lorefolked - Tumblr blog

lorefolked · 1 year

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going through the motions was just a facet of james' life. fleeting, swirled faces that never lingered for long, pressing questions from all sides ; like a thick pair of jaws fastened around him, canines sinking in until he was bled dry, thin and weak. the queries never ended, nor did the expectations. he was this kind of figure now, clad in dark shades, hair wild and untamed -- a figment of his signature. he practically bled black.

he'd become somewhat, undeniably, accustomed to the press conferences. skin thickening with each discussion, once soft-toned and demure responses edging into something more curt, abrupt and monosyllabic, as brief as james could possibly be. instead of answering he'd begun volleying back his own questions -- "how do you feel about it?" "what is there to say?" "is that how you interpret it?" seeing the looks on those journalists' faces was perhaps better than any kind of acid ( now criminalized, just like those reporters the moment their quizzes were turned back on them ). his reputation had tacked on words like jerk and evasive, headlines screeching warnings of WATCH OUT and RIVERS BACK AT IT AGAIN! without care to truly understand the intention of his words. james had never cared much for the press -- he found them to be sleazy; sell outs; only interested in one thing, and it was never the truth. they'd likened james to a petulant child in the two years he'd been an artist, so he'd turned his back on them and done the same. their faces red with embarrassment and irritation, brows furrowed and jaws clenched, fully inked pens gripped by white-tipped fingers. why won't you answer? why? why? look in the mirror.

but those moments of satisfaction had been swallowed by the other mounting feelings wedged in james' chest. sly smirks gave way to thinned lips, expressionless and cold. this was who he was now. empty, barren hotel rooms, untouched sheets. a narrow spine pushed against the wall, black collared jacket swept around his feet, legs pressed into his stomach. the tears never came. sickness churned in his belly, fingers curled around porcelain toilets as he bent over, dry heaving. platform saddle shoes digging into the dirty tile underneath. help me. he wanted to cry out, wanted to beg god for forgiveness, but the sky lay empty at night and no deity ever answered him back. hands covered his face, fingers tangled in messy black hair. he was alone.

then he met oliver noble ( and after that, he'd never felt more alone in his entire life ). sleek brunette hair, stylized and gelled ; deep brown eyes focusing in on james' face, never leaving, like they belonged there. fleas on a dog's hide, burrowed deep. he smelled of citrus and wood, a crackling hearth, sparked with amber flames. he looked like he shaved daily. for james, brushing his teeth was a chore -- jaws gnashed as bitterness ran through him. noble was older, only a little, and wore tailored suits. wrinkles pressed out and tie expertly wrapped. he held out a hand, a grin on his face. one that screamed shark. james took it anyway, felt the softness against his own callouses. backed away, intent on getting away and slipping through the crowd, but noble followed.

james expected many things. questions that he'd heard a million times, something any idiot could find in the paper. headline material. he had already begun working up a detached answer to the usual "how does it feel to be the most highly regarded artist right now?" but what came was neither what he expected nor what he wished to answer. a deep look in those sharp browns, like they saw something no one else did. "how do you handle performance anxiety, mr. rivers?"

performance anxiety. as if james didn't live in front of crowds. as if a camera wasn't always in his face. as if his hands didn't tremble before he stepped on stage. teeth clenched, adjusting his sunglasses, wanting something to do with his hands as the question speared through him. he felt protected by his shades, like his eyes couldn't be bored into. even though noble's face looked like he was staring right through him. "it's just life. how do you handle life?" he bunted back. waited for the cross look. it never came.

noble nodded slowly, like he'd come to understand something that was never there in the first place. "life is difficult. i understand what you mean. but dealing with it -- now that's the million dollar question, isn't it?" he replied, voice silky sweet with sympathy. like james was liquid putty in his hands, molded and shaped however he saw fit. i'm worth twenty thousand of you, he wanted to say. wanted to scream. how did he deflect a question when it was no longer his answer?

"people deal with life in different ways. it all comes down to what you know," james said reluctantly. you're manipulating me. was it manipulation if he knew it? or was he, at that point, just as guilty?

