maskormenacelogs | leave your body and soul at the door

[A ghost can make any room their own at the drop of a hat, at the mere hint of a whim. March knows it well despite his inability to leave rooms called 64 behind in another world. While it's possible Sally has changed rooms in the past few hours, he considers it improbable. They're all creatures of habit at the end of the day.

So at the end of this particular day when he can just sense Sally about to come around in some fashion or another, March has planted himself in her room. Jacket off and suspenders in stark contrast against a crisp white shirt, he's sitting stretched out on her bed, ankles crossed (he has the decency to ghost his shoes away). The puff of his pipe smells of something that isn't entirely tobacco. At the edge of her bed rests a newspaper, conveniently opened to an article about a certain murder...

He waits. He eyes her wardrobe.

But mostly he waits.]

[Sally hasn't been fully sober for more than a handful of hours since she came back to life, since she could actually feel the drugs instead of the memory of them. No reason to be, not when she was her own living stash. So it takes a time or two for her to open her door, hands shaking slightly.

Then she needs the wall to hold her up after she stops short, surprised at the gift waiting for her on the bed.]

Fuck, don't tell me you're getting that lonely without her.

[A better man might get up and help her. There is a horrible dearth of better men at this hotel, which is just the way it should be.

The pipe vanishes. March folds his hands over his stomach and interlaces his fingers, like he's in some bed sales picture. Look at how comfortable it is! You won't even want to put pajamas on to enjoy it! Casual and awful.]

You can keep your unmentionables on, dear. [Awfully casual.] I've only come to talk, you have my word.

[Because Sally's favorite way to end a day is listening to March talk; he knows, she's so lucky right now.]

[Her life continues to be the version of hell her death had once been. Sally scoffs, then makes her unsteady way over to the chair by the window, grabbing an empty glass on her way by the bathroom area.]

I didn't do shit to your pet projects today, March.

[His sigh would be audible if not for the fact he's LOUDLY getting off the bed at the same time, snatching up the paper as he does so. March lets her sit...and then ever so carefully takes the glass from her hand to replace with the paper. The hmm is audible this time, though, March turning his attention to the glass.]

Water, is it?

[He is Concerned, okay.]

Tch.

[Her scoff looses some edge as she actually looks at what he more or less forced into her hand.]

Back in the news, huh.

[It's a quick trip to the bathroom, glass filled with water from the sink quietly set down on the table next to her. She's right that he never really leaves. Now he just so happens to be behind her chair, which is probably good. The smile on his face is insufferably smug.]

Indeed I am. We are. [If he'd have gone about squaring this away before it happened, where would the surprise be? Not that Sally seems surprised...then again, Sally knows what his whole thing is. Kinda easy to see why he'd be waving around public executions so gleefully.] He's been in the bar more than anywhere else in the hotel, you see. Someone will sniff around and be led straight to you.

Oh, honey. We're flesh and blood now. You know this...ship?

[She tossed the paper back on the bed not bothering to read it or to drink the water as she turned to face March.]

Doesn't got down with just me.

[March moves to squat next to the chair, looking at her from below with his hand resting next to hers. He's very much like a father imparting secrets or lessons. Except for the fact that anything close to care or concern from him are complete bastardizations of everything love can mean, and Sally knows that. It's in his eyes, the way he doesn't quite smile but still smiles. Snake in the grass. Wolf in sheep's clothing. He wears a role he can fulfill only when it aligns with what he wants and so perverts that role in the process. His voice is quiet, nearly kind, a most patient instructor.]

We aren't going down. Not now, not in a month, not in two months. [He wouldn't set Sally up just for giggles because she could lead it right back to him and then no one is giggling.] I'm telling you now so you aren't surprised. I'm trying to share with you, Sally. That is how we will be successful.

[That was the only way he was successful with Miss Evers, with the Countess. Until it turned out he was shit at reading signs and cues relating to Kinda Actual Love and the sharing hadn't been as forthcoming as he had thought. HOW TRAGIC.]

[She tilts her head at him, watching his face- those eyes- as she takes a sip of water. Then immediately makes a face and puts the glass down. He trying to poison her, here? Dead men tell no tales...but no one stays dead here.]

