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containatrocity · 4 months

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"...Former frontman of Autumn's Gambler and the Solo project Odd Revolver, Oleander Grimm, wanted for questioning in the death of two former members of his camp...."

"....Undercover police officers investigating the disappearances of hundreds across the country in seemingly ritualistic killings found dead after seemingly being compromised..... a manhunt has begun for the presumed killer.... Grimm, once a household name with his band, is wanted and his whereabouts are unknown, his Los Angeles home set ablaze seemingly intentionally..."

"The body of a man has been found in the remains of Grimm's former home, matching descriptions of the musician- while forensics will be required to identify the remains completely.... it seems the nightmare may finally be over."

The TV crackles and fades to silence on the motel dresser, and seated at the foot of the filthy bed, a dead man smokes another cigarette. He'd been had- fucking pigs, 30 years of careful work down the drain, because his 'manager' and his bitch wife were deep-cover officers. So he'd reacted poorly- most would, when their entire livelihood was about to fall to scraps at their feet. He'd not realized that he'd kicked the last struggling, termite eaten support out from beneath his existence until he was behind the wheel of a moving van with the bay over-full with flammables, and the corpse of some poor SOB who's only crime had been drinking in the same bar. Until his entire life's work sat in hot ash- the fire greedy for her fuel, the devil starved for his due.

So he was stood now at square one- a square his feet had never been acquainted with, thanks to the Grimm family's connections in Hollywood- He'd been born with the blessings he needed to build an empire, and even when he cast those off- his family and his acting career quickly growing unbearable in his teens- colored by a cocaine addiction and a twin flame who's bad moon eclipsed his own, He still had the recognition it had given him when from the remains rose Autumn's Gamblers. He wonders, for a moment, as he stretches out in his motel bed, how much time he's bought himself with this little display- he'd liked that house, and with a case so high profile, they were bound to run the forensics on that body soon enough- his DNA was on the books from that riot he incited at the Roxy in the 90s, from a number of B & E's with the band, prints marked down from bar fight after bar fight in city after city just to try and feel something other than the absent numbness.

It hadn't worked, but then, it never worked, if he was being honest with himself, and eventually, that numbness became an asset. Eventually, that numbness made him a perfect hunter. He'd gotten sloppy, this time. He was the fox caught in the henhouse, and while he'd done his best to wipe blood from his maw, the farmer was closing in. But he'd had a failsafe in mind for quite some time, hadn't he? A disappearing ghost town in West Virginia, now a mere two states away, would be his salvation. America's own little bermuda triangle, swallowing up those who traveled inside simply to erase them from the world outside. He'd kept track of it, his interest in the Occult storied and well known- part of the reason he was in this mess to begin with, the perfect suspect for his own murders.

That tech mogul heir who'd done promotion in LA vanished in 2021 on his way to DC. The frontwoman for The Damned Woman, originally from the area, gone without a trace after going home for a visit. Actors, artists, musicians, government agents, military types, and even the average joe simply wiped off the earth. And Huntsville had been the key. So he'd packed his things before lighting his home ablaze- something he hoped the fire would cover up- something he knew it wouldn't not completely- and struck out on the road, unknowing of what might wait for him inside, it was better than giving himself up to the sheep who'd see him hang for simply doing his role in the food chain.

Some of us are put here to be greater than everyone else, Ollie, that's you and me. I made a promise to something when I was young, it told me I'd find fame and fortune, I just had to find my partner. That's you.

Words decades old echo in his mind even now, as blue eyes fall on the bedside clock, the dusty digital display flagging the exact time of night he should be asleep were he a different kind of man. Instead he sparks up his second cigarette in quick succession, takes a drag and leans his head back, watches the smoke dance past his lips.

It's up to you. It was always gonna be up to you. I've gotta answer for what we did, Ollie, but you'll keep doing our work, won't you? Too many rabbits and not enough wolves to cull them down. We're not like them, you're special, It blessed you. Now I need you to watch me, and make sure I don't chicken out or try to come down. It always knew you would be stronger, okay? Come on, don't cry. 27's as good an age as any to go- I'll live forever in the minds of people who love us and you.

His fingers graze over a hand-written 27 tattoo on his wrist, sighing softly. Part of him feels like he failed. This wasn't part of the plan, part of the deal. Their number had come up years ago. He had sacrificed himself to ensure October's side of the deal didn't hang unfulfilled. And here he was. Running away, because whatever protection, whatever luck had been on his side had abandoned him just long enough for anger to win.

