"They like to talk about you."
”—The whole god damn town likes to talk about me. ‘They’ could be anyone.”
Peter’s tone isn’t sharp— instead, he sounds tired. Weary.
“Who is ‘they’?”
d e v o n

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@trusttheballs
"They like to talk about you."
”—The whole god damn town likes to talk about me. ‘They’ could be anyone.”
Peter’s tone isn’t sharp— instead, he sounds tired. Weary.
“Who is ‘they’?”
"A werewolf,” Dorian repeats with an easy nod of his head. “A werewolf, a murderer, gay with the Godfrey boy. Take your pick, really.”
”A gypsy, but that’s hardly a rumor, is it?” he adds.
He wonders what he might have done, had Peter admitted to anything. Even if it were a lie, wouldn’t he have been fascinating for it? He is greatly disappointed, in truth, that the supposed wolf has no interest in even pretending to be someone worth talking to. He had hoped for a good deal more.
"Looks like you're all caught up on the small town gossip," Peter replies, reaching up to scratch at his rough jaw.
Peter was is to being secluded from everyone else. If you make yourself someone interesting, then you suddenly become the center of attention, and that is a change that Peter is already having a hard time adjusting to. He isn't killing those girls, but everyone thinks he is. He'd shown up right before the murders began, and so everyone turned to the new guy and projected their fear onto him. He understood it-- but that didn't mean he liked it.
He just wants to be left alone.
"I'm none of those things-- well, except the gypsy, but I'm half Italian..." The last part is a half-murmur, something that he knows people overlook even though they know it to be true.
Ginger stares at him blankly, taking no pains to hide the expression on her face, which suggests (to put it lightly) that she thinks he’s probably stupid. Several seconds pass before she rolls her eyes and begins wrestling with the trash bag.
"Yeah, no shit. You figure that out all on your own?”
"You know, I have been told I'm pretty clever."
She's different-- she's angry, and outwardly so. Hemingway kept everything bottled up-- let it build inside of her until she snapped and started killing girls. He wonders if she's killed anyone yet; he wonders if she knows that she's doing it, if she is. He doesn't say anything of the like to her. Maybe if he can get close to her-- maybe if he can become her friend-- he can find a way to stop her, before it's too late.
"--So, do you want help with that or not?"
Okay, so it looks like I'll be getting home around ten PM. Unfortunately I am completely tuckered out from the con, and I have work at nine AM. I think I might just crash when I get home, so I won't be on until tomorrow night.
“People don’t get better, they just get smarter.”
“—You think so?”
Peter asks this in a slow, contemplative tone. He wouldn’t say that he’s gotten better, really. He’s changed, certainly, but he wouldn’t say that he’s changed for better or for worse; he hadn’t been out of Hemlock Grove for long enough to know that yet. He still thinks about the things that happened— about all the death that followed him to that small town— and he can’t say he’s become a better person because of it.
He’s seen people get better, though. He’s watched as people morphed into someone completely new, and he can say with certainty that they got better.
And then there were people who didn’t ever get better. Who never got the chance.
A chorus of hollow laughter- empty and devoid of any sincerity.
❝—Whatever I say? Like that matters. I’m as good as dead.❞
Technically speaking, Eric was dead- mucho dead.
Just over a year ago he had been murdered. A knife to the spine and a swan dive out his own window had done him in. He remembered the pain. The blood. The feeling of flying…. falling…
He was dead before he hit the pavement.
And yet, one year later he woke up and crawled out of his own grave, very much alive. His body was mended, and impervious to any form of damage. He no longer felt hunger, thirst, or a need to sleep. He wasn’t a ghost. Nor was he human. Eric himself wasn’t even sure what he was anymore.
Whatever he was, here he was now, conversing with a man who looked almost as miserable as he did, if not more. He probably sounded like a grim and cynical asshole.
❝Shit, man. I’m sorry. I’ve never been good at first impressions.❞
He almost smiled.
Peter laughed and dropped his head forward, toying with the silver pendant that he wore around his neck. "Yeah, man, neither have I," he replied, thinking of the last time he made a first impression. It was on an entire town, and he'd inadvertently caused several girls to lose their lives-- several families to lose their girls. He hadn't killed them-- in fact, he'd done nothing to consciously contribute to the loss of their lives-- but everyone in the town thought he had.
