Logs:Danse Macabre

Danse Macabre
Dramatis Personae Roscoe, Sera	2023-10-26 I'm an aggressive player.
Location <XAV> Conservatory - Xs First Floor
Tall panes of glass and a many-gabled glass ceiling protect this large indoor garden from the elements, while welcoming in sunlight to keep it warm year-round. Adjoined to the southern face of the venerable mansion and surrounded by more conventional gardens beyond, the conservatory is all Old World elegance from the outside. Within, however, it is lush and green and in certain corners--whether despite its careful tending by the groundskeeper or because of it--seems practically wild. Footpaths and a burbling artificial steam wind through the space, connecting its disparate parts. Benches are scattered throughout, thorough soft grasses or mosses under certain trees also invite rest. The outside wall is lined with tropical and subtropical plants. The ferns and cycads and epiphytes are kept moist by artfully hidden misters that also give the place a sort of magical ambiance, dense foliage wreathed at times with drifting patches of mist. Nearest the building is a desert in miniature, with a few impressively sized cacti as well as palo verde and other trees adapted to arid climes. Between these, and by far the largest section, is dedicated temperate zone plantlife from around the world, the beds growing more carefully manicured and the pads less winding as one approaches the center, where a clearing with a small ring of seats is a popular spot for some teachers to hold court. Roscoe isn't at lunch, though it seems like he did swing through the cafeteria at some point -- he has a half-eaten apple in one hand, though the baggy sleeve of his blue DBZ sweatshirt threatens to engulf it whenever he lets his arm drop lower. He's been wandering through the conservatory at a steady, respectable clip, chomping away at his apple, wrinkling his nose appreciatively at desert cacti and tropical flowers alike, but concentrating with far more focus on a small, jagged rock he's been kicking carefully along the path, which skitters and bounces merrily in front of him on its uneven faces, until he aims a little too wild and it skips itself into the artificial brook. Sitting on an aesthetically and practically shaped boulder at the base of a yew tree, Sera also isn't at lunch. She's wearing a pink-and-purple flannel unbuttoned over a black babydoll shirt with a white kitten, crowned, grooming herself on a red-and-white checked floor, blue jeans, and purple sequined sneakers. There is a tray beside her with the empty plate that presumably once contained her lunch, an empty glass, and a smaller plate of strawberry shortcake, as yet untouched, but at the moment she's absorbed with her phone. Or she was, until Roscoe's rock tumbles past her and into the water. She looks up and blinks owlishly at him -- only for a moment, before breaking into a friendly smile. "Oh hey! It's Roscoe, right? I saw you at chess club." Roscoe is still looking at where his rock disappeared, but his gaze snaps out of the brook to Sera as soon as she speaks. "Oh yeah," he says. It doesn't seem to be with any recognition, his gaze is wide and somewhat uncomprehending, until he adds, "You're Sarah, right? You're really good." Sera preens, just a little, and a faint ripple of her pleasure accompanies her smile. "Thank you! You might have caught me on one of my good days, but we should play sometime and see. Oh!" She perks up. "Are you going to the Veterans' Day tournament?" After a moment, Roscoe flashes her a toothy smile, also pleased for some reason. His hands are searching for his pockets, until he seems to remember the apple he's holding -- he pulls it back up to his face, though he doesn't bite yet. "Yeah," he says magnanimously, "We should play sometime." He blinks, once, at the question, but then his eyes slide sideways off of her; Sera can sense a spike of vague, confused annoyance. "Naw," is all he says. "I'm going home for the three-day weekend." After a moment, "Are you going?" Sera nods, the gesture indefinably sympathetic. "Yeah. I'm going home, too, but home is two subway stops from the tournament. Besides, Mr. Tessier is my brother. Kind of." She tilts her head. "Are liking it here so far? It can be a big adjustment, especially transferring mid-term. I'm sure the first holiday weekend back home is a relief for some kids." There's a suggestion of gentle solicitousness in this. "Cool." Maybe this isn't actually cool; Roscoe is more relieved than impressed, though his voice determinedly maintains its nonchalance. He tilts his head -- "Tessier," he repeats, the pronunciation a little clumsy, not quite questioning. Now he takes a bite of the apple, says with eyes scrunching half-shut, "I'unno. I've only been here for a week, I'm not homesick. But --" he shrugs loosely with one shoulder, waves the apple vaguely. "I guess it's nice they miss me?" "The teacher who sponsors the chess club," Sera explains. "Swans around in a witch hat? He doesn't do that all the time," she adds casually, "just October." Her smile returns a little more reserved than before. "It's good to be missed, and if you do get homesick, there's longer breaks coming up. Where's home, for you?" "Oh." This sounds indifferent, but Roscoe is nodding enthusiastically. "One my -- roommates seems really into Halloween too," he says. "Creepy decorations all over the place. I'm kinda looking forward to it being over." He shrugs loosely again, this time with both shoulders; when he returns her smile it is, likewise, a bit guarded, his front teeth pressing down on his lower lip. "Boston," he says. "So... you and your family live right in --" surely when he turns his head, eyes scanning left and right, he's not actually looking for NYC -- "the city? That's close." "Down in Greenwich, by Washington Square Park." When Sera tips her head more-or-less southerly, she presumably is in fact indicating the direction of NYC. "Yeah, but it's still nice, living on campus." She lowers her bright green eyes, and her smile fades but doesn't flee altogether. "Home is complicated, sometimes. I love Halloween, though, just not in a cheesy way. I hope." There's an ironic quirk at the corner of her mouth. "But I take it you're not doing costumes and parties?" Roscoe probably doesn't have any idea where Greenwich is, though he's nodding like he does. "Yeah," could be to anything she's just said -- it's nice on campus, home is complicated, Halloween. He's certainly not clarifying -- he's taking another bite of apple, rolling both ankles so he's standing on the outer side of his Chucks. "I wanna," he says. "I haven't done anything for Halloween in years, I feel like I have to catch up. Do people have parties here? No way, right?" Sera raises both eyebrows. "There are definitely parties here. Illicit ones out on the grounds, casual ones in the rec room, and the whole actual Halloween Dance on Saturday." She braces her hands on the boulder and leans forward conspiratorially. "Not that you have to go 'with' someone, but -- do you have anyone in mind to ask?" "No," says Roscoe. "Not yet." He hesitates a moment, tucking his lip against his teeth again -- "Are you going?" Sera's smile brightens. "I am! Do you want to go together?" A little conspiratorially. "We don't have to do coordinating costumes or anything." From Roscoe, now, comes a sudden swoop of emotion, gathering excitement and apprehension all pulled up short and then dropping with a shock, like he miscounted his steps on a staircase. He lets his feet roll back flat on the footpath. Out loud, he says, "Yeah okay sure!" Somewhere during this pile-up of agreements he seems to regather his wits; he adds, after another moment, "Phew, I don't even have anything for a non-coordinating costume." "I'm an aggressive player," might have been meant as a sort of sideways apology for jump-scaring Roscoe, but Sera sounds perhaps just a little proud, too. "And if you come down into the City with me, I can absolutely help you throw together a costume." "Shoot," is, this time, properly impressed. "Now I really wanna see you play chess." Roscoe tilts his head at this offer, first to the right, then to the left -- he's rolling his feet outwards again, letting the movement lift him just that much taller, if more wobbly. After a moment he produces another toothy, agreeable smile, papered over murky uncertainty -- "Okay," he says. "Cool."