It's enough to make him angry again, sends rage pricking through his body, because this was not part of the deal, everything he'd ever worked for burning away somewhere thousands of miles away while he rots in bed, thinking about long-dead lovers and sacraments in blood made when he was little more than a boy himself. This was his calling, his duty- he was meant to cull and destroy in service of something he couldn't hear the voice of on his own- that had been his job. to listen.

Morning comes. He doesn't sleep. simply pays his room fee with more money than he needs to and climbs behind the wheel of the moving van once more. He drives in silence, memories on replay even as he passes the town limits from a detour.

He tries to hide the smile on his face as the mayor and sheriff explain to him what he's driven into- tries to pass it off as a nervous grin about his uncertain future, suffocate the thrill of a built-in alibi and creatures to hunt alongside beneath false fear.

One day, we'll hunt together, free from everything the world insists on. Changed, but together. I promise, Ollie.

October's pleased to see his face on a ghost a few nights later.

Maybe he kept his promise, after all.

#o.musings #o.headcanons #tw violence mention #tw suicide mention

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containatrocity · 5 months

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The Angle.

October finds his in.

Absinthe sighs, leaning his head back against the wall of the confessional booth. He's almost about to call it a day, head home- with the few usual sinners thinking acknowledging their wandering eyes and greed might suddenly let them free of this place- not realizing all they're doing is keeping themselves and Absinthe in the chapel, a prison of faith in a prison of the metaphysical.

They wonder, for a moment, if it's worth all of this, fingers running polished blue sandstone beads slowly. That moment is enough time for the other half of the booth to fill again- someone large, clinking metal against metal. It's not the biting scent of smoke meeting his nose that tells him who this is- but the clinging scent of copper- blood and fur. October shuts the door behind him.

"Bless me father, for I have sinned. My last confession was..." He laughs. The sound of a lighter clicking open as he sparks the end of a cigarette. "Mm, Longer ago than you've been alive, father."

"That's quite alright... Forgiveness is for all who seek it." Absinthe responds- willing his voice not to shake- smoke slips through the slats, hazy and dreamlike. October's voice rumbles in response.

"I've got a lot of dirt on my soul, Father, weight I've carried a long, long time." It doesn't sound genuine, his cadence makes Sin's skin crawl. "I don't know if I've got the strength to let it go."

"We can... certainly try."

"I killed a man. It was in self-defense, you know- I was but a boy, He was so much bigger than me. I shot him, right between the eyes. Watched him tip over dead into the floor beside me." Breathing is difficult, under smoke, under the weight of words beside him.

"Well-"

"But that's something god forgives, right Father? He forgave your transgressions, so I- why, I could be borderline holy too, right?" He cuts Absinthe off, shifts in the booth beside him, there's a faint glint of metal- a knife, turned in skillful hands. "God forgave you, time and again for the blood on your hands. And God sent you a savior, oh, he sent us all a savior. That Raziel fellow... All his fancy ideas... salvation."

"What do you want, Roulette-"

"Shhh, shh! This is confidential, Father! Shame on you!" Absinthe winces- a violent strike against the thick wood of the confessional- scratching sounds following. "Shh. You're here to absolve me of my sins. But I know more about your little... connection to Raz than you think, hm? Something in you needs something in him, like light needs darkness, good needs evil- god needs the devil. I'd have called it love, if I thought either of you were capable of it.... Can ya love, Father?"

Absinthe's chest tightens- the screech of metal on wood grating his ears. "Mr. Roulette I need you to-"

"No, No, you can't- you don't, you won't let yourself. But there's a tell. You a gambling man, Father?"

"N...No."

"I am, you know. Everyone has a tell. Even the ones bred like dogs to hide it. Raz gets his dander up, when you come up. And oh, don't you do the same? And you play your little cat and mouse, do your song and dance at the commune, forcing us all into your little quartile." The giant adjusts. "You two really should just fuck like you used to and get it out of the way. Mutually assured destruction in the bedroom instead of at the barrel's end."

"How do you-"

"Know? I'm smarter than any of you bother giving me credit for. A big, brutish thing with a tendency to listen. And I know people, through and through. The tension.... delicious." Absinthe grits his teeth, hand shifting to the door handle of the confessional as more smoke drifts in, hazy and blue. "And now, Father you assign me a penance."

