Log Title: Jason vs. Rosie, Celebrity Deathmatch

Log Setting: Outside the Crossroads, a few night after Batiste got enchanted and "eaten" by the Grim Beast thing.

Log Cast:
Rosie
Jason Riley

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Rosie is plopped down on the sidewalk outside of the Crossroads, her legs folded and leaning back against the wall to which the gate is attatched. She toys with some of the roses crawling down the wall, tying and lacing colored string around them.

Jason slips out of the alleyway crammed between Cafe' Lafitte's and the next building over, moving from the deep black shadows there to the ring of lamplight and then back to shadows again as he pads along the sidewalk, heading towards you. He seems to have been waiting and then chosen his moment to slip out.. And you're definitely what he's heading for. He comes to a halt a little ways behind you and casts a glance into the Crossroads to see if anyone's watching, then looks down to you, smile crooked and eyes bright as always, but his ears back and tail snaking out beneath his cloak. "Oh, hey, Rosie!" he chirps with rather contrived cheerfulness. And then adds with a slightly darker tone, "Fancy meeting you here..."

The sound of her name causes Rosie to freeze and shrink back defensively, darting up dark eyes to seek out the source. Black jeans, long cloak, her eyes travel up even though she already knows who it's going to be. Eyes large and blinking, she stays seated, fingers still lingering on the roses she was playing with. The girl gulps a little though her expression stays slack and blank. "Yea... 's pretty amazing all right," she agrees.

Jason tilts his head a little, one ear flicking as his eyes idly roam down to where your fingers rest upon the rose, then back up to your face again. "Y'know, I never understood why they didn't teach crows that the shiney stuff may be fun to play with, but that if ya prick yerself, it still hurts." He smirks a little, then crouches down to your level (as if he was speaking to a child), sitting back on his heels. "'N sometimes, as absurd as it may sound, some people like ta keep their shiney things ta themselves."

Rosie ducks her chin down and turns her head away from you, dropping her hands from the rose and into her lap, where they twist and twine nervously. "Shiney things are for giving," she argues softly, refusing to look up again. Her toes, visible in open sandles, begin wiggling almost out of control. The drizzle is flattening her hair onto her forehead, but she doesn't move to push it away.

Jason doesn't seem to really notice the drizzle, ears pressed back against the dampening hair. It suits him just fine right now. He just pulls his cloak more about him, murmuring in a low tone, something flashing darkly in his now-not-so-bright eyes, "I'm /so/ glad that you've decided what my shiney things are for, even after you /knew/ how I felt about you playing with them." His tail lashes out like the words, punctuating them.

Erick slides across the wet sidewalk with ease, casting Rosie a grin as he heads through the iron gate.

Rosie wriggles uncomfortably, pulling her knees up against her chest. She and Jason are sitting just outside the Crossroads. Well, she's sitting, Jason is crouched nearby. "I knew I was doing a bad thing," she says softly, sorrowfully. "I mean... I knew Grimmy would chase." She's looking down, away from Jason, at the sidewalk, and so mercifully does not see the grin.

Erick goes through the iron gate.

Jason glances up at the man passing by, then looks back at Rosie, head tilting slightly, expression held back for a moment. But then he gives the girl a soft smile, eyes sparkling with... /something/. Understanding, perhaps? He rises to his feet and murmurs, "C'mon... sumthin' ya might not needa see, but ya should."

Could he be... forgiving? You said that you didn't know, so... maybe? Jason's ears rise to a more neutral position, his tail calming to a slow curl/uncurl.

Rosie only now dares to raise her eyes just slightly, eyeing Jason suspisciously. "I hurt your shiney thing and so you're sure to be happy with me," she tells him, nervous. She shows not even the first sign of getting up yet. "Where we goin'? Then maybe I'll think about it, if yer lucky."

Jason murmurs, "My old home..." quietly. He pads off a few steps and looks back over his shoulder to the girl. He still doesn't look angry, in fact it's just quiet right now, but it also doesn't look like the request is very optional. At least for hope of a pleasant outcome to this.

Rosie licks her lips, one hand lifting to clench into a fist against her breastbone. With the other she pushes herself unsteadily to her feet, then wraps the arm around herself tightly. "'S all my fault," she mumbles, pouting. "I was the one what did the munchin'."

Jason doesn't respond to that, just leads the girl to the alleyway from whence he came (gee, demons and hell and all), peers around the corner to make sure nothing's taken up residence in the past ten minutes, then glances back over his shoulder to Rosie and slips in.

Alleyway -- Somewhere Off Bourbon Street

Dark, dirty, and dank, this alleyway is a narrow strip of filthy concrete walled in on both sides by unforgiving brick. Crates, scattered trash and things less recognizable pile up against the walls, making progress a cautious undertaking at best. Drunks, homeless and prostitutes are the usual occupants of this darkness, finding protection from the wind behind a heap of crates, or furtive seconds of privacy behind a dumpster. During Mardi Gras, partiers choke the alleyway - even months later, discarded beads can seen, tangled up with the rest of the trash.

