[Accidental Visual] Hotel Carmilla-- Don, Long is copycatting you
The tablet had been very helpful in letting him know when it might be wise to leave his rooms. When the coast was clear of possibly hostile dots, Long shouldered a satchel containing a few books and notebooks he had thought it simply unbearable to leave behind (and what a trial it had been, deciding that, winnowing it down to what he could carry). Toiletries, amenities, and then down the six flights of stairs to the ground floor.
At the front doors of the Hyperion, Long paused, debating his direction for a moment. In theory, any residence would work as he understood it; he merely had to move in, claim it for his own...
A house did not appeal to him. He enjoyed the convenience of his hotel room, and was more than a little annoyed at the inconvenience caused by these damnable glitches.
It had been bad enough to inadvertently destroy his own bed and bedroom during his own 'glitch'. In the days since he had returned to his human body he had surveyed the damage and found it appalling. Taxon had no contractors he might call, and the Hyperion was not a hotel in the sense of having staff. There'd been a very kind offer from one young man to help him repair, but Long had looked at the extent of the damage and been disgusted. Easier simply to move, if not for his personal library that would have to be tediously transferred.
(And he had liked his bed, quite a lot.)
So yes, that had been bad enough. And then to add insult to injury, his landlord had apparently suffered some sort of psychotic break and was, according to Miss Summers, on a murderous rampage.
Really, it was all absurd. A splapstick tragedy. He would have had stern words with the aliens were that possible.
Long made his way west, towards the Hotel Carmilla. He had enjoyed his talks of language with the fellow Godric, and perhaps could rent a room for a week, or however long it took for this business to be reconciled. As he walked, he catalogued the various indignities and frustrations and crises to which he had been subjected to lately on the whims of their captors.
The return to his natural form-- a curse disguised as a blessing, for as blissful as it had been at turns there had been the destruction of his property, of course, and on a deeper level it was.... terrible to have a reminder. Six years now, of humanity-- he was as accustomed to it as he thought he would ever be, as resigned to it as it was possible. To taunt him with the transformation back, to give him the reminder of former glory, of comfort, of being once again in his own skin, of things as they should be-- only to strip that away again...!
Cruel. It was cruel.
And of course they had compounded this by transforming him once more back to this horrible body in the middle of a street full of zombies, without so much as a weapon or a shred of clothing.
Humiliating, also life-threatening. (The former took much greater precedence in Long's mind.) It had led to the encounter with Kate Beckett, also humiliating, even if one did one's best not to think about that entire incident. (Riding a motorcycle while naked! Absurd, squared.)
Then several days in his powerless, waterless hotel room, dirty and sore and hungry and tired but with limited options for assuaging any of these. No food to hatch, and the street below with zombies; only the six story difference likely kept them from swarming him en masse. He had been trapped in his own half-demolished rooms in an echoing, empty hotel, and had been forced to raid the minibars of the other rooms.
Also humiliating.
And now this-- relocation because of stray madmen, abandoning his books, a refugee within what was already a prison city....
Long's list of grievances (neatly bullet-pointed, each one to be discussed at length with his alien overlords should the opportunity ever arise) had grown considerably by the time he reached the Hotel Carmilla, and his priorities had altered accordingly. So it was that a half hour later he was esconced in the Carmilla's bar and lounge. He'd already had a fair amount of (free) whiskey by the time his tablet, carelessly set down on the counter nearby, started broadcasting.
"--and furthermore it is criminal treatment of one's prisoners-- chocolate pillow mints are, are, they are acceptable desserts but-- do not constitute-- much in the way of sh- satisfying fare for several days-- and there is this issue of the madman, surely so many might simply see to his being inter-- insta-- institutionalized--"
At some point in his harangue of the uncaring Extra bartender, Long noticed the blinking light of his tablet, and stared at it blankly. It was difficult to focus; his head moved back and forth as he tried to find the focal distance, and the action combined with his eyes being a bright, glassy gold gave him a distinctly reptilian vibe.
"Bah. These abominations are worse than the Emperor's spies. Well, Taxon? Shall we write them a communing-- communal letter of express complaints and rrreequested renew-- renum-- recompensation which they will, I am sure, promptly ignore?
"Blue hell, I finally begin to understand why mankind rails so about the weather: it is emanate-- eminently useless, and all the same grievances require some expressing."
Long's accent was as British as ever, but a good deal of crispness had been lost to an alcohol slur.
