harderdaddy | (Reply)

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[Silver's door is old oak, iron-banded and cabinet built small: it's the kind of door that you'd find on a very old-timey sailing ship, and it has barely over six feet of clearance. When he opens it, he's face to approximately navel with Angel, and he has to take a quick hop backwards to properly take in the view. His eyebrows rise.

John Silver isn't quite as rag-tag as he'd made himself sound over the communicator. He's wearing a dark leather coat open over a bloused white shirt, his curls cascading loose over his shoulders. The crack about his limb count is immediately explained: there's a finely carved crutch under one of his arms and one of his pant legs is pinned neatly up where his leg ends at the knee.]

You're taller than you look on the communicator. Hope you don't mind a chair sized more to my scale?

[He flashes Angel a grin, lively curiosity in his gaze. Four arms, two legs, fur, eight feet tall... he's attractive, for a demon, but there is absolutely no hiding his inhumanity.

Silver takes a neat hop back, pivoting on his crutch with long-practiced ease as he gestures to a small round table at one side of his room. The room itself doesn't match the ship's door: it's mix-and-match opulent, a jumble of heavy and finely carved furniture, washbasin of Chinese blue-on-white ware, brocade and tapestry pillows and a paper screen painted with pink peonies marking out a little changing area with a mirror and stool. The bed, to the other side of the room, is enormous, four-postered and oaken.

It is, in fact, the best room in the best brothel on Nassau in the early 1720s, and it looks the part.]