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[open post: as we wander’d to and fro]
Jan. 4th, 2025 09:46 pmDiogenes Pendergast stands in front of the mansion, mildly perplexed. He is a tall, lean man with a striking, aquiline nose and a ginger cast to his hair. His current dress is in the style of 1880s Germany: a tall silhouette and high collar, a matching black cape, a black and silver-tipped cane held loosely --almost foppishly-- in one hand, and a leather valise tucked underneath the other arm. One side of his upper body is still slightly damp from the spray of the great falls next to the Grand Hotel Wien where he was standing on a viewing platform a mere moment ago, gazing down into the roiling rapids after the body that had just fallen into them. It had almost been too easy. Now, suddenly, he is standing in the sunlight in an idyllic garden. A large white building of indeterminant architecture stretches up to the blue skies in front of him. In some aspects, it calls to mind his family home of Maison de la Rochenoire in New Orleans. What dreadful memories he had in that place.
Was this a trick of his mind? Was he going mad? Ha! What a jest! Too late for that! Calmate, he tells himself. He has been so good lately. He has done so well in this new world that he has carved for himself; perhaps even his brother, his dear difficult to impress frater would be so proud! Row us out from Desenzano, to your Sirmione row!-- ...Perhaps it was a trick of the machine, some sort of delayed mechanism that had back-fired? That couldn't be; his brother and Constance would have destroyed it together after returning to New York City for the "sake of humanity". Well, there was nothing to it but to find out. He steps into the lobby quietly at first, perusing the entirety of the welcome table before anyone approaches him. It is only then that he calls out, confidently striding deeper into the house.
"Greetings! Is there anyone who'd be willing to share a meal or a beverage with a weary traveler?" His accent is distinctly Southern, honeyed and smooth. There is something indescribable about his stride that is predatory in nature, but nothing else about him seems out of the ordinary. Until someone replies... then he will turn towards them with a half smile and a piercing look. His eyes are notably unique; one hazel, one milky blue.
Was this a trick of his mind? Was he going mad? Ha! What a jest! Too late for that! Calmate, he tells himself. He has been so good lately. He has done so well in this new world that he has carved for himself; perhaps even his brother, his dear difficult to impress frater would be so proud! Row us out from Desenzano, to your Sirmione row!-- ...Perhaps it was a trick of the machine, some sort of delayed mechanism that had back-fired? That couldn't be; his brother and Constance would have destroyed it together after returning to New York City for the "sake of humanity". Well, there was nothing to it but to find out. He steps into the lobby quietly at first, perusing the entirety of the welcome table before anyone approaches him. It is only then that he calls out, confidently striding deeper into the house.
"Greetings! Is there anyone who'd be willing to share a meal or a beverage with a weary traveler?" His accent is distinctly Southern, honeyed and smooth. There is something indescribable about his stride that is predatory in nature, but nothing else about him seems out of the ordinary. Until someone replies... then he will turn towards them with a half smile and a piercing look. His eyes are notably unique; one hazel, one milky blue.