Oh, goodie. You've got a story ready.

Ah, well. He came to the bar with some frequency, never really caused a scene, paid his bills, talked about his relationship troubles, his gambling. You might remember his pretty face.

[But mostly his pretty sorrow, pretty suffering. Filled to the brim with regrets and pain, that one. Well. He was. Now he was filling a coffin. Finally free from all that torment! March is clearly a heroic sort.]

Could've been anyone if it wasn't an accident. That's all the story there needs to be.

[He is a lil smug about this. Just. Just a bit.]

[The smug is almost a taste in the air, but Sally's in no position to fight it. Just another lie on top of an endless pile in the hotel.]

You need a new patsy.

[A dramatic huff.]

You aren't my patsy, dear. If you were my patsy, we wouldn't be talking at all. [The smug drains a little, replaced with a calm, quiet, secure sort of confidence that he rarely uses, only when necessary.] Do I make myself clear?

Crystal. Picked a name?

[There was an endless list of drunks that wandered in and out of the hotel bar, something Sally and her little free gifts wasn't hurting. But if there was in imPort in mind?

Well. Could be a little entertaining.]

[If he's going to help Rincewind with this whole party for Frederick, he would be amiss not to look at the location chosen. And he's been amiss to not have done so before, really, Petyr's involvement taken into consideration. Alas. It's difficult getting things done AND getting down time to go out willy nilly.

Dressed to the nines as usual, dark striped suit and ascot, he makes his way in, looking around with a smile on his face. He's got a more keen eye than just a regular; this man has an architectural interest and isn't bothering to hide it. Perhaps that draws Jorah's attention first; if not, then Jorah's particular dress taken into account will definitely draw March's. Either way, he's all smiles and charm and clearly scoping the place, what's the worst that could happen?]

[ The patrons of The Iron Throne follow familiar patterns along predictable pathways.

It isn’t long at all -- minutes -- before March might feel eyes on him, his friendly inspection offset by a broad figure separating himself from the shadows near an unmarked door.

Jorah fits in with the theme, in the most medieval sense -- he’s clad in armor and he carries a sword -- but he lacks the theatrical flare sequins and glitter provide costumed dancers, all dusty brown and dented steel in the candlelight. He also smells like something halfway between a horse left out in the rain and an old saddle. ]

Anything I can help you find?

[ He fills March’s view, of the walls and the ceiling -- grizzled, coarse -- close enough a presence that any further architectural study is limited to his truly. ]

[March is quite interested in a particular archway when he's suddenly no longer alone. Not that he was in the first place, but. It's quite different going from a room of people ignoring him to someone right there.

Smells like Jorah's are really of no concern to March. Auras hold his interest far more. He's overall delighted despite anything of interest in that aura following his question, like he exists in a state of perpetual smiling.]

Not particularly, old boy! Unless you've a room specifically for parties, that is. [He glances around as if there will be a neon lit VIP over some super special door.] I always want to get the lay of the land before I add onto it.

[ Jorah’s aura is grey.

Or some other color, so careworn and desaturated that it might as well be. The color of ash and stone and no care left to give. He sizes March up like a trespasser, contempt sandwiched between suspicion and decorum -- friendly enough, in concrete challenge. He makes a better door than a window, no ground given for March’s glancing. ]

Depends on the party, [ he says. ]

Edited (fuk) 2016-10-24 07:21 (UTC)

[Any sizing up, any mistreatment of March as though he could be some mere hooligan seems to go absolutely over his head. Water off a duck's back. He shan't absorb an ounce of that insult! Never once does his smile flicker, does a hint of realization creep in like March is picking up on anything less than pleasant.]

There should be one for Doctor Frederick Chilton coming up, yes? [His voice is smooth, that question rhetorical. He knows what he's been told. He knows Rincewind would have given him a head's up if things changed. Or hopes so, anyway, if only to make up for his leaving the hotel. He sticks out his hand ever so cordially, smile unwavering.] James Patrick March! I've been asked to help with the bits and bobs. Can't do that without knowledge of the venue.