OOC: Open to anyone wanting to discuss that whole dragon thing with Long, as he's as loose-tongued as he'll ever be about it. For that matter, open to anyone period, including those wishing to harangue him for being at a bar, drunk, instead of safely in some residence, or to 'madmen' wishing to take issue with being called such. ;)
At the front doors of the Hyperion, Long paused, debating his direction for a moment. In theory, any residence would work as he understood it; he merely had to move in, claim it for his own...
A house did not appeal to him. He enjoyed the convenience of his hotel room, and was more than a little annoyed at the inconvenience caused by these damnable glitches.
It had been bad enough to inadvertently destroy his own bed and bedroom during his own 'glitch'. In the days since he had returned to his human body he had surveyed the damage and found it appalling. Taxon had no contractors he might call, and the Hyperion was not a hotel in the sense of having staff. There'd been a very kind offer from one young man to help him repair, but Long had looked at the extent of the damage and been disgusted. Easier simply to move, if not for his personal library that would have to be tediously transferred.
(And he had liked his bed, quite a lot.)
So yes, that had been bad enough. And then to add insult to injury, his landlord had apparently suffered some sort of psychotic break and was, according to Miss Summers, on a murderous rampage.
Really, it was all absurd. A splapstick tragedy. He would have had stern words with the aliens were that possible.
Long made his way west, towards the Hotel Carmilla. He had enjoyed his talks of language with the fellow Godric, and perhaps could rent a room for a week, or however long it took for this business to be reconciled. As he walked, he catalogued the various indignities and frustrations and crises to which he had been subjected to lately on the whims of their captors.
The return to his natural form-- a curse disguised as a blessing, for as blissful as it had been at turns there had been the destruction of his property, of course, and on a deeper level it was.... terrible to have a reminder. Six years now, of humanity-- he was as accustomed to it as he thought he would ever be, as resigned to it as it was possible. To taunt him with the transformation back, to give him the reminder of former glory, of comfort, of being once again in his own skin, of things as they should be-- only to strip that away again...!
Cruel. It was cruel.
And of course they had compounded this by transforming him once more back to this horrible body in the middle of a street full of zombies, without so much as a weapon or a shred of clothing.
Humiliating, also life-threatening. (The former took much greater precedence in Long's mind.) It had led to the encounter with Kate Beckett, also humiliating, even if one did one's best not to think about that entire incident. (Riding a motorcycle while naked! Absurd, squared.)
Then several days in his powerless, waterless hotel room, dirty and sore and hungry and tired but with limited options for assuaging any of these. No food to hatch, and the street below with zombies; only the six story difference likely kept them from swarming him en masse. He had been trapped in his own half-demolished rooms in an echoing, empty hotel, and had been forced to raid the minibars of the other rooms.
Also humiliating.
And now this-- relocation because of stray madmen, abandoning his books, a refugee within what was already a prison city....
Long's list of grievances (neatly bullet-pointed, each one to be discussed at length with his alien overlords should the opportunity ever arise) had grown considerably by the time he reached the Hotel Carmilla, and his priorities had altered accordingly. So it was that a half hour later he was esconced in the Carmilla's bar and lounge. He'd already had a fair amount of (free) whiskey by the time his tablet, carelessly set down on the counter nearby, started broadcasting.
"--and furthermore it is criminal treatment of one's prisoners-- chocolate pillow mints are, are, they are acceptable desserts but-- do not constitute-- much in the way of sh- satisfying fare for several days-- and there is this issue of the madman, surely so many might simply see to his being inter-- insta-- institutionalized--"
At some point in his harangue of the uncaring Extra bartender, Long noticed the blinking light of his tablet, and stared at it blankly. It was difficult to focus; his head moved back and forth as he tried to find the focal distance, and the action combined with his eyes being a bright, glassy gold gave him a distinctly reptilian vibe.
"Bah. These abominations are worse than the Emperor's spies. Well, Taxon? Shall we write them a communing-- communal letter of express complaints and rrreequested renew-- renum-- recompensation which they will, I am sure, promptly ignore?
"Blue hell, I finally begin to understand why mankind rails so about the weather: it is emanate-- eminently useless, and all the same grievances require some expressing."
Long's accent was as British as ever, but a good deal of crispness had been lost to an alcohol slur.
OOC: Open to anyone wanting to discuss that whole dragon thing with Long, as he's as loose-tongued as he'll ever be about it. For that matter, open to anyone period, including those wishing to harangue him for being at a bar, drunk, instead of safely in some residence, or to 'madmen' wishing to take issue with being called such. ;)