[ooc: I AM LATE IN ALL THINGS. Ugh. Sorry. Also, colour me curious -- what other muses do you have? Let me stalk you (admiringly).]
It isn't his flat, but he takes liberties with it as if he had been inhabiting it for years, not just a few days, as a mere guest (who did not own a set of keys but) who made his own breakfast and his own schedule to his own convenience. Which was exactly what he was doing when he heard the tap against the window; toast and tea, nothing special. At first, he could not quite place the source, but eventually, Nigel did make his way to the window. The sight is pitiful, but it does not stir something within him.
Still. He slides the glass door open and --unceremoniously-- picks up the bird in a hand.
A nightingale. The symbolism is striking; departed soul; love and longing. His face stretches into something akin to morbid curiosity, awe perhaps, and he settles her down (gently) onto the table. It really is a sad sight, and he cannot tell the extent of the damage. The thought lurks, at the back of his mind -- would it be better to twist its neck and put it out of its misery, or just watch it suffer, here, like this? Is there intrinsic value only in the pursuit of pleasure, or is pain itself something worthwhile to experience?
(ooc: at the moment I'm only actively playing Basil Hallward in a dedicated game, with a Dorian Gray and Henry Wotton on reserve that pop up now and again in memes and six word comms when I see things that would strike their fancy. I play Wilde himself also, Bosie and Alfred Taylor (or at least portrayals of them based off of the biopic Wilde, plus several biographical sources)
It takes a moment before Nightingale recovers herself enough to roll over with her feet under her. At least, that's what it feels like. She can't see anything. She sings several sharp, pitched notes and tries to flee the darkness that's fallen over her eyes. Only to crash into two separate walls before she lays, panic-stricken, on the floor, speckled breast heaving and wings all disheveled.
[ooc: Ah, I'll keep an eye out. I'm a fan. I toyed around with the idea of writing Wilde after I put down De Profundis, but it never really turned into anything. Sorry for babbling. In retrospect, I realize it may be weird. I was just excited. ]
And as birds do, she attempts to flee. This is not, in truth, surprising, but it is something he should have anticipated and yet, did not. Perhaps he did not expect her to possess enough vitality to do so, but there she was, a whirlwind in the small flat, knocking into things and doing little but aggravating her injuries. So pitiful.
"Calm down." His voice is quiet, smooth, cool as autumn rain, but his gestures are methodical and abrupt as he throws the transparent veil over her and holds her down (loosely) on the floor (vaguely he wonders if Sam will mind if he ends up ruining her favourite scarf over this). A necessary means to an end. He doesn't exactly have a birdcage to put her into, and she looks half-dead. "Sam will know what to do with you when she returns."
Because certainly, Nigel doesn't, unless it is to take her apart. That would be interesting postmortem, but would hardly be useful now. Well. It should only be a few minutes.
She panics again when the scarf falls over her face, but when it becomes apparent that she's trapped, she stops moving. She's dazed and injured and blind and eventually she goes still beneath his hands.
Who are you? Her 'voice' is like the sigh of feathers against one another, and edged with notes, though they are weary and a little out of tune. What has happened to me?
It is a physiological impossibility. They do communicate through species-specific song taught by progenitors to offspring --and some species are capable of an impressive range of sounds, as well as retention and associated memory processes; first year animal behaviour-- but they. do. not. speak.
This one does. And Nigel does not appear to be perturbed enough by it, because he replies. This is probably not a good sign.
"Nigel Colbie." If she were human, he would hold out his hand and paint a polite smile on his face. It would look boyish and innocent, but slip off within seconds. His voice, however, would remain just as composed. "You flew into my window." It is not his window, really, but the true explanation is too complex. "And then the walls."
Am I blind? She asks, blinking, slowly. I think that I must be. She seems to be taking it very well, all things considered. I...I am in a great deal of pain. She confesses. Not mortal pain, but I ache in all my bones and my head hurts terribly. I do not remember what happened. She struggles to right herself under the scarf.
"Beg pardon, I do not often tend to birds. I mostly dissect them. You were running wild. I had to hold you down." He explains this patiently, his voice slow (not slow like an adult talking to a silly child, but rather, due to a naturally calm cadence). It could almost be construed as an apology. His hold, however, is unrelenting -- doing little to help her in her movements.
Then, as an afterthought -- his voice is disinterestedly curious, because this is a bird. One would expect the answer to be plain, obvious, and senseless. A pity, too. He could at least set her down on something more comfortable than the floor, even if he could not repair her body. "If I let you go, will you fly off again?"
