It had been a weird night.
Maybe it had been a little too ambitious for Marianne to attend a party when she was not (and had not for many months been) in a party mood. But she’d RSVP’d and had put effort into her costume and by the time she was out the door it was far too late to turn back.
That had been over an hour ago.
In the time that had elapsed, she’d slowly drifted towards the edges of the room, eventually firmly planting herself where she had the best vantage point to observe but was unlikely to be seen.
She may have been pretending to be texting, but all the while she’d been taking notes on her surroundings, on the people of Gravewood and the tidbits of juicy conversation that she had been made privy to simply by wallflowering.
Someone was cheating, someone was stealing, someone was spiraling. Etc, etc, etc.
For all intents and purposes, Gravewood was a boring little town. But large social gatherings were always a great reminder of how imperfect humans could be, and if that didn’t kickstart her interest in writing… what would?
Time was ticking on her second book and the bills were piling up. Desperate times.
But no one in the crowd thus far had sparked her curiosity. She knew enough about all of them, had drawn inspiration (though only the barest of unrecognizable bones) from a smattering before. Nothing was working.
“Austin Redacted,” she acknowledged the second the male stepped into her immediate line of sight, tipping her cup of water at the male in greeting.
Maybe the most intriguing thing about him was that he was completely unknown and therefore ripe for projecting a fascinating backstory onto, or maybe it was that she wanted to pull information out of him piece by piece until the actual puzzle was complete, but there had been something that had fascinated Mari about Austin from the moment she’d caught him stealing her go-to seat at the local coffee shop.
He was a mystery. To her, at least. And that was useful for a horror writer.
“I’m assuming that Isadora Morgan does, in fact, know your last name - in order for the embossed invitation to have arrived. Unless you’re party crashing?”
It was particularly interesting to Austin to see the way this small town partied. The grandeur of it all felt like something from a show like Gossip Girl, the marble and gold making him feel a little like he’d stepped into a rich alter ego. He liked the togas though, and there had been a few spirited conversations about the mythos-- mostly about the box of cereal he was carrying.
It was a little disappointing to not have any intellectual conversations about the gods, but he was quickly realizing how little of this town he knew. There were a few familiar faces, here and there, but no one he really knew. He theorizes that maybe its because he hasn’t quite been here long enough to create any lasting friendships just yet.
But speaking of potential somethings,
“Marianne Byrne.” He stopped, turning to look at her, and tipping his cereal box in the same fashion she tipped her cup.
He had found their little coffee shop conversation surprisingly fun, despite it felt like he was going to be murdered for accidentally stealing the spot. Plus, it was impressively cool that he now knew an author he’d read the book of. And she knew him! Minus a last name, of course.
“She does, in fact, know my last name.” He nodded, “We’re friends. I think- kind of. She makes an effort to talk to me. Mostly about her business stuff.”
Sometimes it felt a little like she was a cellphone carrier and Isa only called him up to sell him the next best plan, but it was a friendly thing for her to do. He was certainly a little curious about their construction business, at the very least.
“I’m guessing that you have to know her too. Unless you’re accusing me of party crashing to hide the fact that you yourself are party crashing.” Was it weird he could imagine her party crashing in some Nancy Drew esque way? “Which would be a good redirection, but ultimately failed.”
