare met with the stranger’s visage. He was still searching—or was it canvassing? In all their years in the clan, Metzli observed many mannerisms, memorizing what each one meant. There was purpose to every slide of his eyes, but what was it? As much as they hated talking, Metzli knew their paranoia would not be sated until they got to the bottom of whatever he was doing. 

Sighing, they adjusted their suit jacket, rolling their shoulders as they approached, movement rigid and cold. “Can I help you?” Metzli looked up to the ceiling, focusing on a single point, “You are looking for something.”

Jazz didn't immediately respond. He took a step back and observed this tall, lanky person that walked up to him. 

"What's good, baby? I'm just taking in the sights." He said slickly. He licked his lips and bit the bottom one. Jazz liked tall and lanky. He wasn't getting flirty vibes but he's been able to change that before. 

"This chick must have some serious paper." He thought to himself. All types of paintings lined the wall; each one looking more expensive than the last. 

There was no baby in sight. What the hell was that man talking about? Metzli looked around, trying to find this misplaced child, but they found none. “There is no baby. Have you bought ticket? If not, there will be no sights.” Logging into the front desk computer, Metzli saw that the last patron was thirty minutes ago. The man in front of them had definitely only been there a few minutes. So, no, he hadn’t bought a ticket. 

Metzli rounded the desk and tilted their head, almost ominously, as they watched the man look at the paintings. When it looked like he was turning back to them, they finally spoke up. “You have not bought ticket. Are you going to?” They shifted their weight from front to back repeatedly, wishing they were back in the curation room. Paintings were so much easier to be around.

"There is no baby." 

"What the hell is she talking about." Jazz thought. He figured this cutie was playing hard to get. He let out a chuckle expecting one back. "Alright I'll buy a ticket. Unless there's a discount for sexy people?" He ran his fingers through his hair. No one has ever resisted his fingers running through his hair. 

To be perfectly honest the paintings did appear interesting. He figured he could actually take in the actual sights of the art.. after getting a phone number of course, he thought. 

Their brrows knitted together with confusion, unable to decipher what the hell this man was trying to say. Why would there be a discount for sexy people? Even if there was, Metzli took one good look at the man as he ran his hand through his hair, and shook their head internally. Definitely not their type. Not sexy. At least, not to them. “No such thing as sexy discount.” They stated blandly, face stoic.

“There is child discount, elderly discount, and student discount. That is it. It is fifteen dollars for entry.” Metzli paused, tapping their foot as anxiety rose. As much as they didn’t want to, they knew they’d have to personally give the man a tour with Rachel and Gavin busy. “If you buy ticket, you can have self-guide or have guide like…” Metzli swallowed, “Like me to tell you about works. Your choice.” They clenched their jaw and balled their hand into a fist, somehow still maintaining a face devoid of emotion.

Jazz had flirted with countless women in his days as a boxer. Clenched teeth and a balled fist was never a good sign. 

"You're a tough cookie, baby. Here. I'll take the tour." He said with a wink as he slid a $20 bill across the counter. He didn't show it but he was pondering if he came on too strong.

He looked down and saw the tapping foot of an incredibly impatient person. "My bad, honey. You must be taken."

Metzli wanted to bite. Frustrations were reaching an all time high and the peak had nowhere to descend to. They supposed they could take a breath and hold it there. Release the tension with a hunt after the tour. 

“Not a cookie. A person.” They took a breath, and took the money, handing over a ticket and change before circling around the front desk. “One moment.” Metzli disappeared into their office and took the moment of reprieve to stretch and remove their suit jacket. Having a little extra room to move always helped. 

Returning to the front, Metzli kept their eye trained on the path ahead, nodding to the statement. They’d heard the colloquialism before in reference to Leila. The thought of her alone was enough to settle their nerves. “Yes. Taken. Have girlfriend.” They paused, rolling their shoulders and proceeding down the hallway to begin the tour. “Now follow. We will begin with new exhibit from local artist Natalia Anderson. She uses two mediums. Marble and oil.” Stopping in front of the first painting, Metzli waited for any possible questions their guest may have. 

Jazz's toothy grin faded away. He'd never given up on getting the number of someone he was flirting with. "Just need some time to break the ice." He thought. This ice was thick as an iceberg. He followed quickly as this beauty had quite a long stride. 

They stopped in front of a painting. He admittedly wasn't listening to the name of the artist but he thought that the painting was really nice. 

He rubbed his chin, "Wow. It's so… metaphorical." He said trying to sound artsy. He at least hoped he didn't sound stupid. 