[ Jorah’s palm is nearly as hard as the sole of his boot, pads scored rough under leather wrapping. He closes March’s hand in his own as a matter of course, suspicion stewing hard in the back of his jaw. He’s well aware of Chilton’s upcoming party, and he knows the name March.

But he doesn’t know March’s face. And the more he looks into it, the less he decides he likes it. ]

Ser Jorah Mormont.

[ He doesn’t squeeze overhard, save with his eyes. ]

I’ll take you to the back.

[ His next step is (finally) away, towards the alcove he emerged from, presumably to keep his word. ]

[March's palm isn't the same, but it isn't baby soft, either. His shake is rather the same as what he's given. Business calls for some feeling of equality and that starts small.

March glances down at the sword when Jorah turns, wondering briefly if this is the proper sell-sword Baelish spoke of. If this Mormont fellow is the one who left a delightful mess for March to clean. It's only natural someone unfamiliar with swords would focus on one for a moment, isn't it?

He follows with a quiet, eager, a pleasure, yes, thank you, slipping into the role of guest as easily as he does when he's the host. He keeps behind and at a proper distance, no longer looking around, now with something (someone) to focus on.]

Have you worked here very long?

[Just casual chit chat. No ulterior motive here. No sir, nope, never. Always.]

[ There’s a door back here, partway between the kitchen and the locker room -- one of a few hidden from clear view by a combination of shadow and clever decor.

Jorah leads the way. ]

I work for Lord Ambassador Baelish.

[ He doesn’t look back at March as he answers, shouldering sideways to yield the right of way to a passing server. Somewhere nearby, a dancer is shaking what she has for a full table, and Jorah has a look over there instead, mid-sidle, to see that all is well. Multitasking.

The sword is real -- long and heavy and less menacing than it might otherwise be in an old leather scabbard. ]

[So Much is Happening right now.

His eternal love of art and architecture is delirious at doors hidden in plain sight. So what if it leads to rooms of barely clothed (if clothed at all) women prancing about for show and paycheck? Doesn't matter where those secret doors lead, it matters that they exist. Delightful! Absolutely delightful.

And then there's Jorah's easy admittance that he works for Baelish. Specifically for Baelish, not for this business. For the man. A loyalty of sorts to boss, not building. He works for Baelish and carries a sword and March revisits his wondering to give himself a pat on the back.

He doesn't need drugs or booze; right now, this is more than enough. Leave it to March to be getting internally off on everything but the dancers.]

A wise career choice! He is a very powerful man, particularly in this city. [There's a decadent tone in that statement, like a man who's tasted a very yummy dessert and is complimenting the chef. Everything is just So Good right now, he can't help it. On top of the world over here, that's March, walking with an easy pep in his step.] Yet this is a city filled with powerful men. I can see why he'd need a fellow's sword at his disposal.

He is.

[ It takes a certain level of confidence to nuance passive agreement into a thinly veiled threat. His lack of concern for any other powerful men Maurtia Falls might be filled with is palpable in the easy set of his shoulders -- in the casual hook of his thumb over his sword.

He doesn’t number March among them.

But he does hold the door open for him, the passage within more sparsely lit than the show floor. A set of stairs leads deeper down into The Iron Throne’s belly. ]

What sorts of bobs do you specialize in?

[Aw, that's sweet. What a cute lil guy. March walks along without any sign of concern. Nothing in Jorah's tone worries him, nothing about the descent, being out of sight of so many eyes, nope. Nada. None. He's just going along, confident and jolly.]

Oooh, a bit of everything, truth be told! I was approached about bands and catering in particular. [Still looking at the architecture, yes. It's almost like he's in his own little world.] You should come visit me at the hotel and see for yourself what I really specialize in. I do relish giving the proper tours.

[he specializes in murder and cleaning up messes with murder]

[ There are all manner of private rooms below, large and small, offices and sex dens, extensions of Westeros honeycombed like pockets of infection in the Pennsylvanian soil. Three months in and Jorah’s jaded to the lot. He stands aside at the bottom of the stairs to let this caterer roam ahead, eyes following flat after the nape of his neck. ]

Moustaches? [ He guesses, offhand.

