Hairy Palms, Baby Eating...who wrote this tripe?
Who: Dracula and Edward Nygma
What: Wine, conversation and a brief book critique
Where: Dracula's cabin: 8-16
When: Friday early afternoon
Warnings: booze, book-flinging and brutal honesty
The room had changed, personalizing itself overnight in a way that had shocked him when he awakened. The bed had expanded into a broad, velvet-curtained sleeping alcove; the walls gave every appearance of being hewn stone, and the floor was now timber, much more welcome to his feet than before. The rest of the room was very study-like, excepting the banded wooden door to a still shockingly modern bathroom. The walls were lined with bookshelves, a fire crackled in a small hearth in the outer wall, and his window, now mullioned and with a deep window seat, opened out onto the endless night. Near his bed, the desk holding his journal and blank books and the communicator had expanded to a heavy wooden affair that even he would have trouble breaking in a fit of anger. By the fire sat another chair, and a small table.
He had been sitting in the window seat reading intently for the last hour or so, not moving save for the rapid shuffle of pages. He had visited the library to supplement the stash of books Armand had brought him, and had decided, on a whim, to begin exploring his own legend. Besides some history books on his region and era, and one biography, he had found not one but several works of fiction involving himself. Only one, however, had been mentioned to him by name, and he had sought it out specifically, and devoted a portion of his day to reading it...
...finally finishing with a soft sigh. A tight, humorless smile spread across his face, his eyes staying closed as he digested what he had read.
Then he lunged upright, seizing the book, and very nearly threw it into the fire. His arm was drawn back, his face frozen in a snarl of disgust, and he was about to let fly when he heard a knock at the door.
He sighed, and let the book drop to the desk next to the window seat. He strode to the door, muttering irritably in Romanian about tripe not worth the paper it was printed on.
"Yes?" he called out as he neared the door.
What: Wine, conversation and a brief book critique
Where: Dracula's cabin: 8-16
When: Friday early afternoon
Warnings: booze, book-flinging and brutal honesty
The room had changed, personalizing itself overnight in a way that had shocked him when he awakened. The bed had expanded into a broad, velvet-curtained sleeping alcove; the walls gave every appearance of being hewn stone, and the floor was now timber, much more welcome to his feet than before. The rest of the room was very study-like, excepting the banded wooden door to a still shockingly modern bathroom. The walls were lined with bookshelves, a fire crackled in a small hearth in the outer wall, and his window, now mullioned and with a deep window seat, opened out onto the endless night. Near his bed, the desk holding his journal and blank books and the communicator had expanded to a heavy wooden affair that even he would have trouble breaking in a fit of anger. By the fire sat another chair, and a small table.
He had been sitting in the window seat reading intently for the last hour or so, not moving save for the rapid shuffle of pages. He had visited the library to supplement the stash of books Armand had brought him, and had decided, on a whim, to begin exploring his own legend. Besides some history books on his region and era, and one biography, he had found not one but several works of fiction involving himself. Only one, however, had been mentioned to him by name, and he had sought it out specifically, and devoted a portion of his day to reading it...
...finally finishing with a soft sigh. A tight, humorless smile spread across his face, his eyes staying closed as he digested what he had read.
Then he lunged upright, seizing the book, and very nearly threw it into the fire. His arm was drawn back, his face frozen in a snarl of disgust, and he was about to let fly when he heard a knock at the door.
He sighed, and let the book drop to the desk next to the window seat. He strode to the door, muttering irritably in Romanian about tripe not worth the paper it was printed on.
"Yes?" he called out as he neared the door.