He gets up, takes a breath. Blinks slightly. Stares out.
His feet twitch suddenly, dancing to the same flamenco as the tic in his cheek.
“Of course you should,” he murmurs, cocking his head a little as he rises to stand, pushing off from his knees with a light groan and a smile full of teeth. “Of course you should. I just gave birth to twins you know- have a little care!”
A trickle of red-orange runs down his face, invading as it winks his left eye like a river of sweat.
“Do I have something in my eye?” he breathes, brushing off his damp purple coat, now stained black from shoulder to pocket in an odd patchwork diagonal reminiscent of Hellequin and Saint Francis.
By this time, however, the Mirrors, now a troupe of Italian comedy players composed of dense silver and lights, have emerged from inside the Jade Pagoda along with Borusa, in whose small hand a smaller six year old Flamina’s is held fast.
“Oh lord, I’m having an aneurism, I just know it! All this needless emoting!” grumps the Flesh Valeyard from a doorway. He then sways dramatically away toward a west-leading hallway which, for once, clearly displays the word ‘Bedrooms’ above the entry. His bum however, displays a blue post-it note upon which is written the eponymous phrase,