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legion-we-are.livejournal.com

While she was no closer to understanding the draw of imperfect representations of yet more imperfect objects, Myria studying the paintings. It was like a word on the tip of her tongue, a sensation that was confusing and distressing.

Glands again, no doubt.

Being human, she surmised, was something like slowly losing your sense of self. When you'd never really had one to begin with.

The gallery was open for business, of course.

legion-we-are.livejournal.com

The so called 'art' that filled the gallery made very little sense to the one dubbed Myria LeJean. In the same way it wouldn't make much sense to a twig. Although a twig would be slightly less pointedly disinterested.

On account of having no higher cognitive functions.

She tilted her head, finding that the body preferred this gesture when looking at the paintings they had placed on the walls. Though it didn't help figure out a half a figgin* of the appeal.

*A whole figgin being far too much.

nohaircutsplz

Medusalith was bored. Bored, bored, bored. Even the human art couldn't distract her today.

So if she was experimenting with her hair and not setting off the security devices...well. Who could blame her? She'd turn them off before anyone else came in, obviously.

The gallery? Open.

nohaircutsplz

There were rose petals all over everything.

Medusalith approved. It was like some sort of grand event where they were showered with flowers and praise, only it was the whole town and no one had praised her yet. They should get on fixing that. In the meantime, she would be here, cleaning the petals off the art.

The gallery was open.

((Monday, Monday, can't trust that day.))

nohaircutsplz

Medusalith's head hurt this morning. She blamed the 'music' last night, unaware that the pink things were probably more responsible. She didn't particularly care, though, because she'd gotten to spend her birthday with Blackagar, so really, all was positively golden in her view.

The gallery and all of its lovely things is open for your perusal.

nohaircutsplz

Medusalith was relieved that all the students had returned to the island. For someone from a closed environment like Attilan, the notion that everyone could just take off for a while had been very odd indeed. It was nice, then, to be settling back into her regular schedule, which included that oh-so-human concept of 'a job.' She arranged everything appropriately in the gallery and settled behind the desk, avoiding cleaning. She was a princess, after all. Standards had to be maintained where possible, and she was sure she would have to clean something soon enough.

The gallery is open.

nohaircutsplz

Medusalith was at the gallery on Monday, wondering what the deal was with this festival everyone seemed to be celebrating. Perhaps she should ask someone, she thought, and then discarded the idea. Although she had noticed that gifts were involved. Was she expected to give Blackagar a gift? She had no idea.

The gallery is open for all your last-minute shopping needs.

nohaircutsplz

Medusalith was in an actual good mood today. She'd rescued Blackagar, that bog thing was gone, everything was back to normal. And hopefully no giant dogs would be invading the gallery with more bad news.

...she was probably going to have to explain a few things to Ms. Devereaux, wasn't she? Oh, dear.

At any rate, the gallery? Open. Perhaps you'd like to buy some art for someone for Christmas and/or the winter holiday of your choice?

nohaircutsplz

Medusalith hadn't listened to the radio last night. If she had, she would have been out searching the island with a fine-toothed comb, not sitting in an art gallery contemplating whether that statue would be shown to better effect over by that painting. So she started the day perfectly calm, maybe even a little bored, but mostly in a good mood.

That would change.

Until that point, however, the gallery was open.

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