Conversation Space IV.

[powersthatbe]

The small room is painted a dark beige, with stained wood paneling on the lower half, and lush burgundy carpeting. The ceiling, however, is cracked and bowed, sagging alarmingly, occasionally shedding chips of plaster. Wrought-iron lamp-posts in the corners suspend pale, wan globes of light, and between them along the walls run rows of painted sunflowers, all turned towards the center of the room as if listening attentively. A jutting spire of granite rises from the floor on a diagonal, its flattened top sporting a cracked wineglass from which the wine (a white) slowly spatters teardrops across the plinth. And there is no chair, but a therapist’s couch, blue with gold trim, and ornate scrollwork on the legs, beside which the fluted horn of a phonograph player pipes music into the room, quiet enough to just be background ambience.

Comments

[what_do_you_see]

Rorschach walks around the room, hands in his pockets, examining each aspect and element, but touching nothing, sitting down nowhere, interrupting nothing. After so many people have been in a similar space, he can guess what is happening, and he is very, very unhappy with it.

[powersthatare]

Time passes, and then, as he turns at one point, there will be a seven-foot tall, slender shadowed figure in the opposite corner of the room, draped in an enveloping black robe.

[itsananimalthing]

Riddick almost thinks he should have belonged in the last room, between the way it looked and the way this one looks. It's not entirely attractive, but it's still a lot brighter and more friendly than what he figures suits him. He plucks up the wine and tosses it back before more of it can drain away-- no point wasting it-- then settles his back against a wall to wait, expression sober and arms folded across his chest.

A lot of the important questions have already been asked. But he has a few of his own.

[iseethe]

"Riddick."

The alto voice is yet again slightly different than the one before. The figure in front of him--willowy and androgynous, skin greyish, like a black-and-white photo--is wearing a silver-tasseled flapper's dress and the mask from the Solstice Masquerade.

"It has been some time."

[ayiyiyi]

By now, Xena had been expecting this. There were few Travellers left on the Unmarked side, after all. She'd known this would be coming soon.

"So who do I have the honour of speaking with?" she says, as she steps around the spire, her eyes quickly taking in her surroundings, her ears listening to the music in the background.

[callmemeibe]

"Your new patron," answers a voice from behind Xena.

The voice that speaks is a dark-skinned figure in blinding white, large feathered wings currently curled to rest behind their back. They carry only a curved ram's horn trumpet. They sit on the plinth's diagonal edge, seemingly content despite the obvious unpleasantness of the granite.

"You may call me Penuel."

[volving]

Usually, Cass is not alone when she is in a new liminal space. But people had been talking about ending up in a room alone and talking to one of the Arcana, so she assumed that's what this would be.

She looks around for a moment, taking it in, then perches herself on the headrest of the therapist's couch, waiting.

[callmemeibe]

Cass looks away for only a second. Perhaps it was a blink, perhaps another look around the room. But when she looks back, a dark-skinned figure with brilliant white robes and angel wings sits at the foot of the therapist's couch. They do not move, except to shift their ram's horn trumpet in their hands. "Greetings."

[hazardlight]

Almost before she's had a chance to take in the appearance of the room - less upsetting than the one shared over the network last week, at least, that's something - Amanda is aware of the smooth curve of the Tailight Eyelights being pressed into her palm, unasked for. She looks down, surprised, as her fingers instinctively curl around her keystone memento; Roadrash folds an incorporeal hand around her very corporeal one, his fingers disappearing into the back of her hand as he misjudges how close to hold them. "Mine," he hisses at her, eyes even wider than usual. She nods, and settles the goggles over her hair, pulling the strap snug around the back of her skull.

Weeks ago, Amanda might have been more inclined to investigate: the furnishings, the drink, the music. But she's been waiting, and though she's more or less been told what's going on - at least, as far as her fellow travelers can explain it - she's still been getting increasingly antsy as the unmarked side gets more and more sparsely populated. So now that she's here, she steps into the middle of the room, crosses her arms and plants her feet. "Aight, our nerves are about shot," she says, to the room at large. "And he ain't even got any nerves. Come at us, bro."

[powersthatare]

"As you like."

