milliways_bar | (no subject)

Entry tags:

(no subject)

Mercutio is cooler than you, and you, and you. In fact, he's cooler than all of you. AHAHAHA!

He doesn't look awe-inspiringly cool at the moment, though. In fact, he looks kind of amusing. He's on the rug in front of the fire, curled right around with his head on his arm, still reading the Italian guidebook, sounding out the words as he goes, with a contemplative frown.

He'll squeak if you poke him.

[ooc: i have three essays to write tonight. so this entrance post is going to be live for... a very long while.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Aye. Veronan is rarely so mangled as in the mouths of Englishmen."

He laces his fingers behind his head.

"Or Americans, I suppose."

Despite himself, he's intrigued. "Veronan?"

He waves a hand.

"Americans speak English. It is the same difficulties with pronunciation. Veronan is my language. Mercutio of Verona, at your service."

"Still, they say America and England are two countries seperated by a common language."

The name clearly rings a bell. "Oh. It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Charles Wallace Murry."

"You have read my play."

He knows that look.

"I am the best thing in it, am I not?"

"You certainly have most of the best lines."

Curious -- "Have you read it? Is that how things really happened?"

"Aye, and it is close. Mayhap we did not say exactly what we were reported to say."

A shrug.

"He did well."

"How did he know?" Charles wonders, half to himself. "Where'd he get the story?"

"I try not to think too hard on't."

He rolls up into a shoulderstand, suddenly, arms flat on the floor.

Charles steps back hastily, out of the way.

"Probably wise."

"I am not fictional. Therefore he must have excllent sources."

The muscles in his arm stand out.

"From what I've heard, Shakespeare had any number of sources. Mostly sources, in fact, and not so many original plots."

He doesn't say it like it's a bad thing, though.

"People's lives are not a plot, my friend who cannot roll his 'r's correctly. Nor a literary device."

His legs come down with a thump.

He spreads his hands apologetically.

"I stand corrected and chastened."

He sits up, and looks carefully at Charles.

"Good. Forgiven. So, how long have you been here?"

"Not too long. I can't come as often as I'd like."

"Oh, you are not trapped here?"

He gestures to a chair with a raised eyebrow.

"No, I can come and go. Yourself?"

"Trapped."

The word drops heavily from his lips.

He frowns. "I'm sorry."

"It cannot be helped. This is what happens when one dies."

He shrugs.

"So I've heard. I've met one other here who's in the same situation."

"And he is enjoying it?"

"I'm. . . not sure, exactly, how she feels about it, honestly."

"I hate it. There is not enough space."

[ooc: can i beg slowtime?]