nobody's in the mood for recording 6.9: the post-trial garden tea "party"

[tsunderine]

The flowers that bloomed at the end of the trial are ones that only seem to prove, continuously, that the road to hell is paved with good intentions.

Of course, it's only natural that many of the people are full of mixed emotions - grief? sadness? anger? frustration? maybe something else completely different?

But it's there, along with the end of the week.

Miasma still continues to be around, of course - but make use of the fact that this might be the last time it'll be at a low level one before it shoots up again.


Well.

Life continues as usual, disregarding any feelings that any of the house's occupants might be feeling.

So what are you doing these next two days?

Comments

[golden_dream]

Huh?

[blinks, then... reorients herself by looking out to the hallway.]

Oh... wrong room. Sorry.

[She counted herself lucky it wasn't a second or so later; she starts to shut the door.]

[noneforall]

[Well, he does actually still have changing to do, so he doesn't stop her; it's a quick fix to get in and out of his clothes into something a little more presentable for not-faffing-around-a-burning-greenhouse (as in, anything other than the agent uniform, which is his go-to for trials and ghost shenanigans and anything other than ambushes, really).

Moments later he's stretching and stepping back out into the hall -- if she hasn't returned to her room yet he'll probably greet her, though if she has he might glance over curiously if the door is open in case she's managed to lose the way to her room once again.

She does seem even more out of sorts than usual lately, really.]

Hmm, I still can't get used to this room layout...

[Halfway to himself 'cause like. Seriously, why are the bedrooms smack in the middle of the house. It's disconcerting.]

Long day, I'm guessing?

[golden_dream]

[Rosa had done the logical thing: stumble into someone else's room and drink their alcohol. Drinking a glass of gin in one long gulp had its effects, though. She wasn't completely stumbling drunk, but the gin hadn't helped her headache as much as she thought it would...]

What?

[Oh, it was... um, shit, she should know... okay, she can handle this. She coughs and did her best to stand up straight, not quite making eye contact.]

Yes... it's been a terrible day, all around.

[...]

...How are you?