milliways_bar | (no subject)

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"WhO mE?"

Yes, you!

"CoUlDn'T bE!"

Then who?

"DuByA."

That's the trick of Endless; there's nowhere to start and there's nowhere to finish, so sometimes you get one thing, and sometimes you get another.

Sometimes you get the one you know, and sometimes you get sometimes more worn in.

And sometimes, no matter what the reasons may be, you get Del, talking to a chair.

The disturbing part is the distinct feeling you get, upon watching, that the chair's talking back.

[ooc: The mun's wrist is problematic, so expect a slight lag between tags and possible slowtime.]

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As long as it's not Rachel's chair that is currently engaged in the conversation...

Because then? She'd have to move, out of politeness sake.

Could be, pig.

Could be.

You never know.

Besides, the chair probably doesn't like being sat on that much, anyway, now that's it's self-aware.

Probably not...and luckily, Rach could be sensitive at times...

This would be why she sighs and floats upward, offering an apologetic pat to said chair.

Alas, it was a comfy chair...

The chair sulks, a little.

"YoU lEFt a MaRk, SpArKlY FlaMeY GiRlY ThInG."

She doesn't look up.

She glanced down, or backwards considering her floating position, and narrowed her eyes "Nope, I didn't have anything orange." she pointed out.

"It looks kinda like California though..."

"NoT wHeN tHe OcEaN eAtS iT Up."

"Point, then it'll look soupier"

The spot is eyed curiously...no doubt it could be made to look soupy...

Such thoughts should unsettle the poor chair.

The poor chair is certainly unsettled.

It has been, though, since developing awareness.

So many butts...so many...

Such a cruel world that would gift a chair sentience without a taste for backsides.

A cruel world indeed.

Rachel offered her headset in sympathy.

A large pig perches transcendently upon a stool across from Del and the chair. "Dai'stiho, both of you," he says, waving a hoof.

Del looks over. Not, in fact, in a transcendent manner.

More in a "no one's reminded her recently that heads are only supposed to turn so much" manner, but with a very bright smile.

"GuTeN taG!"

"It's daytime somewhere. Quite a lot of somewheres, actually, or even an infinite number of somewheres for certain values of time. Guten tag, good day, buenos días..." The Pig adds several other daytime greetings in languages that can't be pronounced by human throats or spelled using the Latin alphabet.

Del tilts her head.

A little, and her eyes glaze over as she listens, and she listens, and she giggles madly after a few moments.

And then she stops, and looks at her toes and there are pictures on the nails and some are laughing and some are crying and some are screaming.

And then she looks up and sees there's a pig and blinks. And smiles.

"DiD yOu CoMe FrOM thE mArKet Or StAy HoMe?"

"Home's an indeterminate concept, I'm afraid," says Chao. "As far as the poem you're quoting, though, I've always been intrigued by the appearance of pigs in folklore. That poem is especially interesting, because most pigs don't have toes."

...

...

.
.
.

Del is ellipsing at him. You can tell by the way they fall out of her mouth and gather up on the floor.

"WaNt ThEm To."

"Hooves are great fun. I recommend them," replies the Pig, tapping one of his against the leg of the stool.

"WhY?"

"They make pleasant sounds when they collide with hard surfaces," Chao offers.

"COuLd yoU SpLiT tHeM lIkE FiNGeRS?"

There's a pause.

"I CoUlD."

"A few words in the Speech would do it," answers Chao. "Although your way might be more elegant."

. . . all right, so the voice is a little odd.

The Prince stumbles valiantly towards it, nonetheless. You never know who you'll encounter, in the . . .

not . . . woods. As is made abundantly clear when he trips over the chair.

Yes.

It's a very strange voice.

Still, it's a stranger laugh, that she lets loose and flies aroudn the room and lands, chirping, by the Prince, when he falls.

The Prince bounds to his feet, his face contorting into an expression of noble (blind!) heroism.

"Who is it that laughs at my misfortunes?" he demands.

"Me," she offers, helpfully.
But she means, "Shati."
Still giggling.

"Show yourself!"

This . . . may be a little silly, seeing as the Prince couldn't see her anyways.

Still, old habits die hard.

"Show yourself, that I may defend my honor!"

Please. Mir is made of innocence and light. Anything done is Shati's fault. Or maybe Emmy's. But definitely not Mir's.
"DoEs It HaVe FuR aNd A CoLlAr AnD BarK?" SHe's hopeful, really. She likes honor, if it does!

"If I had a dog," the Prince says, with dignity, "I should not hesitate to set it upon such a coward, rather than sullying my hand with him."

But, cariad, all Mir ever desires is to share a bit of tea.
"HeR," she points out.

Chase has always had a soft spot for kids. And, to him, she looks like a kid. Poor Chase.

"Hey there kiddo, what's going on?"

It's a very, very, very long look he's given.

"NoT a KidDo."

He holds up his hands.

"No offense meant."

Right next to the chair, there is another chair. Just a moment ago, to all appearances, it was a falcon.

Of course, this chair seems to be eavesdropping on the conversation in progress.

"SpYiNg," she says, to the chair she was speaking to initially, "iS rUdE."

The new chair feigns innocense, but not too heavily.

"VeRy rUdE."

The original chair nods its agreement.

The new chair indicates its mere wish to join the conversation.

The old chair scoots back a little, to allow it room, then.

The new chair moves inwards a bit, to better be a part of the conversation, then listens.

Anthony woke up about 1am.

It is 3am.

Bernard is still up.

Extrapolate what you will.

He shuffles into the main bar, too tired and pissed off to care that he's shirtless in his pajama pants, and gets a glass of juice from Bar.

As he drinks, he looks around.

La la la, looking around.

Sees Del.

Eyes widen over the rim of the glass, and Bernard just manages not to spittake. Just.

He bolts the rest, decides that staring at the shadows on the wall is preferable to a 3am conversation with insanity, thanks, no matter how endearing she can be, and is gone before she visibly takes notice of him.

He was a box for Halloween. Who knows, maybe the chair is a good conversationalist.
Michael sips his drink and watches, rather amused as well as curious.

Here's one of hers.

Dworkin, old and mad(der than a hatter,) watches curiously.

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