"and what do you know, mr. rivers?" noble positioned himself in front of james, staring at him. he wasn't even holding a pen or a notepad. like he was committing all of this to memory, as if someone of his stature cared that much. he looked more like a renowned businessman to james than anything else ; a carnivorous hound, teeth bared and jaws foaming. each word was like a clap of thunder, and if noble was a hound then james was nothing more than a house dog, shaken and frail. weak underpaw, walking a line he didn't quite know how to tread yet. trying to be delicate but feeling as though he'd just shattered fine china. but it was his life. his life. how could someone take away all he knew in such a short amount of time?

james didn't want to answer. where had that person gone, the one that fired back at journalists like this? where was that cold mask? why were his hands shaking when he should be cool and confident? noble was using him, twisting up his words in order to pad his story with interest. and yet, james couldn't help but wonder how much of what noble was twisting up was true. "i'm just a singer. i'm no scholar. if i was a scholar i wouldn't be singing, would i?"

"many would beg to differ," noble responded, quick and light, weightless. "you're a hero to so many. your words carry power." james heard the undertone of mockery, saw the veiled interest in noble's eyes. nothing he could say would ever resonate with this man. he'd already made up his mind about james -- prick. cagey. uninteresting.

that familiar resentment ran flush through him, sinking into the cores of his teeth. the marrow in his bones. who was he to change noble's mind? who was he to change anyone's mind? embracing the idea that he was this character now ( black clothed, reticent, strung out ) was what felt like the current best option. let noble have his headliner. let everyone see james for the person he put on. who would have the last laugh then? it had to be him. it had to be. they'd all be fools, because james would know what he was. he'd never lose sight of himself. and even though the empty space in his chest was an open chasm, maw wide and gaping, he wouldn't allow himself to fall in. sidestepping was easy, a dance he knew well. this was just another part of himself he'd keep from the world.

"power is only what people give it," james murmured, motioning out toward the crowd choked around them. "and if people see me as a hero, then maybe i am one. what are you doing about the state of things? writing columns about me?" hazel eyes narrowed at noble, taking in the acceptance on the other man's face. expectations had just been met. "maybe it's you who needs to think about how to handle life. i'm certainly doing a better job of it than you."

james didn't wait for an answer. he couldn't. he just saw noble's lips press into a thin line and then he was off, desperate to be away from this place and these people. returning home -- or whatever he could truly call home, living in the desolation of a hotel room. a black abyss, calling out to him. and the time passed, as it always did. that night was just a ledger in his mind. and for a moment, he'd thought, he isn't writing about me. he'd deflected, successfully. was that all it took? speaking highly of himself?

and then the magazine landed across his desk days later. the ledbetter, it read. title : IS JAMES RIVERS WORTHY OF PRAISE AFTER ALL? author, oliver noble. james felt sick as he read it. tanned hands picked up the pack of newports, bringing the cigarette to his lips. he breathed smoke, lived in it, ash in a fire. the last one standing in a burning house. hearth-dwelling noble, setting the place ablaze. james had never felt worthy of his celebrity standing, but this certainly overwhelmed any other criticism -- and to be so wrong at the same time? it was no hullabaloo magazine, but people would certainly read this. chapped lips parted as smoke puffed out, trailing thick tendrils through the empty white room, legs lifting to set his feet upon the desk. he scrubbed a hand through his hair. when was the last time he'd even bothered to wash it? it all just felt so far away, a distant echo crying out in a bottomless cave. nothing matters. nothing ever has. nothing ever will. he eyed the setlist sitting on his desk, wondered what those people thought of him. but then, did it really matter? what of oliver noble? what of mary, his own manager? if the world saw him one way, was that really who he was? maybe it only mattered what he was deep down. but if no one else saw that, was he even human at that point? or was he just a cardboard cutout, a caricature?

anger swelled inside of him, gripping the magazine and throwing it across the room, watching the gaudy pages flutter in the air. a kaleidoscope of color, planting to the ground. his chest heaved, his hands shook. he had a show tonight. there was no reason to get worked up. but oliver noble had found him, crooked and bleeding, and kicked him in the face. watched him go down, laughing, laughing, laughing. that grin haunted his mind. commensalism was so often the relationship between musician and reporter. but what of this?

james shook his head, bit down on the cigarette and closed his eyes. maybe he'd write a song about this. call it parasite. the suckling leech, oliver noble. he just hoped to never see him again. it wouldn't be far out if he didn't. but those words would continue living in his head, at least until james could let it go. but the idea of being bested stuck with him, and so it never slipped his mind.

performance anxiety. what a joke.

