SEASON 1 - The Mothlight

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[B][COLOR=rgb(143, 174, 112)]Character:
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Character: Jackson Carlisle
Time/Location: The Mothlight - somewhere between 11:00am and 12:00pm
Scene Status:OPEN
Tagging:@p r i s m (Yaya Bishop)

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“Yaya,” Jackson Carlisle’s sing-song voice followed the sound of The Mothlight’s door jangling open. It was Brunching Hour - if he was back in New York, that is. Here in Nowheresville Chorus, TN, it was just … lunch. And for a bar whose hopping hours consisted of a handful of semi-hip redneck sorts and maybe a somewhat decent bluegrass rockabilly somewhat local excuse called a band drinking beer and occasionally whiskey. Neat – oh, well, it was sad and dead inside. Maybe a few day drinkers, but not the sort that sipped mimosas with their eggs benedict.

Did the bar even serve food?

Jackson could have sworn he had paid enough attention at some point to know this. Then again, most days he couldn’t be bothered to trudge into the light of day until well after noon unless he had work, and even then he approached his civil duties to the local community where he earned his paycheck …s - ha - in much the same fashion as a hissing vampire views the light of day: unpleasantly, and like it might kill him to wake up at an early enough time to have breakfast with his Nana instead of waiting until there was just enough time to roll over, shower, groom.

The grooming was especially important. It didn’t matter that most of the townsfolk looked like they had spent their whole lives dressing like they had rummaged through a Goodwill container of discards or just - found the local Tractor Supply and stockpiled on several pairs of dickies and plaid shirts as if that would ever be in style. Jackson insisted on maintaining his delusional bubble that he still lived in the city. More importantly, he refused to acknowledge that he no longer had a life.

Not like he did. Some would even say that’s a good thing.

Not that in his wildest dreams did he think he would be spending a whole year in the sleepy, creepy little town, but even he could admit - begrudgingly, and never out loud, that it had done him some good. He no longer had to touch up the bags under his eyes with foundation; sallow had turned to ghostly pale, then had turned to a more healthy color of tall, lanky, and white since he had been there. And if he had gained any weight, it was the right amount of it that saw him transforming from scarecrow to lanky.

Jackson filled out the burgundy vest that popped against the charcoal gray long sleeve he wore underneath, tucked into a darker pair of slacks, patterned. All underneath a dense black coat, collar turned up against the brisk cold that he left outside as he wandered deeper into the dive.

“I heard there was something interesting that happened last night and I need to know all about it. Now. I mean, yesterday, but you know I wasn’t going to be bothered with showing up to Hillbilly Festival central last night,” he chimed. Claimed a seat on a bar stool after inspecting it for anything … sticky or otherwise unsanitary. Then pointedly ignored the disgruntled looks he got from the locals regarding his attitude towards their little country bumpkin antics that went on last night. “I heard there was a murder,” he concluded, with all the grotesque intrigue he could muster while leaning forward to squint at himself in the stained front of a napkin dispenser.

Not that he could see himself in it. But he used it as an excuse to make sure the product tamed brown curls still flopped the way he preferred over his brow.​

 

[Vytheril]

Character: Ruslan Borispol
Time/Location: The Mothlight - somewhere between 11:00am and 12:00pm
Tagging: @p r i s m (Yaya Bishop) @pixel. (Jackson Charlisle)

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It was a long drive, but it was finally over. Ruslan was on the I-81S going towards his new destination from his home town in New Jersey on a project in regards to land surveying within the Dead Horse National Park and more in regards to a potential state project taking place in a period of six months to a year. Though the thirteen hour drive had come to an end, he'd sat in his car outside the Netherland Inn Hotel. His Jeep Wrangler having several antenna's on the top for his mobile base station and thousands of dollars of equipment locked in the back. He reached in the glove box to withdraw a Smith and Wesson .44 Magnum with a wooden handgrip, storing it under his jacket. Being in the woods a lot, it was his artificial defense against hostile wildlife.