Plus, the whole being a gypsy thing never went over well. What the fuck was this, 1940s Germany?
Peter glanced back up at the other man, chewing on his lip before holding his hand out. "Peter Rumancek." He had a good feeling about this guy. It wasn't particularly fantastic-- he could tell something was off, of course-- but he felt like this was a guy he could get along with, and making friends was hard for him.
His last friend had his own set of issues.
Veni, vidi, vici.
Let freedom ring, but allow the land of opportunity to resonate with the pure, bitter sound of success. Society, after all, was an arena for the contestants of the ceaseless game: Survival of the fittest, the strongest. There were warriors, built from cold money, from ambition, from ruthlessness, from history, from tyranny. The warriors would endure.
Veni, vidi . . .
Hemlock Grove had been rooted and watered by the Godfrey family; it grew, but steel walls suffocated its boundaries. The town grew dependent upon the sustenance.
Vici.
They had been conquered.
“Godfrey” seemed synonymous with warrior.
Still, the word seemed… and was… empty.
Roman brought the cigarette to his lips, not looking and hardly seeing; he was walking, and his pace almost bore the singular purpose of an ambitious man. … He could not be branded ambitious man.
Briefly, as smoke extended into his lungs, his thoughts meandered towards a drunken, hazed encounter with a man at the bar. Something about a brother who’d lost his home consequent of some business actions of his family- Roman hadn’t thought it terribly significant. He pursed his lips, wetting them, and turned his head east and west in the routine action of man searching. Exhale.
Isolation was never a permanent option. Not when there was Shelley, who deserved so much more and so much better, and not when his mother could see what he saw, though he saw that she turned her head with a disinterest. It never occurred to him that it could be an expression that was painted, that she could simply be waiting.
Indeed, isolation was never a permanent option, but it was an option now.
He unlocked the wooden door, absently observing the swirling grooves formed by the dried grey paint upon the door. It was meaningless; it was nothing. Still, the fleeting thought drifted: Had the painter gotten bored, angry, or did he think himself some genius of the arts? Roman rather hoped not. It would be a terribly mundane art to paint doors. -Why wonder when none of it m a t t e r e d ?
The empty house, a product of conspicuous consumption, was just that: Empty. Roman had never visited before; he had no cause to do so. Even now, there was now cause. Empty, vacant, a vacuum-
Then why did it reek?
Disregard and continue.
Roman tossed the keys, stolen from a drawer within the estate, onto the dusting window sill neighboring the door; he took a quick drag from the cigarette, inspecting now the decidedly hideous wallpaper that bordered the hallway and the room. The house was empty, and yet it was furnished; the house rather appeared as though it had previously belonged to an elderly woman. Was she now dead, homeless, or lost? -Why wonder when none of it m a t t e r e d ?
Now those green eyes examined the mustard yellow, thin carpeting that muffled his steps; without a doubt, his shoe had been more expensive than this entire house’s carpeting.
Disregard and continue.
Disregard and continue, and see that rusted brown stain on that carpet.
Visually explore further, and now notice the shell; the remnant what could be a woman.
Roman had to turn his head, had to avert to his eyes- But not because of the gore, not because of the rotting intestines that spilled from the abdomen. Or was it? He had no reason… Nothing he understood… That caused him to turn his gaze. Having no reason to have so was- The cigarette fell from his fingers and was caught by the worn, rounded fingers of the yellow carpet; consequently, mustard fibers singed. Roman didn’t notice.
This girl… This carcass… Had been conquered.
Veni. Vidi. Vici.
Tightly now, Roman pursed his lips-His gaze flickered for an elongated millisecond to that shell… And flickered away. The gore had to be the same. The anger had to be the same. Roman’s hand went to his pocket, following the curve of a petal of a pastel flower on the wall- Peter would know. He had to know something.
He heard his monotonous voice repeating into the receiver the address of this house-
This house whose deed held the Godfrey name.
Roman gave directions without reason though he himself was disoriented. North, east, south, west… It had blurred to be the same.
Then why did it reek?
The bloody victim of a grim reaper stained a mustard carpet.
