With the reflex of one who has been in the public school system, Noah says “Yes ma’am,” and hustles out into the hallway after the Host. (Noah again, wants to protest what is being said about Cameron but he… can’t, really. What the hell was his cousin thinking?)
It is, indeed, not too hard to follow the Host, although Noah keeps at a discrete distance, staying at the edge of the cold. Noah would like to ask the Host how, exactly, he knows that Cameron is still on the premises, but with the chill surrounding him Noah’s wary of testing the Host’s temper. So Noah settles into an uncomfortable silence, occasionally rubbing at his own arms and wishing he’d brought a thicker coat.
The organ music breaks the silence before Noah does, causing him to perk up a little. Not that the music isn’t creepy as hell, but at least it’s a sign of progress! He hustles into the ballroom- or at least the balcony floor above- and then, despite himself, slows down almost to a standstill as he takes in the sight of the party.
It’s possibly one of the most striking examples of unlife he’s seen so far, apart from Leota and the Host themselves. He tries to count the number of spirits he can see, but with the wispiness of the ones near the organ and all the movement, not all of which follows conventional means, it’s hard for him to keep track. (Noah wrinkles his nose when he notices the decaying food on the table. Sure, it makes a sort of sense, but also, ew.)
Noah’s mesmerized enough that it takes him a moment to (pointlessly) look up and register that the Host has spoken.
“Hm? Oh, uh, Noyle. Fuck, I mean, Noah Doyle!”
Noah buries his face in his hands. Great, apparently he’s even more frazzled than he already thought he was. “Same as Cam,” he adds slightly muffled. “The Doyle part. I don’t know if he told you. We’re actually cousins- not that there’s much of a resemblance...” Both Noah and Cameron’s fathers were fair-haired, but lacked the delicacy there was to Cameron’s features, and Noah’s mother had stamped the darker MacGowan genes very firmly into Noah’s. The end result was one cousin who looked like a prince out of a storybook, and one cousin who looked like, well, a guy who washed dishes for a living.
A thought occurs to him, and Noah removes his face from his palms. “...I didn’t catch your name either? Uh. Madame Leota called you ‘Host…’ Do you even have one?”
no subject
It is, indeed, not too hard to follow the Host, although Noah keeps at a discrete distance, staying at the edge of the cold. Noah would like to ask the Host how, exactly, he knows that Cameron is still on the premises, but with the chill surrounding him Noah’s wary of testing the Host’s temper. So Noah settles into an uncomfortable silence, occasionally rubbing at his own arms and wishing he’d brought a thicker coat.
The organ music breaks the silence before Noah does, causing him to perk up a little. Not that the music isn’t creepy as hell, but at least it’s a sign of progress! He hustles into the ballroom- or at least the balcony floor above- and then, despite himself, slows down almost to a standstill as he takes in the sight of the party.
It’s possibly one of the most striking examples of unlife he’s seen so far, apart from Leota and the Host themselves. He tries to count the number of spirits he can see, but with the wispiness of the ones near the organ and all the movement, not all of which follows conventional means, it’s hard for him to keep track. (Noah wrinkles his nose when he notices the decaying food on the table. Sure, it makes a sort of sense, but also, ew.)
Noah’s mesmerized enough that it takes him a moment to (pointlessly) look up and register that the Host has spoken.
“Hm? Oh, uh, Noyle. Fuck, I mean, Noah Doyle!”
Noah buries his face in his hands. Great, apparently he’s even more frazzled than he already thought he was. “Same as Cam,” he adds slightly muffled. “The Doyle part. I don’t know if he told you. We’re actually cousins- not that there’s much of a resemblance...” Both Noah and Cameron’s fathers were fair-haired, but lacked the delicacy there was to Cameron’s features, and Noah’s mother had stamped the darker MacGowan genes very firmly into Noah’s. The end result was one cousin who looked like a prince out of a storybook, and one cousin who looked like, well, a guy who washed dishes for a living.
A thought occurs to him, and Noah removes his face from his palms. “...I didn’t catch your name either? Uh. Madame Leota called you ‘Host…’ Do you even have one?”