Having decompressed in his hotel room and stored his luggage and firearm, the foreigner decided to go out for the evening. He wouldn't really call himself a foreigner, matter in fact living for many years in the US he'd call himself an American, but his heavy accent always betrayed him despite his decent English. Wearing a black sweater with a turtle neck and a wool coat over that also, he didn't really appear to be at first as a surveyor. It was just his style wearing hand knitted clothes, wool and mostly all black. One place stuck out on the internet as something drawing to him. The Mothlight, a dive bar looking kind of place. It'd have to do.

He pushed through inside the doors, needing a little book to help with his night capping needs from the long drive. He looked around to take in the environment of the bar's interior before slowly starting his way over towards the front of the banister. He moved his arms through the sleeves of his coat, folding it up in the process as he went to slip for a stool in the middle of the bar to face the man operating it from behind. He stuffed his coat in his lap, giving a brief sigh as he leaned forward with his upper body being supported by his forearms.

"Hi." Ruslan greets when the man found time to gravitate towards him. His clothing didn't make him look like a local, and his voice definitely didn't do him any justice as a local either, not even an American at first. Still, he kept on at least a friendly smile. Russians don't usually smile, even though they're not upset, but it was a custom he picked up that if he didn't smile it would make some people uncomfortable. So he stuck with the American custom, which wasn't all that bad as they put it. "Could I have a double shot of Grey Goose on the rocks?" He asks politely. He was a big Vodka drinker, but sadly they weren't as imported from his homeland as it is here. He didn't like going cheap, he could afford it anyway."

 

[Vytheril]

Character: Ruslan Borispol
Time/Location: The Mothlight - somewhere between 11:00am and 12:00pm
Tagging: @p r i s m (Yaya Bishop) @pixel. (Jackson Charlisle)

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Ruslan's correction came sooner than expected when he'd mistaken the man as one being the proprietor of the bar, seeing Yaya step over to produce the bottle within a second showing him the bitter liquid being poured in a glass. From a long drive, it was just what he needed to relax himself and decompress his nerves much needed. His fingers came to snare around the glass and start to draw it back when he lifted his head up to see her kindly smile back and ask him about a tab.

He confirms with a light nod, his smile loitering back into view while also verbally replying to confirm his wishes. "Please, I would like that." His upper body craned forward to push his torso against the banister and his eyes drifting down for his drink, lifting the rim of the cold glass to his lips and then reeling his head back with it to shoot down at least half of the drink which came to rest back before him with a sigh. His tolerance had built overtime so there wasn't a bitter wince as expected. His liver must love him.

The atmosphere soon began to take ahold of him as he started to glance around the interior of the bar a little more, taking in everything and allowing the first dose of his drink to begin flooding his system. It was the one thing he was looking forward to all day long to close out the trip to get here. He was finally here at this town which didn't seem out of the ordinary, just a normal rural all-American town.

 

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Character: Jackson Carlisle
Time/Location: The Mothlight - somewhere between 11:00am and 12:00pm
Scene Status:OPEN
Tagging:@p r i s m (Yaya Bishop); @Vytheril (Ruslan Borispol)

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New blood. Jackson caught a whiff before anyone else did. Or at least - before anyone who actually worked at The Mothlight did. Yaya was busy, otherwise Jackson was sure she would have already come over and given him the amount of attention that he deserved, and her negligence was forgiven for the time being as his attention swiveled to the sound of someone else making their way inside the bar.

Male. Short … ish. Baby face. Wasn’t dressed like a complete hick. In fact, he wasn’t dressed too bad at all, if you were into the all black on black thing. Which, coincidentally, Jackson was. Not one of the locals either, if he had to guess. Just someone passing through on their way somewhere more pleasant? Like Florida.

No. Florida was a shitshow.