There was a pause. Maybe he should ask a question but he didn't have any. He was out of his element. If only there was a painting of an athlete or a pretty girl he'd have plenty to say. 

They made eye contact with each other for what seemed like a little bit too long. 

It’s so…metaphorical.

Metzli blinked slowly, just once, obviously annoyed by the poor attempt to critique the art. Now that was why they did their best to avoid giving tours. Dios, they needed to hire more guides. Having only Rachel and Gavin was not cutting it anymore.

“You sound like idiot.” Metzli broke the eye contact, rubbing their eyes to try and refocus. At that point, they just wanted to give the guy a refund. Or better yet, maybe a snack was in order. 

No. No. They couldn’t do that. MuertArte had to be protected. The lack of planning alone would prove to be to the gallery’s detriment. For now, Metzli would keep their gallery meals to only forgers. It was safer that way.

“Do you even like art? Why are you even here?”

"Geez, what's with the insults?" Jazz snapped. Why are the cute ones always so rude? He gave up on getting the number out of pure frustration. 

He looked at the art piece again. He thought hard about something to say but he just couldn't think of anything. It was paint on a canvas! Big freakin' deal! 

"Sorry I'm not some artsy prick! I'm here because I'm looking for cool date spots but it seems like y'all don't like the uninitiated. Whatever, bite me." Jazz said as he raised a middle finger. He wasn't usually this mean but hell what was he supposed to do? 

He wanted to leave but he wouldn't give this chick the satisfaction. After all, he's a paying customer. 

"What would one actually say about this painting?" He asked with a vindictive grin. If he was going to stay he was going to get his money's worth out of this tour guide. 

Anger burst into Metzli’s chest. Like a levee bursting on the hottest day of summer. The lights, warm as they may be, became too bright. A ringing filled their ears, and they hardly heard what was being said until bite me echoed in their mind. Now that was something Metzli could do. They’d already had it as an idea before, but now they were being told to do it. How could it be bad if it had been a demand? 

Metzli licked their lips, fangs beginning to extend. Just one bite and this idiot would finally shut his—wait. The vampire blinked, straightening their posture as a new question presented itself. Taking a grounding breath, Metzli looked at the painting, brows furrowing together with thought. 

The piece was haunting. The moment the curator laid eyes on it, they knew they had to have it. Anderson depicted a screaming figure, using masterful skill with her brush to create something moving. Metzli had many things to say about it. That’s what made it easy to speak, words tumbling off their tongue quickly and breathlessly. “The piece captivates viewer with sense of dread. It easily gives energy of humanity locked deep inside the woes of the figure’s screams.” Metzli stepped closer, their passion shining through as they gestured to the painting. "The dark color palette and the intense, wide void creates a sense of foreboding. It gives sense of falling in. Like you are being consumed by the scream just as they are.”

"......ok then." Jazz said quietly. Where in the hell did she get all of that from? It sounded real artsy farty. A bit much though. 

"Easy, lady. It's a nice piece I guess." Jazz thought the intensity was weird but he hung on every word as the curator spoke. He could definitely use these words on his next date. But the way these words were said…. If they weren't so mean Jazz may have considered leaving his number behind. 

The passion for art that was just displayed was something that Jazz respected. His tour guide’s eyes lit up the same way his did when he heard the bell ring at the start of a boxing match. "At least you're nice to the art." He chuckled. 

Metzli snapped from their reverie, anger pluming in their chest just as it had before. “I am not lady.” They gestured to themself, to the pin just above their pocket square. “Read my pronouns.” Metzli demanded, shoulders inching toward their ears with tension squeezing them. If they weren’t so flustered, they probably would’ve given their guest a little more grace. He wasn’t being malicious by calling them a lady. It just seemed to be a part of his typical vernacular. 

Regardless, Metzli took a deep breath and rubbed their face tiredly. At least he noticed how much they revered the art they curated. “Art speaks many languages.” They spoke calmly that time, shoulders relaxed and downcast. “Keeps things quiet while it say many things. Say things artist cannot.” Metzli looked back to Jazz, wishing the tour to be over. They weren’t sure how much longer that could take the social interaction. 

“I will give you refund. I cannot do this tour.” Metzli turned on their heel and stopped short of exiting into the lobby. “I give apology. Too much happening. No more…what do they call it?” Metzli had heard the term both in person and in a book. They perked up when their mind filled in the gap. “No more social battery. Have very small one.”

Jazz couldn't help but feel embarrassed. How had he not noticed the pronouns pin on their shirt? He was the one being a jerk the entire time. He sighed. 