"October."

"Mm, what's that? Oh, a few hail Marys, and to put myself down like a hound dog? That's what you want to suggest, isn't it, Father Capone?"

"I want you to leave." His voice comes out more firmly. October laughs. the sound is cruel, like a hyena tossed a meal- bone chimes in the wind. Absinthe knows evil, he has exorcised demons since he could comprehend scripture.

October is something else entirely, a laughing curr a thin, wooden wall away.

And then he's gone. Silence- the sound of the church doors closing.

He sits, in silence for a moment- shifts to move out of his half of the confessional- to read what the brute had carved in.

Grasping tentacles, and words, in italian.

"Abbracciate i Nuovi Dei."

"Amen." Comes the hiss from behind him, October leaning over his shoulder- wild eyed and grinning. "You have a good afternoon, Father. I'll see you at home..."

And then he's gone for real- Absinthe unsure of what's come to pass-

a crawling fear that he may have let something important become known in the haze of discomfort nesting in his stomach, all the same.

#o.musings #o.headcanons #a.musings #a.headcanons

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containatrocity · 5 months

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I dug my heels, I thought that I could stop the rot The ground gave way, now I've lost the plot F U C K E D it again, that was all I've got It never rains, but it pours (Life is just a dream within a....) We're just a bunch of fucking animals!!! But we're afraid of the outcome Don't cry to me because the f i c t i o n that we're living in Says I should pull the pin Should I just pull the pin?

#o.aesthetic #death knell;#o.musings #huntsvilletask01 #huntsvilletask

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containatrocity · 6 months

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Earth Shatterin!

(Or, What the ContainAtrocity muses are up to post Event.)

DUCK has been restricted to bedrest and is doing his level best to recover, with his kids, Claire, Z, and Lucy visiting and sticking around to keep him company, he's gotten in touch with his hobbies a little more than he was willing to over the last while, working on a DND campaign, playing music, and getting back into his favorite video games on his dusty old playstation, to name a few. He misses work, and feels like a burden- but slowing down has done him some good. He can walk short distances, but this has to be supplemented with a cane and his knee brace.

RUSTY has similarly been forced to stay home, largely looked after by Sissy and Cyan, he's agitated with his inability to function as he normally does, making him more snippy/argumentative than he'd like to be. He spends his free time practicing his marksmanship now, much to the chagrin of his niece and Cyan, and has a tendency to push his luck, trying to go back to work, or make his way to help with Reggie's injuries.

ABSINTHE has found himself at a crossroads, untrusting of Raziel and his intentions for the commune he convinced Ondine to take Joei and leave for town, after coming clean about his true nature: He's Abel Fulci, an exorcist, a priest- a weapon, not an unfortunate wanderer. Temptation and anger paint his hours at home, and he's spending a notably larger amount of time at the chapel and the site of his fellow priests' deaths to try and organize thoughts- and avoid the ghost from their past.

CYAN Has been doing his best to restore the intranet around the town between looking after the Boone house and keeping Rusty from running off, and helping Sissy ready up for the winter. He has similarly been working on convincing G to calm down about the earthquake, when Unnamed Garage Band gets back together for a few hours of normalcy.

KB Has once again retreated into the safety of the radio station, but this fact is largely because his home was damaged, some structural issue inside causing the rune to be dysfunctional. As he tries to puzzle out what's going on there, he's thrown himself back into trying to integrate into town- terrified instead that he might die alone, instead of at all. He's returned to doing children's puppet shows and book readings at the libraries on specific weekends.

GABE has retreated into one of his his more harmful beliefs, that he is physically incapable of suffering any harm. He is regularly scratched, bruised, or banged up in various regards, largely from spills and foolishness he could have avoided. Despite this minor backslide, he's doing his best to help with rebuilding efforts, keeping in touch with the weirdlings, Unnamed Garage Band, and Declan between attending to the apartment he shares with Edgar and assisting his roommate with his recovery and looking after the rats, as his hands are still recovering.

MERCY Having a terribly out of character change of heart, he's thrown himself into assisting with the construction efforts around town, and has proven particularly knowledgeable about making the best of minimal, or damaged supplies. While his attitude seems to remain largely self-serving, the earthquake seems to have shaken something less cold loose within him- though navigating his grandiose demeanor and cruel tongue to find it remains difficult.