I will not. She promises, her notes sharp with pain as she folds her wings over her back (neither broken, thankfully) and sits still, blinking upwards, trying to tilt her head in the direction of the sound of his voice.
He takes her word for it because he has no reason not to, tosses the scarf aside and slowly, with carefully gestures, slides a hand under her small body to scoop her up (Nigel raises her to eye level and gives her a considering, aloof glance, before moving across the apartment to set her down on the pillow). "Who are you?"
It is, perhaps, bad character etiquette to ask such things of anything that has sustained injury (what can I get you, where does it hurt, how can I help -- all are valid questions and yet none slips past his lips) but curiosity is an impulse he always indulged.
She's not so much a who, but a what, she thinks. But now isn't the time to argue finer points of self perception and semantics. She's a nightingale, after all, not a philosopher.
Nightingale She replies, simply, folding herself neatly on the pillow.
It isn't his flat, but he takes liberties with it as if he had been inhabiting it for years, not just a few days, as a mere guest (who did not own a set of keys but) who made his own breakfast and his own schedule to his own convenience. Which was exactly what he was doing when he heard the tap against the window; toast and tea, nothing special. At first, he could not quite place the source, but eventually, Nigel did make his way to the window. The sight is pitiful, but it does not stir something within him.
Still. He slides the glass door open and --unceremoniously-- picks up the bird in a hand.
A nightingale. The symbolism is striking; departed soul; love and longing. His face stretches into something akin to morbid curiosity, awe perhaps, and he settles her down (gently) onto the table. It really is a sad sight, and he cannot tell the extent of the damage. The thought lurks, at the back of his mind -- would it be better to twist its neck and put it out of its misery, or just watch it suffer, here, like this? Is there intrinsic value only in the pursuit of pleasure, or is pain itself something worthwhile to experience?
The thought is absurd.
...It's just a bird.
Reply
It takes a moment before Nightingale recovers herself enough to roll over with her feet under her. At least, that's what it feels like. She can't see anything. She sings several sharp, pitched notes and tries to flee the darkness that's fallen over her eyes. Only to crash into two separate walls before she lays, panic-stricken, on the floor, speckled breast heaving and wings all disheveled.
Reply
And as birds do, she attempts to flee. This is not, in truth, surprising, but it is something he should have anticipated and yet, did not. Perhaps he did not expect her to possess enough vitality to do so, but there she was, a whirlwind in the small flat, knocking into things and doing little but aggravating her injuries. So pitiful.
"Calm down." His voice is quiet, smooth, cool as autumn rain, but his gestures are methodical and abrupt as he throws the transparent veil over her and holds her down (loosely) on the floor (vaguely he wonders if Sam will mind if he ends up ruining her favourite scarf over this). A necessary means to an end. He doesn't exactly have a birdcage to put her into, and she looks half-dead. "Sam will know what to do with you when she returns."
Because certainly, Nigel doesn't, unless it is to take her apart. That would be interesting postmortem, but would hardly be useful now. Well. It should only be a few minutes.
Reply
Who are you? Her 'voice' is like the sigh of feathers against one another, and edged with notes, though they are weary and a little out of tune. What has happened to me?
Reply
It is a physiological impossibility. They do communicate through species-specific song taught by progenitors to offspring --and some species are capable of an impressive range of sounds, as well as retention and associated memory processes; first year animal behaviour-- but they. do. not. speak.
This one does. And Nigel does not appear to be perturbed enough by it, because he replies. This is probably not a good sign.
"Nigel Colbie." If she were human, he would hold out his hand and paint a polite smile on his face. It would look boyish and innocent, but slip off within seconds. His voice, however, would remain just as composed. "You flew into my window." It is not his window, really, but the true explanation is too complex. "And then the walls."
Belatedly. "...Are you alright?"
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Then, as an afterthought -- his voice is disinterestedly curious, because this is a bird. One would expect the answer to be plain, obvious, and senseless. A pity, too. He could at least set her down on something more comfortable than the floor, even if he could not repair her body. "If I let you go, will you fly off again?"
Reply
Reply
It is, perhaps, bad character etiquette to ask such things of anything that has sustained injury (what can I get you, where does it hurt, how can I help -- all are valid questions and yet none slips past his lips) but curiosity is an impulse he always indulged.
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Nightingale She replies, simply, folding herself neatly on the pillow.
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