Dark Entries


quinn_icon.gif sable_icon.gif

Scene Title Dark Entries
Synopsis Quinn and Sable discuss their upcoming gig, and the darkly tinted songs they might play.
Date June 24, 2010

Gun Hill

Sable's apartment.

Some of the finest of artists are moody people. Whether you chalk it up to some sort of mystic madness, or take a more modern route, noting the link between creativity and unexpressed genetic tendencies towards bipolar disorder, mood swings are just part and parcel with certain kinds of brilliance. That, at least, is how Sable imagines she is payed back for her mercurial emotional state. Jimi Hendrix put it best: manic depression is a frustrating mess.

Not to say that Sable's genuinely manic depressive. Just moody. Tending towards spells of the blues. Taken to the occasional turn. And such moods are ideal for the mournful strumming of an acoustic guitar, especially one as fine as that which Quinn gave her. So there she is, perched on her bed, wearing a tank top but forgoing pants in a concession to the heat, bare legs cradling the lower curves of her instrument as she strums her guitar and sings in a low voice that's less simply sad and more sorrowing, with a hint of bitterness.

"Your mother made you cry when she told you about the womb…" the words pause and the strings speaks up, rising from the steady strum before falling back again, "And how people die. - Watching over you when you were young - Smiling as you learned to crawl." the strings speak again, in the absence of words, "You don't her at all…" Her voice picks up, clear, and unaccented, "It's a dirty job, but they're very suave. - Jesus high on wine, weeping turpentine…"

A bin in hand, Quinn strides down the hall with purpose. She's beginning her second drop off of… random crap, basically, from ehr apartment in Brooklyn. Far less this time, and with fewer distractions. It'll probably get done a lot faster than anything did yesterday. Certainly, there's no surprise moms and swooping harlequin puppets to pause her step.

Of course, she'd neglected one important thing in all of this - calling Sable beforehand to make sure she was even home before just bringing stuff by. The guitar she hears as she approaches, answers that question pretty well, but when she hears the singing, her pace slows. She'd heard Sable sing a few times at practice, but not like this.

Was this what it was like when she'd come by Quinn's the other week?

An eyebrow quirked, Quinn puts her ear to the door to listen, but neglects to remember the bin in her hands, it hitting the door with a bit of thud.

Maybe some superior virtue of Quinn's led her, unknown to even herself, to alert Sable to the presence of a person at the door. The tune, one that might best be called 'folksy', ends abruptly at the sound of the thud. Sable's voice picks up, but she's no longer singing.


Hearing the playing stop, Quinn sighs. "It's Quinn! Sorry, didn't mean t' disturb you. Mind gettin' the door, I have another bin of… stuff."

Sable squints at the door with momentary suspicion. Unkind, perhaps. But thieves fear thieves to quote the Romanian proverb Sable's sure as hell never heard of. The eavesdropper must imagine the urge in all others. Though she just began the song, really…

Oh wait, she needs help!

The yellow eyed girl sets aside her guitar and reaches over the edge of her bed to quickly sort through her scattered laundry, finding a relatively presentable pair of sweats and donning them with an unwise, hopping gait as she teeters towards the door. "Comin', comin'!" She exclaims. The waistband snaps into place and Sable pulls the door open, immediately going to take the bin from Quinn. "Hand that th' fuck over," she says, even as she pulls it from Quinn's grasp. She shoots the taller girl a grin. "Sorry 'bout that. I… uh… mostly just driftin' in memory. Come on in, hon," she turns carrying the bin into the room, "This place is more yours th'n mine at this fuckin' point, judgin' by, like, whatever… ratios of possessions, 'n' all."

Quinn wrinkles her nose as the bin is taken from her, arms falling to her side. "Ah, it'll be back to bein' all yours soon enough. Thanks so much for letting me keep all this stuff here, I really appreciate it. I don't really want to get any'a my crap into my place until the big stuff's over. That'll make my actually unpacking a lot more likely." She chuckles and shrugs. "What'cha singin' anyway, I didn't hear much of it."

Oh, so she was listening. That or she just heard. Sable peers at Quinn over her shoulder, weighing the possibility of each. Ultimately, though, it doesn't matter. Sable smiles as she sets the bin next to its brothers, then turns, brushing her hands together as if to say 'job well done'.