Jazz briefly remembered when he had first learned of Muhammad Ali. A cocky boxer that was born under a different name. When he decided to change it to Muhammad Ali it's like the entire world pushed back. Ali had beaten many an opponent senseless for calling him his dead name. Jazz always made sure that he would always call people what they wanted to be called and that included pronouns. 

"That's my bad, fam. I didn't notice. Maybe it was your beauty that blinded me." He raised an eyebrow slightly. He honestly didn't mean it in a flirtatious way. The proverbial ship had sailed as far as getting their number went. 

"I don't need a refund. I found exactly what I came here for." Jazz held his hand up and gestured that he didn't want money back. "I'll be back. Soon." Jazz took in the art piece one last time, "Hm… yeah that's definitely dread I'm feeling." He grinned at his tour guide before turning on the spot. He flashed the peace sign as he began strolling towards the door.  

As annoying as the man had been, Metzli could see a new, more genuine side of him when embarrassment flooded over him. They considered for a moment that maybe they were a bit too harsh, becoming part of the problem themself. People so often ostracised Metzli, made fun of them when they were so clearly still in the room, that they were too quick to judge the man. Before they could properly apologize though, he turned on his heel and was exiting the door.

Metzli stood there like a deer in the headlights, blinking with lids of confusion. He said he’d be back soon. They’d try harder the next time to be more welcoming. “Okay,” Metzli nodded, looking at their hand and making the peace sign at themself. They mimicked what they’d seen and did it in return, a gesture of good will. The two would meet again.

#wickedswriting #bloody ink #writings #jazz and metzli #c: jazz #pronouns and peace signs

[wickedsrest-rp]

Welcome to our weekly round-up! We do these every week to provide plot drops, highlight starters posted that week, and share other information about the setting. Anyone is welcome to use these bullet points in starters, plots, anons etc. Also let us know if you want us to include one of your setting-related plots in here for next week by sending us a bullet point!

What's new in town?:

Something not quite right is in the air as the impact of the mining accident proves to be more far-reaching than anyone anticipated. Check out our new plot of the week for ways to interact!

There’s probably a hidebehind near The Generic Store. Obviously, no one has really seen it. But some people are saying that they feel they’re being followed and they’re getting glimpses of limbs sticking out from behind the building and powerline posts. Also possibly related: the stashes of bones being found around the area.

It's snicker-snacker mating season, which means their numbers are at an all time high. Several wooden buildings in town have already taken structural damage as a result, and Animal Control is receiving calls from many residents trying to deal with the pests.

In celebration of High Spring, local band Winter Snacks is putting on a free concert at the Common on Wednesday night. Their style has been described as "Russian farmer EDM jazz," whatever that means. But in any case, the whole town is about to become /really/ familiar with them as once they start playing, they're not going to be able to stop.

Starters:

Zane is perplexed by the locals recruiting for their tug-of-war team and is decidedly not about it.

Teddy is decidedly not Team Blue when it comes to tug-o-war and is looking for a team to take them down.

Marcus has no idea what extreme tug-o-war is, but the training has commenced.

No, Vida will not be inviting a guest chef to Pura Vida. Stop asking and come get some elote.

Hungry? Jonas has got samples on deck of some of the bakery's best sellers, so stop on by!

Metzli will be taking inquiries about pieces while MuerteArte is closed on Monday. Try not to make it too crazy with the questions now... or do!

After her very public break up, Nora is asking for time to heal. You may have heard this breakup happening at A Latte to Love.

Leila apologizes, but The Party Thrifter will be closed for the day. Looks like she may be a little distressed.

Chris is pretty sure you're not supposed to feel the miner's working in the caves below your feet, but he can and he's concerned.

Is it unethical to push tourists off Serpent's Flat Viewing Station? Zack is asking "for a friend".

Wynne is reading about the flat earth theory on reddit and is wondering on people's thoughts.

Hobbes is not a big fan of storms, but at least Arden is getting cuddles from her cat.

Teddy is looking to hire someone to take care of a small animal for a few shifts. Any takers?

#wrw #wicked's rest weekly

[braindeacl]

Fate’s Humor | Solo ft. James

SETTING: Not White Crest. TIMING: Current. SUMMARY: Eilidh deals with the ramifications of what she’s done and in doing so finds a familiar face. WARNINGS: Self harm

There was a patch of snow on the ground. As there ought to be. As there should be. While the internet may announce the arrival of spring so confidently, nature was never so decisive. There was a give and take; a time where both winter and spring still debated over the land. Until the winter felt the call of hibernation, and spring was able to wake in full. Not like in White Crest. Where the spring had announced war and slaughtered the winter. Where from its death sprouted more. Such a giver of life as spring seemed to relish in its twin, in the death, at that town. Where it conspired with the giant on the horizon until all that were left were its disciples. 