“Hi,” Jackson replied, whole body turning turning to smile like a cat while his voice pitched to that octave that was borderline flirtatious. Coy - but still casual. He put a smile on his face as well, flicked his hair from his eyes, did another once over before his brain caught up with sound as well as look. An accent. Slavic? It sounded that way, but that was too much of a stereotype even for him. Still, he raised his eyes up above the belt and met the stranger’s gaze.

“Sure, I’ll buy you a drink,” he replied in the same coy-casual way he’d greeted the other male. Turned around on the stool and crossed one long leg over the other as his smile grew as well. “Passing through our quaint little town?”

That almost made him shudder to say. Our … no. This quaint little town. Jackson wasn’t ready to admit that this was home, for better or worse. He still had hopes he’d be going back to the city sometime soon. Except the last he checked, he was still cut off, was still dirt broke, and still had a crazy Nana that woke him up with her shrieks in the middle of the night as she prowled around the little house like a cat. Banging, pushing things over, screaming.

Jackson’s lips twitched, recovering from his inner thoughts. “Vodka … don’t you think that’s a little bit of a cliche? Cute, though.”

Ah. But then Yaya finally made her presence known to him. Or at least found her way over to where he and … Russia sat. Hazel eyes flicked to her, once. Back to the guy. “I know,” he preened regarding her you look great comment. It was meant for her, anyway, despite the fact that he was still eyeing the new blood like he was a hungry kitty and the fellow was a pile of tuna. “Mm, honey, you know where to find me for that refresh,” came the next aside. Only now his neck craned, smiling whimsically at the beauty being wasted … here.

Dawn Chorus didn’t deserve that mocha skin. Yaya belonged, like he did, somewhere more - populated - where she could be appreciated. However, the more he stared, the more his keener sense of observation kicked in. Jackson’s eyes narrowed on Yaya and her uncle, eavesdropping in a rather blatant way. He was staring, after all.

“Uh-uh. Something’s wrong. Tell me.” He lifted a hand, absently waving at the Blue Goose. “Leave this. Whole bottle, sweetie. You may as well pull up a seat and drink it too. On me,” he offered.

Let’s all just be one big fucking happy family. Except Jackson wasn’t inviting anyone else in the bar over for shots.​

 

[Vytheril]

Character: Ruslan Borispol
Time/Location: The Mothlight - somewhere between 11:00am and 12:00pm
Tagging: @p r i s m (Yaya Bishop) @pixel. (Jackson Charlisle)

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It was probably not something he was expecting and unfortunately it wasn't exactly the type of individual he was hoping he wouldn't run into. A conversation once in awhile was fine, but Ruslan started to become uncomfortable the moment he heard Jackson's introduction of a greeting which his eyes darted over towards the individual sitting. He tried to be polite, smiling a little and flashing a palm from the banister that his hand rested on as a brief wave. Unlike him, he did not bat for the same team. Granted, he didn't see anything wrong with that but coming from a family of repugnant minded individuals, they said a lot of harsh words behind closed doors about people like Jackson. Thankfully none of that resonated on Ruslan, learning to treat people with respect regardless of their orientation, but that never changed his.

When the man offered to pay up his tab, he'd flash his palm again, this time another quicker wave to signal for him not to as a huff came from the Slavic man with his head shaking. "Oh, no I'm okay-- thank you." He'd rather pay on his own, as he felt being offered the drink on another person's tab would just lead him in a path that he wasn't exactly looking to get entrapped in. The man looked alluring enough to do something like that.

When his drink came to him and Jackson commented again, he just found himself smiling and shaking his head a little wordlessly. His eyes focused ahead at the rows of bottles and past Yaya, reeling his head back to take down the rest of his drink in one fell swoop.

More focused on decompressing than partying, Ruslan patently listened to Jackson coaxing Yaya to go from bartender to patron as maybe he detected her emotions while he didn't. He wouldn't intervene between the two, thinking they were good friends, just letting his eyes follow across the floor just below him.

