A small, bearded man slips in quietly, observing, anxious for a friendly face... preferably, an attractive friendly face.  However, beggers can't be choosers, he reminds himself.

"So, have any of you ever read my book?" he asks loudly, with a grin.

Typist: Charles Guiteau, Assassins!

A woman who appears old simply because illness has taken its toll upon her arrives, solemnly and quietly. Her hair is drawn to a tight bun behind her, allowing her face to be clearly seen as deathly pale and remarkably plain -- no, not plain, but actually unremarkably ugly. She appears close to tears before falling into a fit of coughing that ( Read more... )

Combeferre wanders onto the deck, his nose in a book as usual, not noticing where he is until ocean spray splashes onto his face, splattering his glasses. He removes them to wipe them dry, puts them back on, and.... stares.

Oh dear. I must have taken a wrong turning somewhere.

*a young man slouches in, wearing an ill-fitting leather jacket and a surly expression. All of his attention seems to be taken up with kicking a bag along the floor, his hands stuck firmly in his pockets. He's humming to himself - a tune which sounds eerily like Abba's Fernando, though he wouldn't be able to tell you that - but his whole demeanor ( Read more... )

Here's a rather menacing-looking gentleman looking around a bit confusedly. He's tall, and quite bald, with quite a bloody shirt. He pauses and frowns.

"...And here I thought Hell would have fire and devils and the like," he remarks drily. "Apparently I was wrong."

Typist: Sweeney Todd, from Sondheim's musical of the same name. Don't ( Read more... )