birdsong

anyway! pinned post!

       she was right about one thing. mr. peanut did hate her. it did make sasha feel a little better that someone was making things difficult for her impostor while everyone else had accepted her wholeheartedly into their lives like she was the same person. her dog had chosen to bark and be difficult, the only kind of relief she’d gotten while trapped behind a frame, unable to do anything.

     ‘ good. he’s not the only one who hates you. ‘ her voice was soft, barely audible but laced with venom. her painted features furrowed as she watched with dull eyes. time was hard to gauge, but she’d grown more and more resigned to her place.

      ‘ what could you possibly say that i would like? ‘ getting her hopes up that she would finally be free was one she’d given up a long time ago. the impostor probably just wanted to rub something new in her face.

No surprise that Sasha hates them. Graham does, too, but he never says anything. Never did, once he’d been put in the painting. They don’t expect to be liked, of course, and fear is expected, and evident, but the hatred... not unwelcome at all.

The smile is all teeth, giddily wide. “Freedom! Your life back, just as the moment you left it.” They cock their head to the side in thought. “Well, I mean that you’ll be recognised as you. I can’t promise time travel.” A little giggle, then, “Both you and Graham.” There’s a surprised look from the man, unaged since... oh, was it 2006? Just a little over ten years (at a guess), now. Goodness.

Anyway-- oh, Mr. Peanut’s about to go for the ankles. Bother! “So,” they say, hopping away from Mr. Peanut and his flush of rage, “I bring you out of there, and, in return, you destroy the Web table. The one with the--” The not-anything jumps onto the table, a final resort. “--‘optical illusion’, I believe you said. Graham remembers it.” A nod to the man, now turning away. “Very interesting to watch you from that table.”

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A thing of the Slaughter. It’s still a little miffed over the aborted Unknowing ritual in the 1700s, but only on the principle of the thing. Other than that, it has no quarrel with any of it’s avatars. That said, this one is giving it a very... oh! Oh, yes it knows where this one comes from. That talk show host from... oh, when? A while ago now. But the point is... oh what violence he engaged in! What violence he inspires!

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A spider, a particularly big one, is creeping along the back of the kitchen counters. Not one of those peabodied little things, with such spindly legs, but a more substantial little fellow, and perhaps, if Martin leans in a little closer from where he’s sitting, a little fuzzy, too. One of the higher-ranking favourites on Martin’s list, for sure; he could watch it all day, even if his tea goes cold.

Not, however, if Jon comes into the Archives’ kitchen and starts for a cup of tea, or, heaven forbid, coffee. Which... ah, yes, here comes Jon now. Martin has to hide the little thing, or at least shoo him off elsewhere. But there’s little time, so Martin takes to standing in front of the spider. Right where the kettle is. Great.

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There’d been one person it had let go, way back in the 1800s, and they don’t even remember their name, nor what they looked like, their age, or... anything, really. It had been many people’s lives ago, it’s unreasonable to think it would remember that one person, despite the extraordinary circumstances. Not a mercy, of course, because still that person’s loved ones and friends and other acquaintances hadn’t recognised them, seeing as the impostor was still in their role.

It had wanted to see. And while it had served it’s patron well, despite the circumstance and its own curiosity, the person it does not remember fell victim to the Spiral. It was a bit put out by that, but they supposed fair was fair -- it let the person go, and they went mad with grief, and fell to another Entity instead.

It started to keep paintings only after Rose Cooper. Seeing if it could keep them around. Abject misery of being replaced and forced to witness it. Difficult to do so when married to someone else, of course.

Rose Cooper. Carl Moore. Graham Folger.

Sasha James.

Rose is dead by her own hand, and really, that’s not the sort of picture one can keep in their home, so it burned it, frame and all. Carl... well, he simply disappeared. Wandered off-stage? Or something. It keeps the picture, just in case he ever decides to turn up again. Graham has stayed, solemn and quiet, writing in his notebooks in the painting. Fascinating to watch, even without the table immediately present.

And Sasha? Interesting. Very interesting.

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“Evening, you.” It’s said to both the woman in the painting and the dog currently attempting to ignore the impostor. “I’ve had an interesting... evening.” Coerced into a movie night with Timothy and Martin, and... it’s not the first time they’ve thought about all of this. The... leaving the Circus (oh, if only they could, damn the table, damn Dekker, and damn Breekon and Hope, too), and... not for the first time, letting its victims out. It has done so, once, but it was long ago now, at least a century, and there’s more to gain from keeping them trapped.

“The kind of evening that had me thinking.” She wasn’t intending to watch the movie, an animation for children, but... well, kinship with non-human things, as much as they try not to pay that godawful itch any mind. Oh, she laughs then, sharp, deep in their own head. “Ah, well... thinking about changing things. I think you might like it.” Despite that, the smile is less than kind, or inviting.

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He’s coming up close, so close that he could tap on the young man’s head, but however the Desolation has him marked, as it’s victim or it’s next and newest little agent, he’s not keen to test. Besides, he doesn’t want want to press a dent in potentially waxy skin -- feels all... oh, for want of a better word, ‘yucky’.