 

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Character: Jackson Carlisle
Time/Location: The Mothlight - somewhere between 11:00am and 12:00pm
Scene Status: OPEN
Tagging:@p r i s m (Yaya Bishop); @Vytheril (Ruslan Borispol)

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If Jackson sensed the other man’s discomfort at the attention that he was giving him, he was pretending not to notice. Instead, he perked like a cat who had just gotten its paws dipped in some fresh cream, ready to lick it off. It didn’t help that the other man was a foreigner. Accents had always done things to Jackson that would make any nun blush to even consider. The fact that there was a strange, baby-faced guy with a Slavic accent in what Jackson considered to be a redneck bar only made the allure that much greater. No one visited Dawn Chorus. No one really passed through, as far as he could tell. People either just showed up and, apparently, stayed or they had been here since the dawn of time.

This man had stories. Jackson wanted to hear him.

“Honey, you need to relax. Make some friends while you’re here. LIke Yaya here …”

Now that the woman of the hour had done her due diligence with her boss man, who happened to be … related to her, at least he thought, his dreamy eyed stare turned acute and attentive despite the pleased smile that tried to strangle the rest of his face. “Yaya, this stranger here was going to tell us why he’s in Dawn Chorus while we get him drunk on Vodka. You’re probably more his type with the …” He gestured absently to her chest area, then even more absently to her crotch area, before rolling his eyes skyward and darted an insinuating glance to the Slav.

Only for them to creep back over to her. No more smiles. No more teasing glint in hazel eyes. She’d dropped the news and he drew the air between them into his lungs as he leaned before the anticipation killed him and knitted his brows together. “Wait, what?”

If Jackson sounded as dumbfounded as his question made him seem, it was because he was. See, he hadn’t bothered to make himself privy to the events that had going on during the festival. He’d been home - at his Nana’s - taking care of her. Some nights, his Nan could go through the evening just fine. Went to sleep watching her soaps. Nothing to worry about. However, the night of the festival had been a different story. She had acted like a woman possessed; Jackson had almost dove into his secret stash, just to stop himself from having a panic attack in the face of the old woman screaming, clawing at the walls, ranting about

Something out there. Something evil.

All the way until dawn. One wouldn’t be able to tell from looking at Jackson now, but he’d only managed to catch a few hours of sleep when Nana had finally tired herself out, and even then it had taken a half shot of brandy to ease her back into her bed before she hurt herself.

Jackson was looking at Yaya in a strange, paranoid way as she spoke. His hands, now clammy, reached down and plucked up the shot, tossing it back without even tasting it until it started to burn a hole in his stomach with the way the acids roiled.

“My Nan was having an episode last night, so I missed the festival,” he said carefully. “What … was Morris Blevins like? He … came back? Where is he now? Did anyone see where he came from?”​

 

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Character: Jackson Carlisle
Time/Location: The Mothlight - somewhere between 11:00am and 12:00pm
Scene Status: OPEN
Tagging:@p r i s m (Yaya Bishop); @Vytheril (Ruslan Borispol)

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Just like that, the vodka that Jackson had just shot back with all the elegance of a man who had spent a good many years perfecting the art of taking shots … threatened to come right back up. He felt it burn in his esophagus, chased with the taste of bile. It made his mouth water as his stomach churned, but he forced himself to swallow it back down, looking a little more green around the edges for his trouble than he had just a minute ago. More than that, he looked pallid, like he might pass out.

Or be sick. Which - he almost had been.

Spooked. That might have been a better word for how he looked, with his sunken hazel eyes, too pale skin. Needed some sun. Or he needed to get laid to put some color back into his swallow cheeks. The thought brushed through his brain as he cast a fleeting glance over to the foreigner, then back to Yaya. The thought was gone in as fleeting a way as his glance.

“What.” Wasn’t a question. It should have just been a sound with the way his mouth dropped open and his cheeks moved like he was some kind of fish out of water. Against his better judgment, he reached for the bottle of vodka again, poured himself another shot that sloshed across the bar, because his fingers were shaking so bad. He managed to pull himself together enough that he blinked a couple of times and honed in on his friend, “So, he was hurt? Managed to escape whatever sick fuck had caught him in time to die in front of everyone?”

