*has appeared in the Mansion silently, as is his will, and spent the past few days observing everyone - probably without being observed himself; and with so many normal, cheerful people, had probably picked out the person whose life he was going to ruin (since his brother hadn't shown up yet, obviously), when--*
*gets distracted by the painting of a man in a boat, and his expression has just turned scornful, and you can tell that he's just about to make some sort of denigrating remark with a sarcastic reference to an obscure painter, when -- suddenly, he's a young boy of three! what's more, it's pre-Event! a little boy with messy hair and wide, brown eyes*
*has not yet noticed the painting, because who has time to notice artwork when your little brother has apparently time-traveled from before that time you tried to kill him?* Diogenes?
*stops to appreciate the quiet simplicity of a man in a boat, water and sky co-mingling shades of blue around him, when suddenly his vision blurs -- and when it clears, he sees with the eyes of a child*
*in fact, the once and future king has gone, and in his place now stands a lord's adopted son, a fresh-faced little boy with a mess of a golden curls*
*twists around, as if looking for someone* Kay!
*had been wandering around, trying to find something fun or familiar or both* Kay what?
*in getting reacquainted with the Mansion, Olivia comes across the giant black blob with the red line. she wrinkles her nose* A curious painting! I would rather see it hanged than hung.
*at her shoulder, Orsino smiles, and when he speaks it is not to a lover, but to a sister, though she is a sister to him no more* These are daggers to an artful heart.
*recognizes his voice and turns to curtsy, but stops and blushes as the crackplot kicks in* O- my lord!
*exists! alive, even! and is awesome and fabulous looking and o-m-g so boss*
Hello? Is anyone here? *preens and fiddles with his hair, just in case somebody is* I'm sure you've all missed me dreadfully! If I vanished from my own life, I don't know what I'd do!
*is having one of those moments where obviously she is supposed to know somebody, and yet has no idea who they are and is far too shy to ask* Oh-- welcome back. Sir. *:D?*
*one glance at the sad dog is enough (even if Beelzebub doesn't, strictly speaking, have a soul for it to stare into), and no one ever said 'hipster' wasn't a genre... so here's the Prince of Hell wearing black skinny jeans, a black-and-white keffiyeh, aviator sunglasses, and a faded t-shirt that ironically lists the seven heavenly virtues*
Humanzz. One great act of Dizzobedienzz, but now I'm over them.
*well, he'll wonder what Beelzebub was looking at and suddenly, will also be wearing skinny jeans -- as well as a cardigan, thick-rimmed glasses that have no lenses (not that he would need them, anyway) and in his hand, a can of PBR. mmm, the nectar of the
You and I were the first to tempt humans, Beelzebub; far before the other demons even knew what to call them.
Typist: Actually Crowley was technically the first, but whatever, hipsters are too cool for accuracy.
[ and here is one huge nose-- no, sorry, we mean swordsman -- examining a non-crackplotted painting (at least for now), and after a moment, he scoffs ]
Meretricious -- though that would be the mode for a place as obscene as this.
[Pyetr, less fortunately, has his attention caught by a creepy mutt, and by the time he resolutely turns his back on it he has slid several subgenres over. On the plus side, he looks cute in jeans.]
... fancy a game of questions? :D
How do you play that then..?
typist: how has she never played all this time.
Hello!! *peers* Oooooh, isn't that painting ugly?!!
*she's looking at the black and red one.*
*--we are so sorry, Christine!!, but will stand next to her and glance at the painting as well - though not long enough for the crackplot to work on him! - and quirk an eyebrow*
It's unpretentious. I like it.
'What a terrible thing to call art,' Strange says to no one, gazing at a painting in a long portrait hall which suddenly seems a major feature of this Mansion, despite Strange's certainty that it never even existed before. This particular painting is nothing special - a seascape of mediocre quality, with a ship entirely out of scale in the foreground. 'Still,' Strange continues to the empty hall (his old habit of speaking aloud to himself having revived, it seems, with his unlooked for return to the Mansion), 'it is hardly so bad as that piece of rubbish,' and his gaze flicks to a truly terrible painting of a sad dog.
'Just the same,' Strange murmurs quietly, his gaze arrested by the pathetic spaniel, 'it is curiously...mesmerizing...'
There is a faint shift of some kind in the air surrounding the magician, a shift which he by all rights really ought to recognize, but he never was as observant as he thought himself. The shift seems to affect Strange himself - his posture is suddenly less precise than it was, his clothes, though they have not changed overtly, seem less...fashionable, and his whole air has altered in some indefinable way.
When he speaks out loud to himself again, the change is even more obvious - were there any around to notice it, of course.
"That is really one seriously ugly picture," he says flatly, in a tone and accent distinctly unlike his usual. "Who the fuck thought that was worth putting on a wall?"
Typist: omg I can't help it. I miss playing Strange too much. ;___;
*has been slinking around the basement for a while now, and it hasn't been too bad -- in fact between not being a spider-centaur monster and the absence of relatives it's actually pretty sweet*
*in light of all which, since the universe does hate him, coming up to the impromptu art gallery is probably a big mistake*
*well, really, could he expect anything other than that the universe/Mansion/typists would throw his best-beloved sister at him?* Dinin. *thin, creepy smile* Are you enjoying the view?
*Fffffffffffffffuuuuuuuuuu* Sister. *tonelessly* Do what do I owe the pleasure.
*oh, look, a picture of a puppy* *oh, look, looking at that picture is an elf ... who suddenly looks very much like your everyday average high school student, with less concerns about wtf being alive and wtf so is his lost love and more concerns about the relative professionalism of asking one's math tutor to prom and not getting kicked off of the lacrosse team for sucking at anything more complicated than multiplication*
*...his life is complicated*
*and here is a dead wise-woman, who maybe thinks that the spiky hair on that young boy looks PAINFULLY FAMILIAR before she, too, is suddenly about sixteen, vice-president of the math society, favourite for valedictorian and sometime tutor with a crush*
*and current tutor with a blush, which she is womanfully attempting to will away* ...Hi, Aegnor.
*perks up slightly at the sight of her, but probably ends up controlling that a little because his feelings are inappropriate and such* Andreth! Hey! How's it going?