"Fuckin' embarrassing," Sable admits, "Goddamn folk band from, like, Canada. Had a thing with a gal in DC, was all about them. Thought I'd like 'em cuz she said they were, like, somethin' akin t' the Beatles. Which, like… I guess I see what she was meanin', but," she shrugs, "I dunno. Sorry. I'll go on if y' let me. Sweet gal, she was. And there are a few songs that just sorta remind me of 'er, so I dunno how much I like 'em so much as can't quite get rid 'f 'em, need t' let 'em out once 'n' a while."

She gestures towards the bed, "Have a seat, hon. 'n' don't worry 'bout clearin' space or nothin'. I don't use any of it anyhow, 'n', honest," she grins, "The more reason y' have t' stop by, the better, is my take."

"I got a few more things down, I have the truck. Mind helpin' me get them in a bit?" She plops down on teh bed, looking up at Sable with a cocked head. "And hey, nothin' embarassin' about it. It was good. Not quite used to hearin' you like that." At the mention of a past relationship of Sable, her eyebrow quirks. "Oh ho? I'm all ears, if you're sharing. Out of curiosity's sake, of course. I understand if you don't, though." A shrug, and a roll of her shoulders. "So, besides that-" she motions to the guitar with a grin, "what've you been up to today?"

Sable takes a crouch in front of Quinn, one that quickly turns into a cross-legged sit. She rests her hands on her knees and looks up at Quinn. It's not uncommon for her look to become, at a moment's notice, weirdly searching, like she's trying to see something in Quinn that might be a little hidden, or obscured. It's her interpretive look, her 'making sense' look.

"Name was Jessica," the yellow eyed girl confides, after drawing whatever conclusion she needed to draw, "Like th' Allman Brother's song. 't least, that's how it seemed when I was with her, eh?" she cracks a rueful smile, "She was great, I dunno," she shrugs, belying the totality of the espoused greatness, "Smart, pretty as hell, gentle soul 'cept when stirred up, 'n' then she was a terror, 'n' I liked her all the more for it." Sable sniffs. She's glossed all the good stuff. "Only… I dunno. Sometimes felt like a charity case or, like, some fuckin' bauble. Like she liked me, sure, but…" she trails off, shakes her head, "I've been down this line of thinkin' before. Doesn't do any good. I am as I am, and shouldn't be worried 'bout such past things…" another trail off, then a fixed look, a clear question, "Y' don't perceive me as, like, some sort of fuckin' jester 'r town fuckin' idiot, right?"

Immediately, though, she rescinds the question, however earnest she was in presenting it. "I'm bein' tiresome, sorry. I know y' don't. Yer my comrade in arms, bosom fuckin' friend, 'n' all that. You wouldn't regard me as such," an assertion, a certainty, until she adds, "Wouldja?"

There's two distinct answers there - the joke, and something more serious. In this particular and rare instance, Quinn opts for the serious answer. "Why would I? I've got no reason to." She reaches down to ruffle Sable's hair, and then retracts with a smile. "I'm sure she liked you for you. No need to over think it, you know?"

The ruffle earns a wrinkled nose, and a carefully constructed scowl. Sable casts her eyes heavenward at Quinn's last suggestion. "That will be the fuckin' day," she says. She doesn't seem totally put at ease by Quinn's answer, but her most obvious symptoms of anxiety have departed. She looks up at Quinn, on some other track of thought, now.

"I've got this ill feelin' that I'm gonna wish I did somethin' different with you, hon," Sable admits, seemingly out of the blue, "Not sure what or how, or t' what purpose I'd wish t' change things. Aw hell, but feelin's are feelin's only," she cracks a smile of her own, "No need t' over think it." She gets to her feet, "Big gig tomorrow, eh? 'n' I've nothin' t' fuckin' wear, nor a sense of how t' make m'self up. Think y' could gimme a hand figurin' it out?" She points a finger at Quinn, "Y've got style. More th'n I'd know what t' do with if I had as much 's you, honest."

