- LeMarc cannot help but flush at the feeling of his master's breath on his ear as they exchange whispers. They're standing so close, it makes his brain fill with static and a long, high pitched beep. This is terribly unprofessional of him. He swiftly adverts his gaze, moving a step away as he wills the blush on his ears to fade.
"Ah...Yes sir. I um...Ahem. I believe the answer is 'the dark.' I'm not sure how to..." He looks confused at the riddling bat, then back at Larkin. "Frankly, I've heard this riddle before." He explains, though does not further elaborate. Last thing he needs is Master Larkin to believe LeMarc would ever dare spend time reading fantasy novels. "But it is a fairly simple one. Dark or darkness. That should be the answer..."
Oleander - A Nice Plant - Gardener | Location: Garden - Tagged: Open
- Tucked away in the corner of the garden, hidden in shadows behind tall bushes and artfully trimmed shrubbery, is a small shed meant to keep tools and other supplies for the garden. The inside is what you expect in a garden shed, with bags of soil piled agaist one wall, empty flower pots, and a plethora of watering, trimming, raking, and tilling tools, well equipped for any high class gardening. This is where Oleander goes to prepare his breakfast.
See, he's not allowed inside the manor's kitchen anymore. He has no idea why, although he is aware that his cooking is not conventionally perfect, he's a decent home cook, so it's not like his cooking is bad. Perhaps it is for the same reason no one ever wants to spend time with him. Unfortunately, Oleander can't figure out what that is either. So he keeps a cooking set up in the shed and a small fire pit out back, perfect for cooking small meals.
Right now he sets his basket down on the wooden table he has reserved for cooking meals and starts setting everything up; cutting board, knife, bowl. It's a simple sort of morning. Perhaps just a nice salad today. He plucks the pale, carrot-like tubers from the basket and rinses them off in a bucket of nearby water before placing them on the board and cutting them into thin, round slices. Hemlock this time of year was ripe and abundant. It was really the only ingredient that needed much work. The nightshade and wisteria flowers just need to be plucked from their stems and gathered in the bowl. With a quick toss of some honey and pepper, it made a great morning meal.
Oleander settles on a bench outside the shed to eat. He's fine being alone but...The eye on skin blinks up at him from his hand. He supposes it can be rather lonely to do this every day.
Emilia Stein - Disgraced Celebrity - Guest | Location: Kitchen - Tagged: OscarMimi? Really? That's what he's going for? Emilia looks no so much annoyed by the nickname as she is affronted by the concept of anyone ever attempting to call her any name. It's unwonted, and sits weird in her thoughts. At the very least it's not something like 'Emmy' which would probably lead to a swift punch to the face of whoever dared to call her something so puerile. Not that Mimi is really any better, but it could be worse.
As it is, the disgraced actress/model takes her time trudging after the burglar, her arms firmly crossed and her gaze glaringly uncaring, begrudgingly accepting her circumstances. She's certain that if she tries to just walk away form him, which very much wants to do, he'll do something stupid like grab her arm and drag her with him. Emilia does not grant any commentary, absolutely not paying attention as the guy starts rambling about rocket fuel of all things? She doesn't know anything about thermodynamics anyways, so what is she going to say? Although she's pretty sure that it really has nothing to do with acting. Speaking of which, did he just say 'in-character'? Was this weirdo playing a role right now? Who would pretend to be a robber, that's ridiculous!
Actually, now that she thinks about it, there's something about this man that doesn't add up, like an actor constantly falling out of character. Certainly, a seasoned actress like herself was capable of recognizing when a person's actions are unnatural. Not in the sense that they are supernatural, but in the sense that they are falsely presented. Like an amateur actor, this man was not lining his actions with his character. Everything about this man screams unnatural to Emilia, not because he's too good a robber, but because he's a bad one. He's following along with the lines perfectly, but his actions don't add up; pulling a gun on her and saying 'this is a robbery' then immediately making her coffee and smoking a cigarette, asking her to follow to find someone important to the staff, and then...Cleaning the hallway? There's eccentric and then there's...Whatever this is. Perhaps what she had assumed to be an incompetent robber was actually a very bad actor? That certainly made her a lot less intimidated by him.
She says nothing, of course, just observes the man breaking into one of the many locked rooms in the manor as he prattles on about what she can only assume is seducing the head butler, which she can't help but snort at the idea of. Like that rude thing would ever look at anyone other than The Larkin Stoker... The lock clicks as the pick sets in the pins in place, and Emilia would warn him about the possible contents, but she really doesn't care if he opens a door and has a pile of bones cascade on top of him, or whatever weird things the Stoker's keep hidden. For all she knows, there's some crazy vampire locked up in one of these rooms or something, this place was creepy. She takes a step back, just in case. And then the door swings open and she gawks. "What the..."
Emilia strides past the burglar into this ridiculously out of style room, looking in disgust at the many lava lamps. "You certain this room wasn't made for you, rocket man? It has your whole...'Aesthetic.'" She makes a point of using air quotes just to get across how loosely she is using the term. The sarcasm is palpable. "Aw look, they even have a carpet that matches your hair." Emilia kicks at the shag carpet, looking over her shoulder to pout at him mockingly before wandering to examine the records. She spins the first one off the top of the pile, quirking an eyebrow at the cover. "Someone in this joint's a huge Baccara fan, apparently? And..." she looks at the next record, "Marvin Gaye?" Okay, now she's curious, not even bothering to stifle a cackle. Her tone is sardonic, but her eyes glimmer just a little, like a smidgen of joy has found its way to her.
