Miss Ran Mouri (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
orchid_below) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
justonetruth2012-02-03 08:36 pm
orchid_below) wrote in justonetruth2012-02-03 08:36 pm
Perhaps writing it down will put things in proportion.
It's a dark night in the Mansion this evening.
To be fair, it's dark every night, as the area is significantly lacking in any buildings or bright lights other than those that shine from the Mansion itself. But tonight the stars and the sky are obscured by low-scudding clouds pushed by a slow, damp breeze, and the moon is only visible as a hazy, sticky nimbus of white behind them.
The interior of the Mansion feels muffled as well. The lamps are turned low, their glow barely reaching farther than a handful of feet, and in many hallways there's hardly any light at all. The only illumination comes from the occasional occupied room, or a window open to the fitful light of the moon.
Of course, it's well past the twelfth hour, so this is hardly an inconvenience for most of the Mansion's guests. But deep in its darkened recesses a spill of light cuts across an empty hallway, green and flickering. The door it shines from is open a crack, revealing just a glimpse of a small, shadowed room: neat and plain, but crammed to the brim with strange and occasionally menacing knickknacks and minutiae. A faint scratching sound floats out on the light, overlaying the soft glow with an urgent, almost manic intent.
It originates from one Miss Ran Mouri, clad in a red, Victorian dress and sat at an equally Victorian desk, bent low over the pages of a journal. Her work is lit by a single foxfire candle; two greenish wax stubs already sit burnt and depleted before her on the desk. She writes frantically, without pause, filling page after page with tirades delineated in a black, scrawling hand barely recognizable as her own. Her face is drawn, her skin pale against the dark tresses of her hair, but her blue eyes are wild and feverish as they race ahead of her pen.
She does not seem inclined to stop any time soon.
((Feel free to use as a mingle, and to respond with prose or action, whichever you prefer!))
To be fair, it's dark every night, as the area is significantly lacking in any buildings or bright lights other than those that shine from the Mansion itself. But tonight the stars and the sky are obscured by low-scudding clouds pushed by a slow, damp breeze, and the moon is only visible as a hazy, sticky nimbus of white behind them.
The interior of the Mansion feels muffled as well. The lamps are turned low, their glow barely reaching farther than a handful of feet, and in many hallways there's hardly any light at all. The only illumination comes from the occasional occupied room, or a window open to the fitful light of the moon.
Of course, it's well past the twelfth hour, so this is hardly an inconvenience for most of the Mansion's guests. But deep in its darkened recesses a spill of light cuts across an empty hallway, green and flickering. The door it shines from is open a crack, revealing just a glimpse of a small, shadowed room: neat and plain, but crammed to the brim with strange and occasionally menacing knickknacks and minutiae. A faint scratching sound floats out on the light, overlaying the soft glow with an urgent, almost manic intent.
It originates from one Miss Ran Mouri, clad in a red, Victorian dress and sat at an equally Victorian desk, bent low over the pages of a journal. Her work is lit by a single foxfire candle; two greenish wax stubs already sit burnt and depleted before her on the desk. She writes frantically, without pause, filling page after page with tirades delineated in a black, scrawling hand barely recognizable as her own. Her face is drawn, her skin pale against the dark tresses of her hair, but her blue eyes are wild and feverish as they race ahead of her pen.
She does not seem inclined to stop any time soon.
((Feel free to use as a mingle, and to respond with prose or action, whichever you prefer!))
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True clouds, not mist, and in a real sky... with a real moon, no less. Things that until now she'd only seen and remembered in dreams.
Ran drew in a deep, shuddering breath, her gaze fixed on the half-hidden moon despite the way the light made her eyes smart with tears. "It's... beautiful."
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Shinichi caught sight of Ran's expression and found himself falling silent. The night should be allowed to speak for itself. He silently extended his arm once more, falling back into step beside his companion.
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"Does the sun rise here as well?" she asked quietly, her tone cautiously hopeful. It seemed a bit much to ask for, but surely if there was a moon then a sun must follow...
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He hesitated, then added with a diffidence the partner of his first night in the mansion would not have credited for a moment, "It is decided then -- that the dawn is to be our entertainment tonight?"
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"That sounds like a lovely plan," she said rather happily, and finally tore her attention from the sky to smile at him. "Though 'entertainment' doesn't seem to do it justice."
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Not that she was going to protest the feeling of fresh, damp grass — grass! — beneath her feet.
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"Present company not excluded."
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