Well, we've not heard much from Anna lately. So, here she is, sitting by the piano and just plunking at notes, humming quietly to herself. She doesn't know what she's playing, since her lesson with Georg hadn't gone as planned. Ahem.

Still, she is free to be disturbed and will gladly accept the company.

Mrs. Lovett wipes her hands nervously on her apron as she walks along the deck. Recently, she had burried herself in her kitchen work, drwoning out her other, less pleasant trains of thought. Revenge. The taste of human. Etc. Etc. This was her first day out in the sun in months. Her skin is paler than usual, and she seems a bit down, but ( Read more... )

 A rather eccentric-looking Italian woman in black is putting up posters all over the deck.

Musicians? Artists?

We should have some sort of performance on the ship.

Contact Maria Moriarty to help or make suggestions.

OOC: I don't know where I'm going with this. It just sounds like something that might be fun and creative. Comment if your character ( Read more... )

Auburn hair cascading down in ringlettes around her ashen face, Mrs. Marjorie Lovett burst through the thin door of Suite 42 and stumbled clumsily into the main hall of the ship.  Her eyes narrowed in a vengful glare.  She remembered the burn, the fear, the spite... the broken trust.  Her broken heart.  Marching down the walk with her rolling pin ( Read more... )

He doesn't look the least bit surprised to be on a ship. He's probably been around the whole time, really, even if it wasn't conciously. He's everywhere. This evening though, as the sun sets, a shadow detaches itself from a corner and slowly strides to the side of the ship. He appears to be a young man with bright gold hair and ancient eyes. ( Read more... )

Aha.

Javert was displeased. He found himself in yet another strange place, amongst strange people. Hmph. What was he supposed to do now? The police Inspector flicked his hair behind his shoulder. He supposed an introduction was in order.

"Inspector Javert, at your service."

That was good enough.

This would be the typist speaking. Hey there ( Read more... )

Roger is sprawled out on the deck, guitar in hand. There's a big cup of coffee on the table next to him, along with a notebook, covered with illegible writing. His pen's tucked behind his ear, in case inspiration should hit.

For now, he's content to play whatever comes to mind. Feel free to talk to him, he won't mind. He might even take

 "James? Bella? Little Maria?"

A confused Italian woman in mourning appears on the ship.

(Typist: *sigh* After letting Bella loose on the unsuspecting inhabitants of DM, I couldn't resist. This is, to the uninitiated, Mrs. Maria Moriarty from Bricusse's Sherlock Holmes. Maria is an emotionally unstable opera singer with a highly selective memory. ( Read more... )