A House of Troubles is a House Nonetheless

[blindwatchersees]

Who: Sheogorath, Arthur, Phil, and... you?
What: General shenanigans, meetings and greetings
Where: Various
When: November
Warnings: none specific, but likely discussions of mental illness and negative self-image

Play us a song, piano man [John's] [Closed with Arthur]

There's a song echoing down the halls of the Serena Eterna, a song that Arthur can't put a name to, but one that is maddeningly familiar. The sound leads him to John's, and while the piano in there has been known to play itself, there's a distinct presence in the room. Whoever they are, they're wearing some sort of cologne, with notes of... hm. Again, it's hard to identify, but there's something about it ever so slightly reminiscent of ritual incense.


Sing us a song like no one's listening [Chatterbox] [Closed for Phil]

It's off-hours for the Chatterbox, outside of the time when the karaoke machine is out for use, but there's someone in there, singing.

"Was it really only yesterday?
If I had known whay now I know, maybe I
would have taken a moment
maybe looked over my shoulder.
Maybe shed a tear.
Now I'm here..."


Dance like no one's looking [Pool Bar] [Open]

He's rummaging behind the bar, clearly looking for something but regularly being distracted by various bartending implements. Laid out on the bar are what could easily be every pen on the ship. Sheogorath doesn't acknowledge if anyone approaches, too engrossed in his work.


And sting like a butterfly [Sports Deck] [Open]

Sheogorath is quite sure that people do training here. Sure someone's left a weapon around? Oh, he has his trusty dagger, of course, and that insufferable greatsword, but variety is the spice of life, isn't it? He wouldn't really be Sheogorath if he didn't have the "What have you got there? A knife! NO!" exchange with someone every so often.

By the gods, he wants to get in a fight.

Comments

[goodweather]

There aren't many who post up in Chatterbox. There's nothing the food offers that isn't better served anywhere else, and very few of them care to take up to the karaoke machine, especially for an empty audience. Skulduggery will post up there sometimes. He's heard others here too. This, though, is the first time he's heard anyone singing in the space with no machine there.

So he peeks inside. There's a man he's seen about in the past few months but hasn't formally met yet. May as well do it now.

"Heya," he greets, leaning against the frame of the entrance. "Practicing for the big stage?"

[blindwatchersees]

"Just putting the music in my head into the air. I don't think they have it in the catalog." He's well-dressed, a middle-aged gentlemen with a ginger hair and beard, wearing a scarf and a long heavy coat as if he's expecting colder weather. There's an odd smell in the air around him, like the scent of freshly-fallen snow.

[goodweather]

What a pair they make, then, that Phil's own Spring mantle blows a breeze about him, the winds of a cold spring morning and the smell of melting snow.

"Really? I figured the machine had everything." It has piano ballads and Gregorian chants and all, and this place is not necessarily unfamiliar with infinity. But oh well, there had to be something.

"We haven't properly met before. I'm Phil Connors. You got here a few months ago, right?"

[blindwatchersees]

"A few months, yes. Though it really feels like I've always been here." He gives the machine a look.

"Perhaps it knows, and it's just not sharing."

Dance Like No One's Looking

[tempingainteasy]

Well, if he's so engrossed, then he won't miss a pen, or two, or three, or four, or five, or six, or seven,

Or so on or so forth. They're disappearing in regular three minute intervals though, so it's only a matter of time before this joke is played out.

[blindwatchersees]

"Ah! Excellent timing!" he chirps, after about the dozenth pen. "Would you happen to know anything about writing contracts? My handwriting is quite lovely today, but writing out the terms of an agreement seems much too boring."

[tempingainteasy]

"Admittedly, no," April says, shoving lucky number 12 into their purse without skipping a beat or even the faintest hint of remorse, "But I imagine it's enough like writing e-mails that no one could afford to pay me to do that."

The face that they totally have wrinkles. "Plus the added stress of just knowing some smug chucklehead is going to smugly rules-lawyer their way through every line you have in there and just hold it over you if they find a loophole, just, ugh."

[blindwatchersees]

"Oh, I don't plan on adding any loopholes. Just a good-natured agreement for the research union, written on lots and lots of tiny umbrellas that can be recycled to be used by a beach party for our friendly neighborhood ant colony after the fact!"