He should fetch one of the girls to show him around.

Instead he stands like a particularly uninspired oil painting near the stairs, waiting for March to have his look. ]

[It's a good thing March isn't facing Jorah when the comment comes, because the smile that follows isn't a good thing. Not offended or scoffing. A different sort of bad. Something more animal than man, calling to mind forked tongues ready to slither out. Even the devil has a sense of humor. He'd have to with how much has been said about him.

One hand runs along the wall before he turns to face Jorah, seemingly without care for any private conversations (or else) that can be dropped eaves on. March is a kid in a candy shop who chooses to focus on the design of the bags and bits holding said candy instead of the candy itself.]

Architecture. [He's the architect of MURDER. Very subtle, Murphy.] I built my own hotel back in Los Angeles. It was a wonder of engineering for the time.

[It was a functional trap wherein he could kill, dispose, and get away with literal murder. March's voice, however, has the softness and longing necessary, none more and none less. A man who's lost the bright spot in his life, the fruits of his labor, and remembers it as such: good. Like another man might speak of a wife, or other family. Or a horse.

That far-off look vanishes with a blink and he lifts a hand to run over the end of his super sweet stache.]

Though I do take pride in presentation.

[ur joke is acceptable]

[ Jorah’s sense of self-satisfaction permeates down through the cocky slant of his shoulders, even if he does have gravitas enough to keep the worst of it off his face. The candlelight helps. A little.

He should probably be nicer to Baelish’s friends.

Especially the ones who are serial murderers. ]

It shows, [ he says, easy affirmation on the subject of pride in presentation. A mummer’s moustache and flourish, dramatic fingers touching over everything. Even his accent is something extra on the American slant Jorah’s become accustomed to. As for the hotel: ]

Never been to Los Angeles. [ He doesn’t make the same effort to sound impressed about March’s special hotel. ] Would you like to see the kitchen? [ He can hear the same voices. They probably shouldn’t linger. ]

Edited (html is very hard) 2016-11-02 05:05 (UTC)

Absolutely.

[He is very Certain and Confident of this Certainty in the fact that he would like to see the kitchen. He'd like to be shown it, by Jorah, specifically. He'd like to spend as much time here as he can, absorbing the location...it's the only way he'll become cozy enough with it for later haunting. Not that he's going to say as much. He's a ghost, that's just what ghosts do.

He falls in line behind, beside, ahead of Jorah—wherever the body language leads him to. This is one fellow Jorah won't have to have outright battles for dominance over. He doesn't mind being led around.]

[Dorian Gray has come. He can practically smell his aura at this point, a delightful mix of bitter and sweet. It's the sort of scent meant for special baths, whether alone or with company. It reeks of temptation and accepting said temptation, wholly inviting. Dorian's is a presence that incites delirium; it's a wonder Tobias ever makes his way out of bed.

And now Dorian Gray is leaving. Or makes to leave, at any rate, March isn't having that nonsense today. He doesn't bolt down the hallway after him, nothing so dramatic. Because simply appearing next to Dorian is not dramatic at all, no sir, no way.

One second Dorian is on his way out, alone. The next, March is walking right next to him with his device held out. Nothing startling about that.]

Do you understand this?

[Dripping with the disdain of a grandpa faced with Wi-Fi, yep.]

[ Dorian doesn't startle when March appears next to him. He's friends with Shade, who does this sort of creepy appearing all the time, and Klarion, who's also a fan of creepy teleporting. He had come to visit Toby, to bother him, but now apparently he's bothering March.

Dorian can't help but raise an eyebrow as March shoves the phone in his face. ]

Of course I do. What's the problem?

Reliance upon it is the main problem. But that isn't one you can fix.

[Is March an old man? Yes. Yes he is. Get off his lawn, no Wi-Fi or Pokemans for anyone. Suffer the little children.]

I don't understand much of it at all. [Is the problem, Dorian can read between the lines as March points to the machine like it might explode in his face, melt in his hand, vanish entirely.] I do understand that this is a disadvantage. This thing [Point 2: Point Harder] this Internet can make a business successful or run it into the ground. Yet I don't understand how to make it do anything worthwhile.