WREN has stepped into the Deputy Game Warden position to pick up the slack from her father's absence, and has placed her cashier position at the food market on a temporary hold- unless asked to fill in for a coworker. Still prone to overworking herself, she's managed to find a balance, though this is likely due to the constant presence of people in and out of the Romero house lightening her load enough that she feels comfortable enough to actually take some time to herself with her friends- or get some well-needed sleep.

ZIGGY has been assisting with efforts to rebuild, doing his best to attend to the minor issues of the townspeople that mean a lot- damaged belongings that can be fixed with a little care and attention. In the spaces between work, he's been visiting Bri and gathering the courage to ask Nattie to speak with him in private- rather certain he's worked out exactly who she is after their encounter at the festival.

OCTOBER has made himself comfortable at the Commune, using his stature and personality as a cudgel against people foolish enough to ask him to mind his manners or pull his weight. While he's playing along for now, picking up chores as required, he's grown to treat the common areas like his space- simply because no one in the commune is going to stop him. He continues to hover around Quinn- who's association with Raziel means the trio are often seen together- Much to October's general chagrin.

BUTTONS has resumed the roles she's always served, a quiet place to rest, a listening ear, and a problem solver. She has busied herself with providing care packages to the injured of food, sweets, and various other home remedies she can provide, and making certain that the mischief around the people trying to get better is kept at a general minimum. She continues to offer childcare services to those who need them around town, especially those with young children now working to help care for townsfolk, or putting town back in order.

LEX continues to be the town's cold, silent observer, judging and watching those around him operate. He has made it clear that his services are available to any suffering trauma in the aftermath of the earthquake or people possibly recovering from head injuries, and his touch is notedly gentler in the wake of something fresh. He continues to drink a coffee with a splash of milk and two sugars every morning like clockwork at the diner, and being a general miser.

ROBIN Romero has been tossing things into the big ol' hole in the middle of town. He's pretty sure he's worked out where the bottom is through science. While he stays a good several feet from the edge, his fixation on it seems to be to avoid his upset about his father's 'near-death' experience.

#d.musings #r.musings #a.musings #c.musings #k.musings #g.musings #m.musings #w.musings #v.musings #o.musings #b.musings #l.musings

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containatrocity · 6 months

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HC; The Last Crossroads Rockstar

"Oh, no... these are just... the tools of my trade, baby. Now. Who're you takin' your chances on?"

It is a testament to his ego that October Roulette's kit of death has been on grand display since the early days of his fame. The custom engraved .45 Colt Buntline gifted to him at 17 years old depicting honeysuckle flowers, dead trees and runes along the barrel with a red-stained cherrywood handle is where his nickname "Roulette" came from- the gamble a deadly one, not a monetary one, and this side-arm has featured prominently on the cover of every cover his band and solo career saw released, and is a commonly tattooed reference for fans of Autumn's Gamblers or Odd Revolver. It's regarded fondly, an old friend- the one thing that has never left him high and dry, and despite it's age, nearly 31 years old, it functions like new, and the black tarnish on silver barrel only serves to intensify the silvery engraving and citrine stone inlays along the handle- glittering, bright orange eyes staring from the carved-in face of a fanged goat. But it is not typically a .45 round that ends the lives of those who fall to the Gambler, that honor is attached to the 9-inch blade of the skinning knife similarly customized to October's strenuous wants and desires. Intentionally made to be difficult to place as anything other than a standard hunter's kit and therefore easy enough for any party to get their hands on to perform any host of cruelty with, October's favored blade depicts a nightscape between the handle and business end, and is kept sharp enough he could shave with it. It sits hidden in a holster against his side just the same as its partner in crime, prepared to kill at a moment's notice, and it's blood spilled with this knife that imparts it's clinging, coppery smell to the heavy, custom made jacket that hangs around his massive frame. The coat, intentionally made to further bolster an imposing, towering frame, is more threat than fashion, worn even through hot weather over typical crustpunk fare. Heavy metal fasteners reinforce dirty, stained leather and run through matted brown, black, and red fur, strips of fabric and bits of metal fastened to sleeves to further customize something that even those familiar with his celebrity assumed was a simple costume piece. A wolf's pelt lends itself to the collar, thick grey and black not dissimilar from October's own mohawk and Vitiligo dotted, age-marked beard. It has seen as much suffering as its owner, and in the fabric, fur, and leather, it carries the blood spilled from every offering made to that which handed over his success- bodies made and laid to rest at crossroads with surgeon's precision and an artist's madness.

