Rooms

[Locked to Clementine, Graham, and Shane]

My brother came back, and the hotel gave him all of our fortune and a giant house. He said we were all welcome to stay there. I think he's lonely, he said there are entire wings no one is occupying. The problem is it's back in DC, but Clem, we'd get our own rooms and better accommodations.

[Public, as Sebastian V]

I'm going to guess the hotel has something to do with this, right? Not exempt, even in London?

Who: Joseph and Holly (Closed)
What: Who knows. START A CONVERSATION IF YOU DARE (or are hungry enough).
Where: The steps of the South Gotham Courthouse.
When: Early afternoon. Weather foggy.
Warnings/Rating: I rate for violence just in case something sets Joe off. Reply with caution, but it's probably fine. Maybe.

The big man was sitting on the steps of the courthouse, as far off to the side as he could go while still being in sight of the big clock that hung in the hall just through the entrance beyond the central pillars. He was large enough and tall enough that his shoulders cast a shadow in the fading afternoon light, which barely broke through the clouds, which were assembling for autumn already above their heads. He had a decent shirt on, cheap buttons and still with the crease from the big and tall store going all the way across his chest. It bunched up around his waist as he sat despite the easy fit of his jeans.

An arrangement of salami on a golden loaf still sat in open wax paper to one side of his right hand. Despite the busy traffic of the work day, nobody came close enough to the big man to step on his food. His feet were three and four steps away from his elbows, and his shaven head gave his skull a hollow, defined shape under pale skin and bristles. A cup of cheap coffee was cooling by the sandwich, and a few golden chocolate chip cookies were spilling out from a box he'd tipped sideways onto the paper.

He ate one of these cookies, slowly, his eyes off in the distance and his thoughts clearly elsewhere as he watched the foot traffic with blind shifts of his dull, disinterested eyes.

[Black ink. The handwriting is cramped but elegant, the pen splotchy. It stops halfway through, replaced by something lighter, brisker. Ballpoint. There is no seeming awareness of the audience by the author.]

Sibylline Leaves.

63.

Minor spotting.

Inscription (smudged).

[A phone number, more scrawling.]