[ For all that John Childermass would like to act untroubled by the sudden shift in the sky, even he cannot. The moons make no sense to him, nor do the stars, and he's fairly certain it had not taken this long to work out that deal. Then, it would not be the first time a sky made no sense to him, much to his irritation.
Perhaps he should have expected this.
Though it's not as intimidating as the last bizarre sky he encountered. This one, at least, is pretty enough to linger outside the tent and stare. It's dark enough that he doubts anyone will catch the note of wonder on his face as he does, no doubt helped by his shabby black greatcoat, coat, vest, hat, basically anything besides his shirt and cravat, which peak out from the rest as white. ]
Well. That's something. [ He'll say at last, breaking away from stargazing to search his pockets for his pipe. The next person to come by close enough, he'll move from the shadows to get their attention and ask, ] Excuse me. I don't suppose there is anywhere I could get a light from, is there?
[ Asked with a nod towards the pipe, in case they mistake what sort of light he means. ]
► "ORIENTATION"
[ Or, apparently, "a bunch of strange people get up on a stage and sing poorly". How that's worker orientation, Childermass wouldn't be able to say. For his part, he's sitting as far from the stage as humanly possible, top hat set aside and greatcoat hung over the back of his chair as he sits and watches. He'd propped his boots up onto the edge of the table at some point, manners be damned, and he must have found a light eventually, because he's puffing away on that pipe of his. If he's eaten yet or picked up any drinks, it isn't clear, since there's nothing else at the table with him.
He's people-watching, mostly. At least, he thinks most of these people are people. Some sort of people, if definitely not human ones. Currently, he's trying to decide what's stranger here: them or the singing... ]
childermass | new | ota
[ For all that John Childermass would like to act untroubled by the sudden shift in the sky, even he cannot. The moons make no sense to him, nor do the stars, and he's fairly certain it had not taken this long to work out that deal. Then, it would not be the first time a sky made no sense to him, much to his irritation.
Perhaps he should have expected this.
Though it's not as intimidating as the last bizarre sky he encountered. This one, at least, is pretty enough to linger outside the tent and stare. It's dark enough that he doubts anyone will catch the note of wonder on his face as he does, no doubt helped by his shabby black greatcoat, coat, vest, hat, basically anything besides his shirt and cravat, which peak out from the rest as white. ]
Well. That's something. [ He'll say at last, breaking away from stargazing to search his pockets for his pipe. The next person to come by close enough, he'll move from the shadows to get their attention and ask, ] Excuse me. I don't suppose there is anywhere I could get a light from, is there?
[ Asked with a nod towards the pipe, in case they mistake what sort of light he means. ]
► "ORIENTATION"
[ Or, apparently, "a bunch of strange people get up on a stage and sing poorly". How that's worker orientation, Childermass wouldn't be able to say. For his part, he's sitting as far from the stage as humanly possible, top hat set aside and greatcoat hung over the back of his chair as he sits and watches. He'd propped his boots up onto the edge of the table at some point, manners be damned, and he must have found a light eventually, because he's puffing away on that pipe of his. If he's eaten yet or picked up any drinks, it isn't clear, since there's nothing else at the table with him.
He's people-watching, mostly. At least, he thinks most of these people are people. Some sort of people, if definitely not human ones. Currently, he's trying to decide what's stranger here: them or the singing... ]