[he definitely has a gallery of, like, 200 pictures of blackness because haha march using the camera]

[ There's a dawning moment of horror as Dorian realizes that he's probably going to end up teaching March how to Facebook. The things he does for his friends. ]

Well, the best way to use the Internet to manage your business is via social media. Tell me, what platforms do you use?

[ Wait, he might not know what a platform is ]

I mean, what sites does the hotel have a page on?

[He sure as shit doesn't know what a platform is. He doesn't know the proper answer to that question, either, which is really really obvious from the dumbstruck look on his face. What was it Tristan had used to find literally anything again...]

Google!

[please help him]

[ jesus take the fucking wheel ]

Google's not your website. Google...it's sort of a large encyclopedia. If you want to find the phone number for a business or who was the prime minister at a certain time, that's when you use Google. If the hotel has a website, a Bwitter account, or a BookFace page, that's what you use to find it.

[His face falls. The more Dorian talks, the less March really understands. The less he tries to hide how horribly out of his depth he is here. The more he realizes how much more effort needs to be put into this whole Internet Presence thing.

There's a pause, and then:]

Do you have somewhere to be soon?

[aka can u stay w/ meeee]

[ Ohhhhhhh Lord.

Dorian puts on a sympathetic face as he gives March a weak little smile. He's resigned himself to the fact that he's going to be here for the rest of the day. Really, if he makes the accounts himself, it would be easier to teach March how to use them...while also retaining the log-in information himself so he could be the person to actually get things done. ]

Of course I don't. Where shall we start?

[Doctor Crane has a certain...air...to him, so to speak. An air that says he wouldn't particularly enjoy being sprung upon in the shower itself. Being ever the gentleman, March can put two and two together. Give the man his privacy.

March parks himself next to the bathroom door, idly wiping off the face of his pocket watch as the water turns off. He is truly a kind man, this is evidence of his magnanimous nature. He can hear the curtain draw back. He can hear an exit made. And he even manages to speak up before Crane walks out, should he be the sort to walk out of the bathroom in his birthday suit.]

Something's different today, isn't it? [Super normal super casual voice coming from just beyond the door, unseen but very easily identified.] The air's cooler. Leaves crunchier. Have you noticed?

[The astonishment that Crane feels at first, breathlessness in his chest, a shiver in his shoulders, and the jolt up his spine, is given to thin-lipped anger at being caught in this position.

But it's easily handled. He has experience. A man of genius among thugs in prison and he's never showered? Absurd! People had become acquainted with leaving him alone. He stands in silence. There was no peace at Arkham either. Why lose his temper?

He does prefer to have his own facilities, though

He also prefers his own clothes. He comes out of the bathroom with his hands in his pockets, wearing a smart tailored suit and tie, though it seems his clothes for the day are neatly arranged on his bed. Strange, that.]

The different seasons of life are more Julian Day's fascination than mine. Though I am surprised you felt the need to come and talk to me about it now.

[What do you want? If you want to wish him happy birthday, you don't need to do it when he's in his birthday suit, March.]

[Strange indeed, and March notices, but he doesn't find it strange. He's spent almost a century as a ghost with a mysterious wardrobe that just changed whenever he wanted, whenever he needed. There is so little now that can strike him as truly, honestly, wholly strange. He notes things and that's all.]

Today isn't his, though, is it? It's yours. [Go shawty, it's your birthday. He keeps his spot, glancing from his pocket watch back to Crane.] I've always thought birthdays should be a cause for celebration.

[Says the serial killer. Yes, it may sound ridiculous at first, but honestly? Without people being born, he wouldn't have anyone to murder. Life is important! So is taking it, but it has to exits first for the whole taking thing to happen.]

Is there something you'd like for yours?

[If there's something, anything the Scarecrow wants or needs help with that March can provide, well! Today is his freebie. Fancy that.]

[Revenge is all he needs. On the dead time and time again. He's spent a lifetime thinking about it, knowing that it's an impossibility. Would Sherry come here? Would his great-grandmother? He doubts it. But he'd really like it. He tilts his head and clasps his hands at his back, a wry smile on his face.]