There was another one.
Peter didn't even have to listen to the words that left Roman's lips to understand what he'd said. In fact, he hadn't even had to hear his tone of voice, because as soon as the phone rang, he got this sinking feeling in his gut-- this twitch in his balls-- that told him something was horribly wrong. He knew, before he'd even answered the phone, that another girl had been killed.
Peter scribbled the address down-- so quickly that even he struggled with deciphering his own handwriting-- and he told Roman that he would be there as soon as he could get a ride. He managed to get one from his mother, who asked few questions about why he was so frazzled and where he was going. She knew, of course, that something was up, but she also knew that her son wasn't going to tell her what it was.
He thanked her when she dropped him off, and he hopped out of the car and quickly went inside. Upon entrance, he pulled his arm up over his face, pressing his nose into his sleeve. Oh, god, it smelled. The body had been here for a while. Days, maybe? He couldn't be sure. Even once he laid eyes on the corpse, he could not tell how long it had been rotting there.
"--So, you called me here... What are we gonna do about it?"
A shadow, or rather a wisp, of a smile did manifest at one corner of the youngest Godfrey’s mouth as shoulder connected with the flesh and bone partway up her arm [ ever a product of the conspicuous height difference, no matter how well Peter did at treating her like anyone else ; ] but he would have to pardon her if she was just a bit skeptical regarding his returned comment — she was seldom clued in to everything that transpired around her, but to say she hadn’t noticed the rising tensions would be outright [ false . ] Something above the usual commingling of rumour and scandal was happening in Hemlock Grove, and it seemed timed perfectly with Roman disappearing more and more frequently from the Godfrey mansion sans explanation; something was taking place beyond Shelley’s ken, and it didn’t sit right with her in the base of her gut.
Mayhap where some of her other senses and faculties had been diminished, her [ intuitive ] aptitude had been heightened by way of compensation.
But he said he was fine, and thus she ventured not to challenge him; whatever it was that occurred outside of her line of perception, he would talk about it if and when he so chose — though perhaps not to her. She was seldom, if ever, the first choice of companion, at any rate.
Of course. I'm always okay.
—…The communication had become something a touch more wistful than she had initially intended, though the affective tone was absent from the range of sounds her tablet could produce; it had been another strained day between herself and her mother, another [ tense ] meal and a bitter scolding leaving her chastened, cowed, embarrassed and made to feel almost impossibly small.
Peter listened to the clicking of the stylus on the screen, and he watched Shelley with a soft smile on his lips as he waited to hear her response. He adored Shelley, and perhaps he did not say so, but he would certainly spend time with her over almost anyone else in this town. She had been one of the first people here to look at him and smile. Maybe she understood what it felt like to walk into the school and have everyone begin to whisper about you before you've even gotten a chance to show anyone who you really are.
Once the device relayed her message, a small smile crossed his lips; it was weak in nature. He knew what that meant. It meant that she had to be okay, because if she wasn't, she would break down. It takes ten times as long to put yourself back together as it does to fall apart, and he knows the struggle of keeping yourself from falling apart.
Peter reached out to tuck his fingers under her chin, tapping lightly as a grin spread across his lips. "--Me too," he replied, dropping his hand back into his lap. He shifted on the log a bit, placing his hands behind himself and leaning back on them, turning his gaze up to the sky. Now that his eyes had adjusted, he found himself captivated by the clouds.
Emerging from treeline, Isobel’s eyes immediately caught site of trailer and ceased her steps further. “—-That’s weird,” she noted, corners of mocha hues squinting. She had taken walks what felt like a million times through these woods, and could only surmise the trailer was a new installment considering it hadn’t been there two weeks ago. Making the decision to cut through their yard, she strode forward, fingers tucking loose strands of long straight locks behind her ear. It wasn’t until she rounded the corner of the trailer that keen oculars took note of unfamiliar male vegging out in a hammock. She knew everyone in this small town, but him—- he was new. Instead of apologizing for the intrusion or politely greeting him with southern hospitality, Isobel’s eyes silently lingered on him a few more moments from a distance. There was a feeling beneath her stoic stare and it nagged. She was drawn to him, but she wouldn’t dare make an effort to speak to him. Everything she touched turned to shit.
