[ Regular day, or regular enough in a place with 'magic' (Ariadne seems to have taken to none other than Harry Potter and his friends) Arthur steps into one of the side-rooms for his break, but he opts for filtering through the rest until he finds a familiar face. It's been enough time that they don't have to talk about it, and really it's not a matter of time down here anyway. A good percentage of him would rather not bring it up, there being reason enough of more than mild mortification on his own part, jacked up reaction or not. But the practical part of him (that's the entire surface) says knowing if it had anything to do with Arthur specifically, the night White took it upon himself to reenact a vampire right down to the teeth, or if it was just that Arthur was there and White was quite literally hungering.
It's easy to bank on the latter but as usual Arthur would rather hear it from the horse's mouth if possible. Some of the curses seem utterly random but others appear to prey on preexisting ideas or notions. As a dream, as someone's mind, that's concerning on a hundred other levels Arthur hasn't begun to map out yet in any way he finds sufficient. Granted, vampires and werewolves are not the only things they could talk about - Arthur not entirely decided on breaching the matter of White's confrontation with Eames, Eames who can take care of himself but whose jaw bloomed mottled and dark with a bruise a little over a week ago.
Door shutting with a polite click behind him, Arthur walks to pause in front of the couch across from where White is already seated in one of the armchairs. ] Got a minute?
[ He keeps his voice casual, the normal almost lazy articulation, the often-surprising lowness, the words 'I just want to talk' being so wholly not what Arthur is about but that doesn't matter as much as keeping others in the dream - projections or not - on the same page, when the page they're on even matters. In the case of White and Orange, at this point, it does matter. Sometimes Arthur tries to translate them to waking life, to people he's met or almost-known and worked with and really, if asked yes or no, liked insofar as he liked anyone. No one comes to mind. ]
( 11 / 17 )
It's easy to bank on the latter but as usual Arthur would rather hear it from the horse's mouth if possible. Some of the curses seem utterly random but others appear to prey on preexisting ideas or notions. As a dream, as someone's mind, that's concerning on a hundred other levels Arthur hasn't begun to map out yet in any way he finds sufficient. Granted, vampires and werewolves are not the only things they could talk about - Arthur not entirely decided on breaching the matter of White's confrontation with Eames, Eames who can take care of himself but whose jaw bloomed mottled and dark with a bruise a little over a week ago.
Door shutting with a polite click behind him, Arthur walks to pause in front of the couch across from where White is already seated in one of the armchairs. ] Got a minute?
[ He keeps his voice casual, the normal almost lazy articulation, the often-surprising lowness, the words 'I just want to talk' being so wholly not what Arthur is about but that doesn't matter as much as keeping others in the dream - projections or not - on the same page, when the page they're on even matters. In the case of White and Orange, at this point, it does matter. Sometimes Arthur tries to translate them to waking life, to people he's met or almost-known and worked with and really, if asked yes or no, liked insofar as he liked anyone. No one comes to mind. ]