The sight of winter’s hold, of the give and take she had come so well to know, brought a breath of relief on her lips. And yet, despite being surrounded by dripping icicles and plants whose only want to move came from the grace of wind, she felt out of place. Uprooted, even though the woods had always been her place of security. Something felt wrong. More wrong than when she was surrounded by that growing sickness. And when she looked down at her absent-minded sketch, an attempt to distract from those growing feelings of upheaval, she found the eyes staring back to be familiar. Metzli’s eyes. She growled—threw the sketch pad on the ground. But only a beat passed before she scurried over and retrieved it. Dusting the dirt away.

She went back inside, where the other three rested. James and Tulip were well-versed in that odd presence in the air. For it was always there, seeped into the walls. A reminder of what she did, what she knew what she was going to do from the beginning. But Gòrach was still new, never noticing that lingering presence until it became realized. Her pupils dilated; her tail swishing. So she was easily susceptible when, as James tried to make a light hearted comment, Eilidh barked by, “Place fucking sucked anyway!” 

Tulip may be familiar, but James was intimate. Knew all too well the sadness and the anger, as the old place refused to leave. A ghost traveling as much as he was. Stuck in Eilidh’s mind so strongly it haunted the very trailer, but there was a rarity in her mannerisms. She usually got quiet, unreadable. But her anguish was clear. The place was small, he noticed the tears. He usually gave her space, for she knew this situation the best of them all. She would be process in her own time. But the novelty made him bold; made him want to speak. “It wasn’t the place.” Despite the boldness, a spike of nerves electrified him with his next words. “You usually don’t get that close. Maybe it just scar-” 

“Fuck off!” Eilidh bristled—brought her lips to a curl and set eyes ablaze. Milo got a pass because he was young, and she couldn’t bring herself to yell at him. But James knew better. He’d seen firsthand what the world asks of them. The ones with too much time. 

James folded under the ferocity, both physically and emotionally. “I-I know what you’re going to say. I know! People are like water and all that jazz. But maybe, I don’t know, after that stuff with, um, Big One, gets resolved we can… go back? Sometimes people could be like... Water cycle?”

“It’s been claimed. Even the Gods agree.” She bit into her knuckle. It was claimed and yet people walked around like nothing. Could they not see? Surely at least Milo and Metzli had heeded her warning. She only had the hope—her phone still dead on a chair. 

“Well, that’s a little drastic, right?” He chuckled, before his face dropped. “Right?” The look in her eyes made him question. Made the anxiety in his chest broader, as big as the town it was for. “Shouldn’t we be doing something? We should definitely do something.”

“We!” She laughed. Sharp and bitter and cruel. “The hell you think I’ve been doing? Making fun with Big One? Tried nicety. Tried cruelty. Nothing.” A huff went out her lips. But it wasn’t cruel like the laugh. It was tired. “Go ‘head. Make friends with the damn fucker if you want. See if that works.” 

James flinched away, as if the words could cross the veil and strike him. But there was something missing in her remarks. Like a thing was holding back her tempers, and it wasn’t sudden enlightenment. “It’s weird seeing you so…” Defeated. But James got that unspoken word across by motioning towards her. As if it was obvious, which to him it was. She rarely faltered to an enemy so easily. No, this was beyond that. He settled in his resolve, for he knew her too well. “You’re using Big One as an excuse, you know?”

Eilidh bristled again. But not in confidence; not in irritation for his ignorance of the world. No, this was defensive. Caused by a bubbling doubt, a lingering worry. That he may be right. She didn’t like the contradiction—the commotion in her head. Finding some exhaust as she growled, but not enough. So she retreated back to the woods, where her thoughts were always clearer. 

As soon as the door slammed shut, she instantly felt the fog clearing. With each step forward, with each tree placed between her and that door, the fog lost its hold. She could hear the birds chirping, and the leaves dancing on themselves, and the faint drip of melted snow. Then, when the fog receded from her eyes, she was greeted by a splash of color. A butterfly. But in seeing so brought all those feelings back. Like the tide of a tsunami—sudden absence a warning for its return in full. It flowed through and out her; great wave crashing out in a scream, “You got something to say, too?!” The misdirected ferocity caused the thing to waver in the air, before escaping to the safety of a tree. Eilidh gasped; that vitriol melting into the truth of her feelings. That truth brought a tear to her eyes. She approached it slow and gentle—a great relief found when it let her near. “Sorry, mo leannan. Shouldn’t have yelled.” It accepted her apology. A single flap of the wings before settling into a resting position.

