Hit the lights!
Who: Nicki and Sherlock! Or anyone else that comes by.
What: Play time 8D
Where: 2nd floor common area
When: Day two, night
Status: In Progress
Warnings: Nope!
Both Eric and that odd man in the journal had told him that there were more people in the house. More people, and blood, more actors. Once Nikki had decided it was safe, he poked his head out of his door, and looked into the quiet common room in awe. It was bright, and happy. Huge and warm. Other doors along the hall were marked like his was, and he took a mental note of his door number. This would be perfect. Exactly what he needed.
Cut to a hour later, and he was almost done a very crude, small stage in the room. The curtains were made out of bedsheets (As was his cape), string and other things held the stage together, which was made out of random things. Mostly wood from his fireplace, and a big pile of books laid strewn next to it. 200 years worth of playwrights he’d sucked in. He would stop to play his violin here and there, loud and crazy enough to wake the dead. Or a very moody detective.
He was still in the same clothes. Messy white frilly shirt, leggings and boots to his knees. His hair looking as crazy as he was, half tied in a black ribbon that was loosing the battle. A crown made out of tinfoil, which he thought was an amazing substance. His cheeks, though, were flush. He’d tracked down blood from the Medical Ward (And stolen a few rolls of gauze to put parts of his stage together)
What: Play time 8D
Where: 2nd floor common area
When: Day two, night
Status: In Progress
Warnings: Nope!
Both Eric and that odd man in the journal had told him that there were more people in the house. More people, and blood, more actors. Once Nikki had decided it was safe, he poked his head out of his door, and looked into the quiet common room in awe. It was bright, and happy. Huge and warm. Other doors along the hall were marked like his was, and he took a mental note of his door number. This would be perfect. Exactly what he needed.
Cut to a hour later, and he was almost done a very crude, small stage in the room. The curtains were made out of bedsheets (As was his cape), string and other things held the stage together, which was made out of random things. Mostly wood from his fireplace, and a big pile of books laid strewn next to it. 200 years worth of playwrights he’d sucked in. He would stop to play his violin here and there, loud and crazy enough to wake the dead. Or a very moody detective.
He was still in the same clothes. Messy white frilly shirt, leggings and boots to his knees. His hair looking as crazy as he was, half tied in a black ribbon that was loosing the battle. A crown made out of tinfoil, which he thought was an amazing substance. His cheeks, though, were flush. He’d tracked down blood from the Medical Ward (And stolen a few rolls of gauze to put parts of his stage together)