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Photographs and Memory
Apr. 23rd, 2016 07:19 amBahorel stops by Feuilly's room not too long after the weekend he can't remember, a small paper packet held lightly in one hand. He's in a fairly thoughtful mood, so he knocks extra loudly.
a little idle talk
Aug. 18th, 2015 04:31 amBahorel knocks on Feuilly's door. If Feuilly answers, he's there to chat, and to return a book that he borrowed after Feuilly borrowed it from the Library (on Polish crafts. Of course it's on Polish crafts. But it's an interesting book, so Bahorel only teased a relatively little.).
(If Feuilly doesn't answer, Bahorel's got his lockpicking kit, a container of dental floss, some small coins, and a few little sewing tools. It's good to have backup plans!)
(If Feuilly doesn't answer, Bahorel's got his lockpicking kit, a container of dental floss, some small coins, and a few little sewing tools. It's good to have backup plans!)
By Other Means
May. 24th, 2015 12:43 pmBahorel is at the Bar, in quiet and nearly serious discussion. He is not, as some self-supposed wits would probably say, arguing a case with the Bar. He's only discussing matters of interest with an acquaintance. "No, I know, he keeps his door locked. Even here. Scar from our old troubled existence, rather than an insult to you and the community here. Mind, you'll note my door is always open to friend and foe alike, but that's an old habit too. Of course I forgive the idiosyncracy in a friend, and I'm prepared to allow for it. It's your preference in the matter I'm thinking of; if it's an intrusion on your boundaries--"
A small roll of lockpicks materializes on Bar's smooth surface. Well then. Bahorel grins; he recognizes these. "Thank you very much, Madame."
***
The door to Feuilly's room is locked, but it's not serious about it. One little lock, built into the doorknob; it's the work of just a few patient minutes to convince it to unlock itself. Bahorel sings while he works, a cheery, innocent little song that will not get out of his head.
"..I was only three years dead, but it told a tale... Ah, there we go!"
Feuilly's room is... Feuilly's room. Simple, practical, books everywhere. Those sound-absorbing tiles on the ceiling.
Suspended tiles, as Bahorel recalls from his old room in the same layout. He reaches up to push on one of the tiles--yes, there it goes, easily lifted. All within arm's reach, for any man who's at least six feet tall.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a thumb-sized device; a little computer chip, a little speaker, a little timer, they all take very little space. Little enough that he has several just in his pockets. He tucks each one in with a different ceiling tile. The last one, directly over the head of the bed, is in an envelope.
He slides the tile back into place, looks around briefly to make sure he's left no visible evidence of his visit, and leaves the room, locking the door behind him. He's singing to himself again. "is it how it's told now, is it all so old? is it made of lemon juice, llama, ankle, cold..."
It's quite the catchy little song, really.
A small roll of lockpicks materializes on Bar's smooth surface. Well then. Bahorel grins; he recognizes these. "Thank you very much, Madame."
***
The door to Feuilly's room is locked, but it's not serious about it. One little lock, built into the doorknob; it's the work of just a few patient minutes to convince it to unlock itself. Bahorel sings while he works, a cheery, innocent little song that will not get out of his head.
"..I was only three years dead, but it told a tale... Ah, there we go!"
Feuilly's room is... Feuilly's room. Simple, practical, books everywhere. Those sound-absorbing tiles on the ceiling.
Suspended tiles, as Bahorel recalls from his old room in the same layout. He reaches up to push on one of the tiles--yes, there it goes, easily lifted. All within arm's reach, for any man who's at least six feet tall.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a thumb-sized device; a little computer chip, a little speaker, a little timer, they all take very little space. Little enough that he has several just in his pockets. He tucks each one in with a different ceiling tile. The last one, directly over the head of the bed, is in an envelope.
He slides the tile back into place, looks around briefly to make sure he's left no visible evidence of his visit, and leaves the room, locking the door behind him. He's singing to himself again. "is it how it's told now, is it all so old? is it made of lemon juice, llama, ankle, cold..."
It's quite the catchy little song, really.
