rupert "miles" glass (![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} clowning) wrote in ![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} bellumlogs,@ 2010-07-01 19:23:00 |
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What: Isobel is going to audition to be Miles' replacement assistant temporarily. Which means, he's going to make sure she's dressed like she's going to a funeral, give her the Magician's Assistant Oath of Secrecy, brief her on what to do, and see what happens.
Where: The Bellum lobby, and then a small, local, cozy venue full of vagabonds, gypsies, and other such interesting folk.
When: 6 o'clock sharp.
Warnings: None readily come to mind. Miles might complain and hiss a lot about his bullet wound, but hey ...
It was a very painstaking process to powder oneself a ghastly white. It took a very keen eye, a meticulous swatting method, and a nose not wont to sneezing. It was also quite an arduous prolongation to his rituals to see to it that at least 45% of what veins could qualify as visible when pronounced by strain or passion, were highlighted a dark sea blue by an eyeliner pencil, and then smudged thoughtfully so as to create the illusion he was more sickly than he actually was. It was simple however, to accentuate ones eyes with gray; to feign their being hollowed out and widen their intensity. It was also simple smearing cobwebs on the shoulders of his old-fashioned suit, to copy cat one of his favorite people to ever exist. In fact, thought to be a distant relative ...
As he leaned closer into his mirror, he realized he looked a fright. He looked sickly and awful. The bullet wound still agonized him any time he reached for anything important, and caused creases in his pallid make up. A walking haunted house, he spirit-fingered his way to his top hat and flipped it onto his head. A lost ghost from the titanic, he, with a grunt, slung his supply bag over his shoulder. A victorian dying of consumption, he passed through his threshold smelling of patchouli and ectoplasm. In other words, he looked perfect.
Having learned his lesson that if he were to take the elevator, he'd be late (though, he does distinctly recall not minding being late at all, having met someone interesting last time the elevator decided not to function properly.) he amended this by taking the stairs. He abhorred the stairs because they rattled his ribs and gave a large risk of slipping in his shiny, pointed shoes. Thus each step was taken carefully and with caution, except for the fact that he barely payed attention. All he could hope for was that La Blue Eyes was not late. He hated tardiness, and he didn't feel like reprimanding her on her very first night of insanity. And by insanity, he means work. Hopefully, she was dressed the part for the pretend-funeral he'd told her to dress for.
He stepped into the lobby like a black hearse at Disneyland, out of place, unnecessarily morbid, but intriguingly grotesque.