Not. The. Time.

As soon as the words left his mouth, Jackson clamped and wired his jaw shut, shame crashing down over his expression, regret chasing its tail. “I’m sorry,” he said immediately. “I didn’t get much sleep. That wasn’t… right. That’s actually horrible. I know…” He knew that Yaya’s relative was still lost somewhere and he had kind of just stomped all over any hope she had cultivated there for the other girl. Because if one came back and died on the street, were the others in the same condition?

“I’m sorry,” he repeated himself, voice hollow and still filled with too much emotion. Jackson reached over, trying to take her hand, except his own was clammy. Shaking still. “Don’t…” Don’t what? He didn’t want to give her false hope, but he also wanted to be comforting. One felt fake and the other felt forced, given the circumstance. So he cleared his throat instead and murmured, “Will the town be holding a wake for him? A memorial or anything? Do you..”
Snap the fuck out of it.

He sassed up. Sat up a little straighter on the bar stool. There was lucidity in his eyes again, even if it was forced, and he still looked shaken up by it all. Maybe even too shaken up, considering he wasn’t even there. Didn’t know the people who disappeared. Didn’t have enough compassion in his soul to be feeling this much sympathy for someone he called a friend, either. Not his way. Something else was up and he wasn’t about to say what it was.

“You tell me what you need, princess. Anything at all. I’m here to erase him, or dull it down, or anything else you need. You want to drink ourselves into a stupor? Here for it. You want to fly high in the sky on some of the stuff I have stashed? Also here for it. You need to be a dumb ass shell for a bit and watch movies and gorge on sugar instead? Also here for it.” He even added a little extra sass to his voice with his offerings.

 

[Vytheril]

Character: Ruslan Borispol
Time/Location: The Mothlight - somewhere between 11:00am and 12:00pm
Tagging: @p r i s m (Yaya Bishop) @pixel. (Jackson Charlisle)

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Ruslan kept more or less to himself, but didn't mind eavesdropping on what the discussion was taking place. He made no effort in hiding his own peculiar interest by turning his head to watch Yaya's own grief relatively forming. He wasn't exactly up on current events with the 'Missing Four' and how the town was up to the whole fitting. He felt this ominous feeling in the pit of his stomach as the thought of vanishing just without a trace was unnerving even for the outsider. He'd to throw back some more of his burning liquid, down the hatch, and offered an ominous gaze towards the wall just past the pair as they continued to converse on.

He moved his hand away from his now empty glass as the mood had changed to a more bleak manner. His arms furled up against the banister of the counter and leaned forward, brushing his fingers against his sleeve while he pondered. It was a worrying fear that he'd buried underneath a slew of many other responsibilities he had on his mind. His surveying job from the contracting firm out of New Jersey, personal life like his family's problems back home in his homeland, and other nuances most are accustomed to adult life. But the talk he was listening to generated this electrical current that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

He looked back between over at Yaya and then over towards Jackson, pursing his lips as he waited for a moment to interject with the pair. This was now something he was engaged in, unlike being distant earlier from Jackson's attempt to allure him with his sensual prowess. "I didn't hear anything that you mentioned over radio." Ruslan admits, referring to his car radio he probably had upon driving in.

"This town seemed like it was very quiet, like how mentioned back from where I lived. Said it was remote and quiet, but I didn't think tragedy could be in such a pretty place like this." His accent noticeable, but funny enough there was that hint of Jersey that embellished him. Learning English from interactions had gave him a funny accent, despite being serious. "I'm not used to conversation like this, so if I convey my condolences in the wrong manner I didn't mean it." Adding his little addendum to hopefully not cause any frustration. He looked over his shoulder as his situational awareness was now steadily rising. He was just happy he'd brought something to defend himself with, but prayed it'd never come to that.