#o.headcanons #o.musings #violence mention tw #tw gun mention #tw knives

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containatrocity · 6 months

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THE DIRGE: OLEANDER "OCTOBER ROULETTE" GRIMM

(That man he's a monster!) Made a deal with the demons, he's a cold hearted heathen- yeah it's gunpowder season.

"October Roulette. Any name I used to have hardly matters anymore, because that's the only one anybody bothers to pay any lip service. I'm 48 years old and hail from Georgia, where I started my career as a musician at 18 years old. As the frontman for Autumn's Gamblers I made my name as a temperamental, over the top man, eventually alienating my bandmates and going solo as Odd Revolver. I'm technically a visitor, living in the commune since my arrival and largely keeping to myself and among my own interests. I do not currently hold employment and likely won't, until forced to act. As a man bent on vices and violence, it's a little rude to ask me to narrow down my absolute favorite- but blood spilled in service of my own personal gain has always been the hardest habit to kick."

Name: Oleander Grimm- though he's known entirely by his stage name, October Roulette.

Aliases: Ock, Toby, Ten, TKO

Age: 48 (July 17th)

Sexuality/Gender: pansexual cis male

Personality: self-servicing and cruel, October Roulette has built his empire off the backs of people too foolish to best him at his own game. Despite his clear talent for music and gift of gab, it's hustles and foul play that he's benefited from the most- and these things inform his personality. Boisterous, loud, and commanding both in stature and engagement with the world at large, October's charisma belies a rather mean-spirited layer just under the surface. He'd much sooner watch somebody grovel for his attention than offer a kindness, and it's a history in the tabloids and gossip rags since the 90s that's fed his ego. He's violent to a fault, eager to put his fists and firearms to work when the opportunity arises, and a game of chance played against October Roulette oft ends poorly- like the Russian style of his namesake.

Occupation: currently unemployed, former rockstar as Odd Revolver and the frontman of Autumn's Gamblers.

Affiliations: the commune, Quinn

Scent Profile: clove cigarettes and heady, musky cologne, there's a lingering scent of gunpowder and copper, something subtly sweet that turns the stomach unpleasantly- it feels disingenuous- meant to draw you in like honey-like a flytrap.

Aesthetic: Bitter black coffee in a cup stained with blood, ceramic streaked sanguine and too many rings dotted with gore. Absent sips and sigilcraft- thy art is murder- in blood your pact paid due. A large furred coat and an ornate revolver, your namesake, a tool- it feels impersonal, now. Blood on hands on rings on neck. Stained red. Guitar strings and lyric sheets. The devil left Georgia in your body. You do death's will now. A dirge. A song for the dead. It mourns not- through you, it is a bellowing scream.

Opened up his eyes with a double-edged blade, time to pay the price for the choices that he made, whispers in his head slowly tapping on his brain- Praying to a God that he's never gonna face.

CHAPTER ONE: LIFE IN HUNTSVILLE POST ARRIVAL.

October has few duties beyond being perceived as what he is, massive, deadly, dangerous. It is his presence that encourages second thoughts in those who might choose to 'put an end' to the talk of the creatures in the woods demanding sacrifice to allow the townspeople to roam free, and it is his freedom to behave in his typical capacity, a bully and a brute that keeps him loyal to the cause- He is an imposing, monstrous figure, and he is never much more than a shout of his name away from an act of brutality in service of his ultimate goal: Keeping Huntsville locked away, with himself and a chosen few at the helm. He doesn't need power, he does not seek to lead, he wants only to do what he's done since he was a boy. To kill. To consume. To hunt those lesser than him in service of his pacts with things more evil than he could ever hope to grasp.

He is charismatic, despite this, and endearing when he must be, charming enough to pull strings, famous enough prior to his time in Huntsville to prey upon those weak enough to fall victim to the glitz and glamour of perceived celebrity- It's left him a tumultuous figure, to say the least, love or hate him, October is undeniable, commanding a room when he enters and using that presence to bolster the words of someone who may lead to the town's undoing.

#huntsvilleintro #o.aesthetic #o.musings #o.threads #o.bio #o.music #o.headcanons #Death Knell;

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