She too found her own rest: back pressed against the tree’s damp bark. Before she let herself fall. Down and down until she met the ground. The impact forced a sigh out of her. “Should’ve just… Left in the pause.” She nearly had. The roots had made it a necessity to rehome her trailer. But even when it’s new stead was beyond their creeping grasps, she still felt the need to move. Small increments: more of a push than a drive. But in their collection, she had become further and further away. Feeding into that constant need to leave, to start fresh. The only thing steadying that gas pedal was the Park, for the plants still wanted her. At least back then. But then Metzli reconnected with her. And then Milo too, even in a passing moment. And it made everything complicated. 

Were they still there? Were they still there? Were they still there? The question rang in her ears like any sound would. Milo had wanted to go down with the ship—let himself drown as if he were the captain. As if he owed that place that much. There was something about the town that pulled. From getting too close and falling prey to that hidden tug; from a string being tied to that place since birth, an unshakable destiny. She wasn’t sure which powered that thrall. And she trusted them to be smart, but what if it was too strong? She had gotten out, but it didn’t feel like a victory. Maybe she should go back. Grab all she can and ditch the place double. Tell that thrall to fuck itself by showing its weakness. Part of her wished she had just gripped them both and thrown them into the trailer without giving them a say. At least then she didn’t have to worry about their safety. Just the inevitability of their departure. Her hands jammed into her hair; nails digging into her scalp. Returning with bits of flesh stuck on the ends. 

But that was the thing she feared most, wasn’t it? It always was. The departure. A guarantee that was easier to handle when you controlled it. When you held the scissors and chose where and when to cut. And she knew it was selfish, knew it was cruel. But who else would look out for her, in this world of temporary? It was too late, anyway. She had done it. She had cut the strings and they lay tattered at her feet. And there was no way she could glue them back together. There should be some satisfaction; some joy in knowing she prevented the coming anguish. But all it did was make her want to tear out her knuckles. All it did was birth its own tears. 

Eilidh screamed again. Not to anything particular. Mostly to herself. 

Maybe she should stop trying.

She got up and continued that pathless trek. Further into the forest’s embrace—hoping if she kept walking it would bring usual comforts. But every tree and wild call and twinkle of light just brought a memory. Everything a echo of days past; days she was trying to leave but would not let go of her. So she kept walking.

Until she came across a sign of civilization. 

A grouping of structures across a lost road. The asphalt and foundation sporting matching cracks. The paint peeled down and the windows more like walls—the dirt stealing away most of the transparency. The novel sight quieted her spiraling thoughts, and in doing so brought her closer. Closer to those houses that were no longer homes. Well, at least to the humans who once lived there. A few critters scurried in and out of holes like polka dots in the walls. Old nests and the beginnings of ones new collected on a dented window sill, in the gutters. Finding use in a place long abandoned. “Still got love to give, eh?” She pressed a hand against one of those walls. Wondering how long it had been since someone had last.

Her thought answered by a clammering near. Metal against metal, then the shuffling of feet on dirt. And she knew they were feet—the sound was unmistakable. Hum of a growl filled her chest, hands grasping at nothing particular—waiting for the particular to fill them. She stalked over to the source of the shuffling, which caused more to fill the air. She followed the new like she had the old. Predator pursuing its prey. Just out of reach; that telling sound the only source the prey even existed. Then the shoe marks on the ground, still fresh. Then the end of an arm rushing into a room. And then finally, a face. A man revealed in full. Standing in a dimmed room, but she could still make him out. He wide-eyed and confused; she simply watching.

Eilidh would’ve just left him alone. He had shoved himself in a corner—trying to give as much distance between them. Showing he wasn’t a threat or at least trying to pretend so. Staring at her like he knew a secret but was too scared to say. Yet as she stared back, her feet refused to move. She found something familiar in the way his brows furrowed and his nose curved and his lips pressed against each other. And the familiarity wanted to make a killer out of her; made her want to destroy and enjoy doing so. She didn’t know why until the man finally found some resolve. His lips peeled back. Revealing fangs. 

Vampire.

She knew him from a picture. Grainy and blurred, but she had studied it in full. Devoting to memory even when the photo was long lost. She had dreamed of the day of finding him. Or perhaps more like a nightmare, for nothing pleasant was in store for him. Many of her nights had been spent in shitty bars. Watching for him to show himself. Waiting for this moment. 

Milo’s sire. 

This fucker was Milo’s sire.

A chuckle escaped her as she pulled out a dagger. Fate was so funny. 

#fate's humor #wickedswriting #solo #plus. james #plus. sky #self harm tw