Guess what? Cyrano forgot his opium pipe and his stitching needle at Locke’s. He didn’t really intend to come back - not until the man had rested, and well… with the Blood being how they are, his attention is much more on them than on a man who tried to use him to kill himself.
But… he wants his pipe and needle back, because you never know when they can come in handy, with the warzone that the Mansion seems to be turning into.
So he comes in, knocking gently.
“Lamorra? Valen?” Gently, softly, in case someone is sleeping.
Locke almost laughs, then thinks better of it. "I did notice the former. I suggested I could take it back to you, but Valen nixed that idea." With that same amused but dry note to his voice, but more of the amusement. "I'm afraid I quite forgot about the glove, but it should be - ah..." He thinks. "Damn," he half mutters, "It might be...hard to find."
Because Locke's room is virtually spotless. Mostly because he has been tucking things into the walls ever since he arrived. It was something the Mansion offered him.
"Oh, I remember quite clearly." A half amused smile. He's just not quite sure he wants to tell Cyrano how to get to one of those little stashes in the wall. "Old habits die hard."
A sigh. "Godsdamn." And that's it, Cyrano. Because Locke, with only the slightest sign of effort, gets up and goes over to the wall, where with a brief tap he finds the pocket, opens it with nimble fingers, and tosses the glove at Cyrano without looking.
The only sign of the kind of effort that cost him is the little hitch in his breathing and the slight paling of his face, though biting his tongue gets that back before he turns around and bows, half mockingly. "There. Better?"
"Wouldn't dare to cause you the trouble," ironically, but he can feel his knees shake and goes back to flop ingracefully on the bed. Without a wince. Really.
"I live for flamboyancy," in a voice that's not pained. For serious.
"How prosaic," Cyrano muses. "You have never attempted the art of the sonnet? Have you read any of these works, though? Rabelais, perhaps, or Boileau?"
"I am from Earth," flatly. Because at this point, Locke could be from Saturn or Jupiter, he would not be surprised. Guess that's what happen when the Blood takes you in on day one.
"Tell me about the poets of your world, then."
He's not gone yet - still leaning against the wall.
A shrug, and Locke does, because the typist doesn't know enough about the world to tell yet.
"Of course, most of them are ass-kissers anyway, so they just write about the splendor of Camorr and all that shit. It's a sinkhole really. Don't go there."
But… he wants his pipe and needle back, because you never know when they can come in handy, with the warzone that the Mansion seems to be turning into.
So he comes in, knocking gently.
“Lamorra? Valen?” Gently, softly, in case someone is sleeping.
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A pause in the orange-tossing and a blink, a frown, trying to recognize the voice, then, "Miss me?" dryly and by way of welcome.
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"I do, however, miss my pipe and my needle." A pause, because he just realized it.
"Along with my glove, which you never returned."
And because there is humor in the situation, he can't help but be amused at himself.
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Because Locke's room is virtually spotless. Mostly because he has been tucking things into the walls ever since he arrived. It was something the Mansion offered him.
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He sighs.
"Fort bien. I will wait for you to be healed, and I hope then you will remember where my possessions are."
He's courteous, but a bit peeved. He wants his stuff back.
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He's not particularly pleased.
He puts his hat on.
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The only sign of the kind of effort that cost him is the little hitch in his breathing and the slight paling of his face, though biting his tongue gets that back before he turns around and bows, half mockingly. "There. Better?"
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He would, actually. But why say that, and allow the man more foolishness.
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"I live for flamboyancy," in a voice that's not pained. For serious.
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"So you claim," Cyrano replies. Not sitting, but rather leaning against the wall. "Though I've yet to hear one of your ballads."
Which reminds typist and puppet alike that he owes Kalush and Ariana some poetry. We shall address this promptly.
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be from Saturn or Jupiter, he would not be surprised. Guess that's what happen when the Blood takes you in on day one.
"Tell me about the poets of your world, then."
He's not gone yet - still leaning against the wall.
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"Of course, most of them are ass-kissers anyway, so they just write about the splendor of Camorr and all that shit. It's a sinkhole really. Don't go there."
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