Peter waited for her to say something-- or to do something-- for a few minutes, and he kept his gaze averted so that whatever she did came naturally to her and not as an effect of his looking at her. After a few minutes, he supposed she wasn't going to do anything particularly interesting (or anything at all), and, without looking at her, he spoke up.
"--I can see you, you know."
Finally, his eyes-- blue as the sky above them-- settled on her, and his brows knit together as he tried to see past the rays of sunlight. "You some kind of stalker or something?" he asked, pushing himself up and settling on the side of the hammock. The entire scene seemed familiar too him-- too familiar, really, for comfort-- and yet it was very different. She was nothing like Hemingway.
At least, not so far as he could tell.
Letha placed her hand over his, intertwining their fingers. Her baby liked the attention from Peter — Letha could tell — and it certainly wasn’t every day a teenaged girl who claimed to be impregnanted by an angel found someone who could love her and her unborn mystery child. Letha still wasn’t sure if Peter believed her “It was an angel” speech, but at least he didn’t outwardly call her crazy. She wasn’t blind to the looks or deaf to the whispers she heard in the hallways at school. She understood the cause of her pregnancy was hard to believe.
But that didn’t make it any less true.
“I want to stay with you tonight,” she said, finally getting down to the real reason she had weaseled her way around Roman and her parents. Peter had said ‘no’ once before, but her father had been present. While she had a feeling he would try to say ‘no’ again, she felt more inclined to fight for her cause tonight.
He'd pressed himself close to her-- lost himself in the way she felt in his arms, in the way she smelled-- and he'd been about to kiss her again when she spoke. A grin crossed his lips and he let his head fall back, a laugh escaping. "--You know I can't let you do that. It's dangerous." He couldn't have a repeat of the cop situation-- someone holding him down, trying to hurt him, with a pregnant Letha to fend for herself.
No way.
"I would let you if I knew that nothing was going to happen to you." He would-- he wanted her to stay. He didn't like to watch her leave (even if her ass had gotten bigger).
She suppressed her smile to allow for her curiosity to take over from her amusement.
‘Then why did you swim naked? Isn’t that dangerous, or something?’ Or maybe it was a gypsy thing. Maybe they had really strong immune systems so the cold didn’t make them sick. Or — a werewolf thing.
Peter laughed and leaned back on the couch, pressing himself back against the cushions. "--Hell if I know. I just felt like going for a swim," he replied with a shrug, pressing the bottle to his lips again. Thick eyebrows raised as a grin kissed the lips of the bottle, and he lowered the cool glass back to his knee.
"Why don't you try it and find out?"
Don’t tell me that. Don’t─ don’t tell me that. Help me, Nicolae.
Alright, so now seems like a good time to make this announcement (and I will reblog it tomorrow, as well). I will be out of town this weekend from Thursday through Sunday for a convention, and I am not taking my laptop with me. I will do my best to have all of my replies finished and queued before it is time to leave, so there will be something posting during my absence. I will have my phone with me, so I will likely check in every now and then, but I will not be doing any proper roleplaying. I don’t know exactly what time I’ll be returning Sunday, and I work Monday morning so if it’s too late, I will not be on Sunday night, either. I will miss you all dearly!!
Alright, so now seems like a good time to make this announcement (and I will reblog it tomorrow, as well). I will be out of town this weekend from Thursday through Sunday for a convention, and I am not taking my laptop with me. I will do my best to have all of my replies finished and queued before it is time to leave, so there will be something posting during my absence. I will have my phone with me, so I will likely check in every now and then, but I will not be doing any proper roleplaying. I don’t know exactly what time I’ll be returning Sunday, and I work Monday morning so if it’s too late, I will not be on Sunday night, either. I will miss you all dearly!!
r o m x n g o d f r e y -- independent hemlock grove roleplay blog; for Roman Godfrey
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‘Yes. It’s just the way you said it.’ A light laugh fell from her lips, and she glanced at the ground before looking back at him.
‘Why did you say it?’
"Why did I say it? You weren't listening to me at all, were you? Good to know balls is the way to catch your attention--"
Peter grabbed his beer from the table and took a drink from it before continuing, "--I was saying it was cold as balls. The pond."