The room brightens as a figure appears, dressed in gold-tinted biker leathers and a Carnivale mask, the flesh behind the clothing clearly made of porcelain, but flexible as any person would be as he trusts forward.

[professorwolf]

It's late in the liminal when Lyall is finally pulled in here, and he's had plenty of time to fret about whether he was going to wind up marked at all-- and by who. Or maybe "what" is more appropriate. He really doesn't know.

He doesn't touch anything, or take anything, but he does pace the room slowly, listening to what he might be able to hear under the jazz music, and test the air for scents he might be able to discern-- if any. Liminal is so often devoid of proper scents, or scents that make sense... but it's habit.

[callmemeibe]

The only smell he can discern at the moment is the crispness of a fresh wind. And the wine, of course.

There is a dull trumpet fanfare from the phonograph mingled within the notes of the song. Lyall can suddenly sense a presence - a familiar presence.

"Welcome."

[capital_asset]

Raidou doesn't bother to sit. Nor does he bother with what's left of the drink. The music he pointedly ignores; he neither needs nor wants the reminder of home. Instead, he just finds a mostly unoccupied piece of the wall and leans against, it, arms crossed over his chest and eyes cast downward, and tries not to think about how much this, too, feels like a parody of home.

If this had come earlier, if there hadn't been three weeks of waiting and mind games, he might have been able to summon up more enthusiasm. He might have spent some time examining the room, trying to match the element to the Arcana: plinth, Tower; dim lights, Moon; and so on. Maybe he would have examined the phonograph, or taken some time to listen to the music; Narumi always had wanted him to develop at least some appreciation for the more modern styles. Now, though? Now, he just wants to get this over with.

[iseethe]

"Attempting to hold up the wall?" The figure in the silver moon mask is dressed underneath in a short silver dress with flapper's fringe. Slim and androgynous in body, their skin is the greyed out color of a silent movie frame.

[lunchleader]

Right's vaguely aware of what's about to happen here. But considering that this is much nicer than what was last shown on the Network, his curiosity gets the better of him. Depending upon how long he's made to wait, he could be found tracing along the sunflower patterns on the wall, or trying to poke at the record needle even in the middle of playing said record.

[callmemeibe]

He does not have to wait long. In the middle of tracing sunflower patterns, the jazz record plays a trumpet riff, and then there is suddenly a presence resting on the marble plinth. It is an angel, plain and simple, with a ram's horn trumpet in their hands.

"Hello, Right."

[shiroganeheir]

Naoto has been waiting for this moment for quite a while. She's drawn to the sunflowers on the wall, tracing them quietly with her finger, while glancing over her shoulder at the record player and making a face. She can guess what each of the elements represent, but she doesn't particularly have to like them.

Eventually, she starts pacing around, attempting to arrange her thoughts. It's not going well.

[powersthatare]

The room brightens, just a little. A figure in a familiar mask, head and hands plainly made of flexible porcelain, in a dapper, gold-brocaded duster, stands opposite the couch, pacing a mirror of Naoto's path.

[highsteaks]

Chie thinks she vaguely recognizes that couch from movies and things. You're supposed to lie on it, right? And then you talk to some old bearded man who writes things down in his little notebook. So she does lie down on it, but she's too nervous, so almost right away she sits back up again. Then she squints at the wine glass. It would probably a bad idea to try to drink it if it was cracked, not if she didn't want it to break while she was drinking it.

It's been a long three weeks. She's watched all her friends get collected up and even though Kanji promised that someone out there still wanted her... she doesn't know who could. If she's not Chariot's then who does she belong to?

[powersthatare]

The figure who appears is wearing a bright, colorful mask, though the 'flesh' beneath it is indistinguishable from porcelain. The rest of the outfit is, perhaps, a little more familiar - a golden jumpsuit with a single black stripe down the sides, moving restlessly shifting his balance from foot to foot.

[runawaystory]

[Walking around to examine the room, tipping the wineglass off the plinth as she goes. Petty, yes, but anticipation of this moment hasn't made her any happier to have it happen.]

[powersthatare]

As the glass strikes the floor, a seven-foot tall figure in a black-robe, cadaverously slender appears, uttering a deep, basso sigh of satisfaction.

