voice + action ✪ tonight we smoke them out

[herotypical]

[ mid-morning:] Alright. New Feather roll-call. Did we gain any other Sunnydalers? Ex or otherwise? Speak now or forever hold your cookies. [ because buffy summers thinks there's a vamp on the prowl and while she doesn't know who to suspect, she also can't shake the feeling of knowing them. she blames the dreams. ]

As for the rest of you? Hi and howdy. Buffy Summers the -- uhm -- other Vampire Slayer here, chiming in. [ since melaka fray already made her adorable little intro. ] But I think the only things I'm destined to slay today are dust bunnies. What do I even tackle first? The closet or under the bed?

And can anyone let me borrow their vacuum cleaner? I think I accidentally slayed that, too. Again.

[after her various public please, buffy gets up to a little light spring cleaning around the house. housemates are invited and encouraged to interrupt. no. really. she has something important she wants to discuss with each of you.

later, she'll be at the library. mhm, a rare buffy-amongst-the-books sighting; however, she seems to be wandering the stacks much more frequently within the last month. find her reading or meandering. or, later, find her as she drifts off to sleep with her cheek pillowed on a page of narrow, neat text.

she mumbles to herself and frowns in her sleep. dreaming -- and not of sugary delights but of familiar, bloody mayhem. so familiar that its author's name seems to stick to her tongue. viscous and sour. at least, until she's shaken awake or wakes of her own accord and then any inkling or hunch seems to shrink into inaccessible corners of her mind. ]

Comments

[herotypical]

[ dolly. buffy had picked through the wreck of that warehouse -- dolls with cracked porcelain and singed dresses. and hints here and there in things that spike or angel would say.

the disjointed messages. suddenly, it became a whole lot easier to imagine a voice attached to these ramblings.

but could she be sure? perhaps she should play it safe just a little longer... ]

Yeah. Don't do patience, either. You know there are two of us here, right?

[bloodwaif]

Pretty caged birds of a feather. Who is the pretty pirate, slayer? I've watched him. Who is the Pale Man? He is beautiful. Who is the child with the green hair? Who is the dark-haired beauty? Who is the fine lady with the arched brows? Who is the quiet one who cooks the meals? Who is the handsome sailor?

I want to know them all.

1/2

[herotypical]

[ their names seize in her throat as each adjective passes under her eyes. the casual threat of a second slayer was easily tossed aside with threats such as these. buffy clutches the sides of her journal.

her pencil? lost...tumbled under a chair. she doesn't write back. ]

2/2

[herotypical]

[ so she speaks instead: ] Touch them -- touch anyone -- and you'll be so far beyond dust they don't even have microscopes powerful enough to see what's left of you.

[ and then slams the journal shut. she has a lead and an assumption. drusilla. that's better than nothing. ]

[bloodwaif]

[More threats flow even after the journal shuts, written in girlish script.]

The blue-eyed water-witch. The yellow-haired smith and her dark-haired lover. [Totally wrong read on Sokka, there, Dru.] The dark-haired pianist; the golden-haired doctor. The redhead who looks like a lovely candy. All the children. All the children. All the children.