[Mello has no Scottish ancestry whatsoever, but finds himself in a kilt all the same, complete with a fur sporran, the Kerr tartan, and, maybe most annoying of all, a white cambric shirt. He crosses his arms over his chest and glares generally about, as if the sheep, the music, and the pervasive scent of haggis are deeply, deeply irritating, which, in fact, they are. He doesn't realize or appreciate that there's not much difference between himself in an ungenerous mood and the way he usually acts.]
[The kilt Light ends up in is a truly bilious combination of pink and green. Typical, just ... typical. Adjusting the leather sporran on his hip, he manages an honest-to-goodness, I-hope-you-die scowl; it's the sight of Mello and L, not to mention the headache the music is giving him. And the stink of sheep.]
[Light is tired, and not really in the mood to humor the Mansion, but has that ever stopped it?
He steps through the door to his bedroom only to find that his bedroom has become some sort of pastoral scene, and his clothes have become a kilt and sash, both in truly appalling colors. He has no shirt, however, and no footwear of any kind.
*After Light walks in, L sees him -- and that the same pink and green tartan has been given to both Lights, which is amusing in its own way. He wonders why the atypical color of the tartan was not repeated in the designs covering the body.*
It does not match. But then, I suppose indigo only comes in one colour.
*As much as he dislikes the outfit, the blaring music, and the baleful gazes of the sheep, he takes comfort in the high probability that Light dislikes it more.*
I would say the same, except that you did not, in fact, apply it yourself. Plaid... it would take a ruler or two, something like string to mark the lines, a good brush, hm?
*This is not true, in the strictest sense: he has no interest worth stating in watching Light apply body paint to himself or anyone else. It seems like a waste of time.*
To Misa, Europe is just this... gigantic, gaping black hole.
So when she steps into the room and sees this not-Japanese terrain filled with sheep, strong-smelling alcohol, massive amounts of tartan and just wonders if she's in that country of with windmills, tulips, and white people who smell like cheese and wears wooden shoes.
There's a faint 'whoosh', and she's sporting a rugby shirt.
Another blink, and she's holding a transcript of Auld Lang Syne.
Takes one look at herself and just groans. She was still recovering from the last room.
No more mansion, NO MORE.
[OOC: Don't shoot me - I swear to god these are the stereotypes for people who don't know anything about Scotland. XD]
Light sees Misa come in, of course - he just doesn't offer her as much as a glance. With the room about him, draining what little good nature he's got right out of him, why would he ever bother? She shouldn't care if he pays attention to her or not.
Obviously she cares. She cares so much more than she would like to admit to herself and so much deeper than she lets on to others. Especially after Aokigahara with its bleak loneliness that consumed a good portion of her mental being.
But Misa hides it. She sees the brunette in her peripheral vision and snatches a uick glance to distinguish which Light this was. Physically, all Lights were built more or less the same (save Wolfy), but the lifespan - ah. So this was the dead one.
...and what was he wearing?
It is then that her sentiment of the room is completely reversed. Best. Room. Ever. Hiding her good humor, Misa strolls over to him with her rugby pride and offers a charming smile in greeting. Despite the warmth behind her smile, Light's sixth sense will hint that she's inwardly laughing at him.
"Hi. I haven't seen you around that much. You look good."
"And you still look like a boy, Misa." It's cold, as he takes in exactly what she's wearing - because he always saw, but wasn't interested, and it was useful if she felt she needed to work hard to please him. Why is it this idiot he has to waste time with?
Her secret mockery isn't secret at all, so his reply's more cutting than it might have been in a different room.
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I have never liked this song.
*He pretends to brighten; the effect is close to sardonic.*
Haggis?
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What's this bullshit, then?
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*He approaches the table, plucks a wedge-shaped piece of shortbread off of it, and takes a delicate bite.*
This kilt itches.
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With a basket of heather.
From the hill.
She's even humming, damnit.*
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*He sounds testy -- *
The room is already providing us with music.
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*Her accent is thick. She is also unusually spirited.*
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If you insist on humming, perhaps the dog will appreciate it more.
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[He could not possibly sound less enthused.]
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[A glance up, a glance down, a side comment scraped off his shoe. At least Light escaped the blue paint.]
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Is that what you'd call it. [A question, technically, but without any of the associated vocal inflections.]
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He steps through the door to his bedroom only to find that his bedroom has become some sort of pastoral scene, and his clothes have become a kilt and sash, both in truly appalling colors. He has no shirt, however, and no footwear of any kind.
Instead, woad covers his arms and his torso.
His lips thin, and he crosses his arms over his bare chest. He is definitely, definitely not pleased.]
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It does not match. But then, I suppose indigo only comes in one colour.
*As much as he dislikes the outfit, the blaring music, and the baleful gazes of the sheep, he takes comfort in the high probability that Light dislikes it more.*
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I'd like to see you try and apply plaid body paint.
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I would say the same, except that you did not, in fact, apply it yourself. Plaid... it would take a ruler or two, something like string to mark the lines, a good brush, hm?
*This is not true, in the strictest sense: he has no interest worth stating in watching Light apply body paint to himself or anyone else. It seems like a waste of time.*
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So when she steps into the room and sees this not-Japanese terrain filled with sheep, strong-smelling alcohol, massive amounts of tartan and just wonders if she's in that country of with windmills, tulips, and white people who smell like cheese and wears wooden shoes.
There's a faint 'whoosh', and she's sporting a rugby shirt.
Another blink, and she's holding a transcript of Auld Lang Syne.
Takes one look at herself and just groans. She was still recovering from the last room.
No more mansion, NO MORE.
[OOC: Don't shoot me - I swear to god these are the stereotypes for people who don't know anything about Scotland. XD]
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But Misa hides it. She sees the brunette in her peripheral vision and snatches a uick glance to distinguish which Light this was. Physically, all Lights were built more or less the same (save Wolfy), but the lifespan - ah. So this was the dead one.
...and what was he wearing?
It is then that her sentiment of the room is completely reversed. Best. Room. Ever. Hiding her good humor, Misa strolls over to him with her rugby pride and offers a charming smile in greeting. Despite the warmth behind her smile, Light's sixth sense will hint that she's inwardly laughing at him.
"Hi. I haven't seen you around that much. You look good."
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Her secret mockery isn't secret at all, so his reply's more cutting than it might have been in a different room.
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