[chalicejoker]

Hajime doesn't appreciate being snatched away from whatever he was doing in favor of this, and his transformation belt immediately appears as he tenses, readying himself for a fight. He knows who's brought him here after talking to enough of the others, and he's not happy about it. He immediately starts looking around for a sign of his host. His gaze lingers on the crumbling ceiling. It wouldn't be hard to hit that, to bring it down, but then what? Being stuck in a cave-in isn't the best idea, but if he needs a risky out? Attacking the ceiling is worth considering.

"Show yourself," he demands, figuring that of course he's being watched at this point.

[powersthatare]

The tall figure is suddenly there, swaying slightly under its dark robe, cadaverously slender and roughly seven feet in height.

[willyousee]

Alcuin considers the space warily, but with far more calm than he had expected. So. It is his turn, is it? Sobeit.

Stepping silently forward, he brushes his fingertips over the glass and murmurs the Mending cantrip. No need to waste wine. There. The ceiling cannot be fixed so easily, but so long as it does not decide to drop plaster in his glass, it can be mostly ignored.

Sixteen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty.
Tower. Moon. Sun. Judgement.
Interesting.

He brushes any spare plaster from the plush sofa and settles himself á la Helene upon it, fixed glass in hand, to wait. He can be patient, and his hostess would not have brought him here if she did not wish something.

[iseethe]

She is dressed in flowing whisps of silver silk and grey gauze. Slim as a boy, almost androgynous in figure, her greyed skin (like a black-and-white photograph) is only a shade or two lighter than her silvery mask, the same as the one she wore to the Solstice Masquerade. That may be black hair behind her mask or then again, it might be shadow.

"My Horned Lady," she says, her alto voice sounding different than last he heard. "Alcuin nò Delaunay. We meet again."

[venetianprince]

Admittedly, Feliciano is a little sad to see the wine being wasted on the plinth, spattered before it even has the chance to be spilled onto someone's tongue, but he's more antsy about the strange room than anything else. He spends some time looking around the odd room, fingers tracing over the painted sunflowers with a little smile before he sits on the couch.

He's content to wait- at least, for now, there seems to be no real way out.

[callmemeibe]

He does not need to wait long.

"Salutations," a voice says from behind him. It belongs to an angel with a ram's horn trumpet, perched delicately on the marble plinth.

[star_of_the_evening]

Melisande had heard that people were disappearing and ending up different rooms, so she is not too surprised to end up in one herself. She is, however, a bit surprised as the decor, particularly the precarious looking ceiling. Eventually, she walks over to the couch and sits down, waiting to see what happens next.

[iseethe]

One minute she is alone. The next, a woman is there with her. Her figure is willowy, almost androgynous. Her face is a masque, as if for the Longest Night, and her silver and grey dress, billowy silk and gauze, would be at home during the Longest Night as well. Her hair is a billow of black shadow and her skin, what can be seen of it, is only a shade or so lighter than the surface of her masque.

"Welcome, Melisande Shahrizhai de la Courcel," she murmurs.

[dreamingking]

Tybalt takes in the setting with a raised eyebrow, and tsks in exaggerated dismay at the wine glass. "Is this how you welcome your guests? That vintage truly isn't an appropriate pairing to the situation."

From the bouquet, an excellent wine, but he is a cat and a King. One must not be shown up if one can help it after all. Since he's been working on the skill and believes he has it mastered, Tybalt murmurs a line of Shakespeare and snaps his fingers to draw out a bottle of what he deems a more appropriate vintage. A very dark red, but no human wine, this (although Tybalt will admit humans are so creative with it). There's something said for being immortal and magic in the business of making wine. With that and a pair of glasses set out, Tybalt turns with a flourish to the couch.

He's a little tempted to transform and ignore his 'host' but that could be taken as petty, so instead he treats the couch like a throne, sitting with a carefully arranged almost-sprawl that's easy to liken to a cat staking a claim on a favored sunny spot.

[iseethe]

One minute she is not there. The next she is. She wears a silvered moon mask and the darkness behind it might be shadows or black hair. Her satin dress is a silvery grey, with beaded straps and beading at the neckline. Her skin, what is visible, is a few shades lighter, but equally grey, like a photograph of a silent film star.

"Not fond of my colleague's vintage, O King of Cats?" she asks.