A good drink and film and I'm sold.

[Rosemary's Baby, perhaps? Or The Shining? He sure as hell knows what he doesn't want. Disney. A night spent in on Halloween with Tinkerbell is torture. Do you pull the wings off faeries, Mr. March?

Also he doesn't care so much for the drink. But it's social protocol, right?]

Do you know the difference between horror and terror, Mr. March?

[Goodness, they can certainly set up something in one of the bigger, unused rooms. A private screening of classics. Though, perhaps Rosemary's Baby might cause feelings unexpected...at least they're in good company.

Always pull the wings off faeries, unless they can be of some use. Always!]

Hmm. [That watch gets stuffed away and March takes a moment to think it through. Does he? Of course he does. He knows the difference as he sees it, as others may see it. But what of how Scarecrow sees it? Only one way to have that answered accurately!] Tell me.

[Attentive, inviting being taught. Ooh la la~]

[That invitation leads him to gather the instruments of teaching; the briefcase on the large, note-scattered desk shoved against the side of the room. The rimless glasses lying atop his folded clothing. He draws his fingers back once they're mounted.

He doesn't need more. What sets him apart is his mind. Could he manage without good clothes, glasses and food? Absolutely! He knows his intelligence will see him through any difficulty. He knows he is stronger than anybody. The alternative isn't possible.]

The difference between terror and horror is the difference between obscurity and clarity. [Those glasses are removed, folded and slid into his breast pocket.] It is the difference between awful apprehension and sickening realization; terror enlightens our mind and leads us to perceive the sublime, whilst horror lacerates our nerves and destroys us utterly.

People argue that horror is the lesser of the two - but everyone else ultimately fails to consider what they can do with people once horror's done its work. [He tilts his head to think things through.] I had been working on such things, when I was in control of my hospital.

[All that death. That fear. That pain. Do you like hospitals, March?]

[He listens, enraptured, the only thing that takes his attention off Crane being the pipe in his mouth. And even then it's more of a natural gesture (like breathing, or stretching) than something that actually pulls focus. More of a fellow in a gentleman's club who pays attention than student, that smoky air taken into account.

in control sticks out like a sore thumb, ah yes, those without issues concerning control were few and far between. But March is a friend and friends don't point that shit out. They encourage it.

He is a bad friend.

A friend to the bad.]

I can't offer you a hospital, only the lost souls that move about this hotel. The folks no one would ever miss. Might even rejoice should they go missing for good.

[A curl of his lip; ugh, deplorables. At least they existed to be murdered but still. Ugh ugh ugh.

He doesn't really think about hospitals; they might as well have been morgues back in the day. To be avoided, definitely, but not because of nutsos in charge.]

[His teeth don't quite grind together as he listens. Being stuck with people who don't serve his purpose, who take up space, his valuable time, resources - it's enough to make his composure shatter. He had owned enough sense of self-preservation to continue with the charade for a while; to do the things he had done underneath everyone's nose without fear. Doctors said it was his arrogance. His narcissism.

All of the color returns to his face. He isn't unfamiliar with being offered gifts by the right kinds of bad people. But taking on people requires finding them a specific purpose within his framework. Or he takes them on as part of his work - to help others.

Such a helpful man, Dr. Crane. A small, chosen number of patients had found him quite kind. He couldn't possibly have done those wicked things they're saying, no, no, no. He tips his head in acknowledgement.]

The chances of helping such people are low. But it's better to not completely have them out of the way - there is something obscene in a hotel that lacks guests. [And hospitals patients.] You must instill them with a sense of purpose. It could simply be they need their feet holding close to the fire. When that happens most people fall into line.

[Or die. But what better way to make people fall into line than to scare them to within an inch of their lives? Or even an inch past them. That'll be a win, win then. So helpful, that Dr Crane.]

leave your body and soul at the door

☠ A L L Y;

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SER ʕノ•ᴥ•ʔノ ︵ ┻━┻;

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50 SELFIES OF GRAY;

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SCAREHO;

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SER ʕノ•ᴥ•ʔノ︵ ┻━┻;