Rosie trundles in nervously, still clutching the pendant of the Glamorous necklace, that rests on her collarbone. At the mouth of the alley she freezes, stock still, and stares into the darkness. She's not going one step further, not no way, not no how. Not by herself, at least.

No, not by yourself. As your eyes still adjust to the darkness, there's a sudden flash of green eyes, blazing, amongst red fur and hair and black shadows as Jason whirls on you from where he was pressed against the wall. One hand grasps your hand and yanks you deeper into the alley while the other seeks to clamp over your mouth to stifle the scream he's sure is coming.

Rosie hates being touched. She fears contact more than anything, especially harsh, -forced- contact. Initial reaction is left over from the days of ferretdom: bite. Her jaw snaps at the oncoming hand, choking the shriek as she tries to pull herself away from the grasp.

There's a snarling, stifled canine yelp of pain and a flash of fox-like teeth far too close to your face, but then Jason throws you down amongst the rubbish cluttering the alleyway. But before you can get your bearings, Jason's standing above you, twin green flames dancing in his eyes in the darkness. There's a steely glint of light off of something metal in his hand, his other held against his side. Quickly he hisses out, "Scream, I /dare/ you..." His glamour already begins to gather about him, readied, just in case. "Or /listen/ to me."

No... no... no... not again. Just when she'd been able to forget, and get back to semi-normal again. She's been here before. Thrown to the ground, metal gleaming, threatened, scared, no, no, nonononono! Rosie pulls herself into a protective ball, shying from you, whimpering softly. Instructed not to scream, she won't scream. Maybe she'll listen, for she certainly can't go anywhere right now. Her eyes clench shut tightly, waiting. She always thought, if she was here again, she'd fight back. Maybe she was wrong.

You know, there probably have been nothing but sympathy in Jason's eyes once, but... something's very different about this fox. Like the cloak he wears, he has shadows draped about his shoulders. And at no time more than this, it seems. Your eyes shut like that, you can't see what he does with the knife, but you hear him move close, crouch beside you. "Whose dreamer was he?" he asks, in this deceptively soft voice.

Rosie tries to scoot away from the nearness of the voice, trembling violently. Stay away, stay away, her entire body and posture screams that. A quiet hand steals toward her pocket, shaking too much to pose all that much threat. "M-m-mine," she manages to whisper. "N-n-not yours."

Jason mm-hmms, softly, amidst the steely scrape of the blade against cracked concrete. It's still out. "And what right does that give you to play with him?" he asks again, still in that voice. He doesn't follow with anything but his gaze, green eyes idly picking over your fingers as they go to your pocket.

Rosie's jaw works for a moment, silently, stealing the briefest of glances up at Jason, and jerking away again. How can she explain it? How can she express the wishing, the loneliness, the longing for a friend, even the possibility of which she almost never feels? And how can she say that she thought that just -maybe- this boy would be nice to her, and be her friend? That she just wanted to give him something special? That's just it, she can't express in. The lingering hand pulls nothing from her pocket, instead wrapping around her stomach as if she might be sick. "Every right," comes the dull whisper.

Jason shifts his weight from one heel to the other, his tail curling and uncurling in what could almost be described as a menacing way behind him. "Every right," he whispers back, anger barely being held in check. There's a lot more behind that than you might know. "Their dreams are so fixed, so reliable... Just what I needed was some little /sister/," the word comes out as a snear, "putting her paws in and feeding them to her pet poodle." The knife clangs against the concrete. "Do you /want/ to know what he looked like when I found him?" And here's where he gets evil, this tiny wicked smile flitting across his lips. "Why... I think I'm seeing it again right now..."

"You think I feel bad enough already," comes a soft whimper, head still ducked away. "You think I care that it was my fault he got hurt. You think I have a conscience, you think I know what it's like to get hurt." By now, probably, the tears are flowing, but she hasn't moved yet. If this is her punishment, to have to sit and listen to the description, she'll take it

Jason makes a soft snort of disgust. "You obviously thought well on what'd happen if he were to open his eyes and find the Grim breathing in his face." There's movement of his cloak as he, presumably, puts the knife away. But he doesn't cease looming over you. "You obviously thought a /lot/ about this gift you gave to /my/ dreamer, cared quite a bit about what you were doing to him. Tell everyone that my dreamers are fair game to all." There's more movement and something is thrown at your feet. "And here's something with which to carry what remains of them back to me in, under the guise of friendship." With that, he stands and slips out of the alleyway in a smooth motion, hand held lightly against his side.

The item that flops against your feet is the knitted cradle you created, stained lightly with fresh blood. Probably from his hand.

Rosie stays where she is. She knows already what you've thrown back to her, doesn't bother to look at it or try to pick it up. Her head rests against the dirty wall, eyes closed, her body huddled up and chilled with fear and self-hatred. She listens for your footsteps, until they're gone, staying still and unmoving for a long time, even after you're well away. The sling she leaves there to become part of the detrius and trash of the alley.

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