Quinn blinks, her head tilting as she stares at Sable for a moment. "I- what? Something different?" The Irish woman furrows her brow, lifting up a foot as to nudge Sable with her, jokingly trying to push her over. "Are you goin' on what I think you are?" She wears… not quite a frown, but not an even expression either, as she asks the question. "Do… we need to have another talk, Sable? Cause if we need to, it's fine."

Sable shakes her head vigorously, "It ain't a fuckin' issue," she says, "And this ain't gonna be one of those long back n' forth's, yes 'n' no's. That'd be no fair play t' either of us. I'm just sayin' now so that, if along the road it comes t' be true, I c'n at least say I knew it was fuckin' comin'." She waves a hand, trying to dismiss the matter entirely. "I wasn't just topic changin', honest. I need new fuckin' duds if I'm gonna present m'self well at this club," she taps the side of her nose, "This is us donnin' the dark of th' goth. 'n' while that ain't exactly what I figure our band is about, it's up t' us t' deliver. So we gotta own it. We gotta put on th' mask, get ourself a nice workin' persona, dig?"

"I'm surprised Magnes hasn't given you some goth comic character costume t' wear or something. I'm sure he has a few." Quinn snickers, willing to let the previous subject lapse without any protest. "I've already got m'self covered, personally. Worse comes t' worse, I can give you the address of a place. I'm… busy today, though, so I can't go with you." She leans forward, propping elbows on knees and her face on her palms. "Anyone come up with a song? Lackin' a drummer kinda limits choices."

"'nless we c'n get someone t' pinch hit as drummer, yeah, 'n' that's always a fuckin' crap shoot," Sable agrees, scowling at the quandary, "I figure I've gotta raid Magnes' stocks, seein' as I'm about as far in his debt as I c'n comfortably get, 'n' I've got one last little fuckin' purchase I need t' make." Too much to do! She nearly misses Quinn's mention of business, one preceded by a slight pause. Nearly.

The smile was inevitable, "Busy, hon? Pray tell what with…"

"Well, we can set up somethin' synthwise. I just need to know what." At Sable's second question, she wrinkles her brow. "Getting the last of my stuff together, talkin' to the guy who runs my building. A shindig of sorts t' go to tonight." She shrugs.

"Y' can't play misdirection 'n' all that with me, hon," Sable says, pointing an insistent finger at Quinn, "What fuckin' shindig? If y' can't tell me, 't least tell me why y' can't tell me!"

Quinn chuckles, shaking her head. "You're a pain sometimes." It's said in a teasing, mirthful manner, at least. "Just going out for a nice evening. Dinner with a friend, somethin' fancy. It's not always something to talk about, y'know?" Perhaps a different meaning is relayed than exactly meant, but Quinn follows it with a nod.

Sable gives a great big snort, crossing her arms and glowering at Quinn. "Have it yer way," she says, "My well wishes c'n be presumed, as can my, like, fuckin' regards to y'r nameless fuckin' friend." She cricks her neck. There's a pause. Then, "You gotta pick the song. Y' know more 'bout the scene, 'n' this is gonna be a scene gig. Me, I never got t' be part of a scene or nothin', 'n' Magnes, well…" she smiles, "Bless his heart." She says no more on that subject.

Quinn grimaces, shaking her head. "I'm-It's complicated," is her retort. "We can talk about it another time, though. I wasn't trying to be evasive. It's just nothin' that's a big deal… yet." She quirks her lips, and lets out a sigh. "I'm sorry if I'm bein' a bitch." She shrugs, and decides to move right on. "I gotta pick a song for a goth club?" Her eyes narrow, face scrunched. "That I think we can pull off. Hmm."

Sable lets out a cackle at this. "God bless you, hon, but if you weren't a bitch, we'd not get on so well!" she declares, rocking back and forth on her rear, "Just you remember that without our searin' mutual fuckin' attraction, our friendship's got t' rely on, like, confidence 'n' the sharing 'f thoughts, and all that crap." She gives Quinn a look, as if to say 'you know, that nonsense', before biting her lower lip in an impish smile.

"Better, too," Sable confides, "If y' can show me the guitar work y'rself. I learn better when I c'n fuckin' see it. Readin' tabs takes me a bit longer."

"Dun' think so," Sable says, shaking her head. She gestures towards the assembled detritus of Quinn's life, filling up the room, "Got somethin' on hand I could listen to?"