#*dumps 1800 words on you*#PHEW #this was very difficult but fun #just a little character study <3 maybe even a look at james and oliver's first meeting?#this kind of strays from my usual style BUT i'm trying to be a little more descriptive here and just get better at writing in general #and woo boy is this guy fun to explore #so many issues lol. of course as he's my character but ... so many problems #messy messy boys !!!#i'm a little tired of writing after this but i'm sure i'll whip up something again soon #as my brainrot is full with these characters rn #so ... enjoy anyone reading #JAMES RIVERS.#OLIVER NOBLE.#writing

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lorefolked · 1 year

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james rivers is a younger 20-something, up-and-coming folk singer who tackles different themes and stories ; ranging from political statements to ballads about love, to straight up nonsense. really, it's whatever he's inspired to write about at the time. he has no backing band or anything of the sort, playing solo on stage, just his voice and his guitar. while this does allow for his talent to stand out, it makes it difficult for james to actually make meaningful connections, something which he fiercely craves. and yet, when the moment arises he pushes people away, slinks off to be by himself. he certainly isn't an outgoing or extroverted person by any means.

james comes off as a somewhat intimidating presence, whether it comes to fans, reporters, or even those he knows. perpetually disinterested and unamused, he rarely smiles or cracks jokes ; perhaps what he's known best for is the amount of cigarette packs he goes through per day. disheveled black hair and sharp eyes ... james is quick to clap back at journalists and seems to especially hate them, even those that seem to be fans and attempt to get more insight into his work. james doesn't enjoy talking about himself and this shows, whether it be from his non-answers or simple lack of enthusiasm when responding back. more than anything, he hates oliver noble; the man who has written so much about him, yet seems to not understand a word that comes out of his mouth. it's people like this that make james wary of strangers, trying his best to keep out of the line of sight and stray within his own bounds. being the center of attention isn't james rivers. really, he just wants to share his art and stop there.

but then there are the aching moments of loneliness, pressing in from all sides. tired, dull conversations, empty hotel rooms to bustling concert halls. and yet, all the same; he feels alone. he is alone.

oliver noble is a nearly 30-year old music journalist that works for a magazine called the ledbetter. new to music, but having dabbled in it for all of his life, oliver takes particular interest in new artists though comes at people rather negatively, only enjoying the music of a handful of singers and bands and referring to anyone else as a "red herring." and yet, he receives the luxury of front row tickets to shows all the same.

early in life he made several mistakes when it came to his work, hence the reason he moved over to music journalism -- hoping for a fresh start in a new environment. but his same values were brought over, and most recently, they have been targeted toward folk singer james rivers. he makes it his mission to grill james during press conferences ; ask him everything down to the most minute detail, then turn around and interpret those words however he sees fit. of course, james doesn't make it easy, and so the bitterness and resentment continues to hang between them.

oliver enjoys his more extravagant lifestyle and shows this off with pressed suits, gelled hair and cloying cologne. quick-witted and sharp tongued, sarcastic as he can be, oliver doesn't make it easy for the people around him but excels in his work because of it. perhaps it isn't natural, but extroversion is a part of him, and a skill he wields well. he isn't exactly nice, though, and this is clear for anyone to see the moment he opens his mouth. there are a lot of people he can't stand, a lot of people he talks shit about -- and james is certainly one of them. somewhat estranged from his brother, oliver lives an extraordinarily lonely lifestyle as well, despite the outward appearance he puts on. sure, he has friends, but no one has ever truly breached the walls he's placed around himself, and he expects no one ever will.

#character intros babey WOOOO!#still working on these guys obvs but this is kind of the skeleton i have for who they are as people #clearly they have deeper issues tm that will get addressed later but ... i gotta figure all that out first #so for now have this !!!#lauv them both and i'm excited to see where they lead me #just know this is a huge wip so who knows what'll change / happen #also trying to figure out what american city to set this story in <3 any ideas?#JAMES RIVERS.#OLIVER NOBLE.

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