Gimme a Valium, I'm getting the fear
May 14, 2012 10:41:56 GMT -5
Post by Withnail on May 14, 2012 10:41:56 GMT -5
(( Thread has an alluded-to suicide in it, heads up))
Withnail's preferred method of dealing with ghosts was a credit to his many years of thespian experience; he chucked a bottle at it, noted that it went right through (scattering the thing, which wasn't that threatening anyway) and promptly began spitting and swearing. The frantic Bard-quoting was a bit of an afterthought, as he felt like a tit. Generally theater ghosts were of the "the stage is flooded with water and someone's been stabbed with the screwdriver we were using instead of a prop dagger, supernatural forces must be to blame" variety. Or in the operahouse (from his schoolboy French, which was mostly the ability to understand thick French accents) "there's a fucker in a mask who watches women do their hair in their nightgowns sometimes and sings a bit". This had been an actual, factual apparition of a corpse, a small body hanging from a rope tied to the leaking pipes. (The thrown bottle had clipped one on its way by and it was making things rather moist now.) It had definitely been a child, and even from a fleeting impression hanged bodies had a... distinctive look to them. It wasn't the kind of thing you forgot. He'd nearly walked through the damned thing. And it had been looking at him, right at him, with blood-ringed dark eyes. All things considered, it was a feat of composure and dignity that jumpy as he was, Withnail hadn't pissed himself.
And that was all the impetus he needed to maybe lay off Marwood's beloved speed until he got to know this place better. Withnail shuddered and stalked out of the dormitory, clutching himself and swearing a little more to get it out of his system.
Withnail's preferred method of dealing with ghosts was a credit to his many years of thespian experience; he chucked a bottle at it, noted that it went right through (scattering the thing, which wasn't that threatening anyway) and promptly began spitting and swearing. The frantic Bard-quoting was a bit of an afterthought, as he felt like a tit. Generally theater ghosts were of the "the stage is flooded with water and someone's been stabbed with the screwdriver we were using instead of a prop dagger, supernatural forces must be to blame" variety. Or in the operahouse (from his schoolboy French, which was mostly the ability to understand thick French accents) "there's a fucker in a mask who watches women do their hair in their nightgowns sometimes and sings a bit". This had been an actual, factual apparition of a corpse, a small body hanging from a rope tied to the leaking pipes. (The thrown bottle had clipped one on its way by and it was making things rather moist now.) It had definitely been a child, and even from a fleeting impression hanged bodies had a... distinctive look to them. It wasn't the kind of thing you forgot. He'd nearly walked through the damned thing. And it had been looking at him, right at him, with blood-ringed dark eyes. All things considered, it was a feat of composure and dignity that jumpy as he was, Withnail hadn't pissed himself.
And that was all the impetus he needed to maybe lay off Marwood's beloved speed until he got to know this place better. Withnail shuddered and stalked out of the dormitory, clutching himself and swearing a little more to get it out of his system.