Almost immediately, Quinn dips into her pocket and pulls out her phone. A few screen taps, and she tosses it to Sable. "Get your headphones and hit play."

Sable slips the headphones on, adjusting so they fit snugly, and presses 'play' as instructed. She listens, head starting to bob with the beat, an intent look on her face. The song isn't over before she observes, "Sorta reminds me 'f, like, Bauhaus." One presumes she isn't talking about the German academy. She keeps listening, lips quirking to one side. When the song ends, she slips the earphones off and looks up at Quinn, "Up th' right alley, I figure. Got anythin' with more rock t' it, though? It'll be easier f'r me t' sell if so."

"Exactly," Quinn remarks with a smile at the mention of Bauhaus. "It's all the same darkwave, goth rock roots between the two." She seems more than a bit impressed, and then she hmm. "A lot of what i have is either more sythrocky and less goth, or more like that. Check out 'Cruelty' by the same band, or maybe 'Video Kid' or 'Looking Glass' by The Birthday Massacre. There's always Joy Division, or some old Cure too, if we want gloomy rock." With each song name, she motions to her phone.

Sable dutifully starts listening to the songs Quinn suggests. One song, it seems, catches her ear. She grins, and taps her headphones. "I could sell this sucker," she says, "I'd sing it way fuckin' rougher, if I'd be the one t' sing it. She's a bit sweet f'r my sense of things."

She tosses the phone back up to Quinn, and the display shows that Sable's taken a shine to 'Looking Glass'. Quite a bit of guitar in that one, of course. "If you wanted t' sing it, I guess that'd be arright. But I'd like t' give it a shot 'n' all."

Quinn laughs, shaking her head. "With that song, I'll be too busy with programming to sing. I think I can set up the drum machine and run the rest of it through a keytar. Pick a second song, though, in case Melissa vetos it."

Sable scowls. She has to make another decision? She slides the earphones back on, quickly reviews Quinn's suggestions. It takes her a little longer this time, but she settles on something that brings a nod of approval from her. "Think we could pull off 'Lullaby'?" she's talking about the Cure, "We could showcase that fuckin' badass harp thing y' do."

Quirking an eyebrow, Quinn shakes her head. "That's really hard to set up. I don't know if we can pull that off without a drummer. It's worth trying, I guess. How are we supposed t' learn all this by tomorrow? I really think we're a little late on this."

Sable lifts her chin, defiance flashing in her eyes. "Ain't a matter of what we can 'n' can't. It's a matter of what we fuckin' will. We will fuckin' make this happen, y' dig?" She extends her arm, a finger lifting up to tap Quinn on the nose, "Do y'?"

"I- alright. I think we can pull this off." Her eyes narrow, staring at Sable appraisingly. "What about Magnes though? Where is he, anyway?" She leans back again, head resting on her palm. "I guess you can tell him what we picked later and tell to get his arse in gear. I'll be busy helping set up tomorrow afternoon, though."

"Yeah, yeah," Sable says, smile canted to one side, "Y've got yer shindig, dontcha?" Her brows rise, fall, rise fall, a slow motion waggle. "I'll get th' news t' him. Now I just gotta worry 'bout lookin' the part I'll be playin' tomorrow."

Quinn snickers, shaking her head. "I have a lot'a trouble picturing Goth Sable, y'know. I kinda can't wait to see this," she says teasingly, pointing at Sable. "Alright, I know Looking Glass. I'll have t' look up Lullabye. Hand me a guitar."

Sable shakes her head, "Not Sable, hon. Not f'r this gig." She slips forward onto her knees and rises up until her nose is hovering an inch from the other girl's, her strange eyes flicking between Quinn's gaze and Quinn's lips, settling on the former in the end. "La petite mort," she says, enunciating each syllable. Her hand slides out to one side, skirting Quinn's leg and grasping something behind her. She pulls her captive forward, and slips it into Quinn's lap - the guitar Quinn gave her, waiting and ready all this time.

Quinn cocks an eyebrow, chuckling. "A stage name? Fair enough, I guess, since you'll be on stage with DJ Ravenfall." Quinn smirks, and shrugs. "Alright, so…" She examines the guitar, switching it to electric. "Here we go. Watch carefully."

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