[ When Alberto opens the door, though, it's... suddenly abundantly obvious that he does not need any more STUFF...! ((tl;dr gallery post))
His room is wildly overcrowded and over-decorated with no lack of clutter. The visual impact is immense. He's made use of every inch of his small inn room. His bed is shoved in one corner, decorated with miscellaneous crap and way too many pillows, along with a canopy of colorful fairy lights, which are providing the most lighting in the room right now, along with a few candles created by the Candlebloom spell scattered about and an old kerosene lantern on his desk, the flame dancing inside being the only flame that's not open, but all of it contributing to some very nice, warm, ambient mood lighting, despite the grey, dismal weather outside. On the wall above the bed are also his Vespa poster, a taped togetherdrawing of his own that's clearly important to him because it's directly above where he lies his head, plus several rows of twine boasting a vast collection of Polaroid photos strung up with clothespins, paperclips, even safety pins. On the floor at the foot of the bed, there's a nest of blankets and extra pillows (how many pillows does he need?!) and if Della is observant, she'll see a tiny lizard-like snout peeking out from under these blankets, Sofia curled up warm and asleep near an old space heater he found for cheap. Beside the bed, he's nailed some mangled old wire coathangers upside down to the wall, having twisted their hooks out to serve as weird coatracks to hang a brown flat cap and a pair of old-fashioned binoculars. The only window in the room is the main focal point, just beside the bed and coathangers; he's pinned up a ragged old sail as a curtain, plus a fishing net adorned with myriad trinkets. He's stuck a dead tree branch dripping crystals on the well-worn armoire next to it, the hanging gems refracting the colorful fairy lights and flames, faint rainbows dancing in the corner of one's eyes as they idly twirl and shift in the air. A delicate-looking antique alchemy set is perched precariously along the windowsill — one Della might vaguely recognize as one of the things Alberto was trying to steal when they first met, ahem — with colorful strings hanging beneath it with bells and feathers and balls of tinfoil tied to the ends: homemade cat toys. More are strung up on the doorknob of the bathroom door, left closed just for that reason. Ever resourceful, still the same clever boy she met at the traders' fair at the castle, after all this time.
The room is drawn together with a circular rainbow woven rug in the center, as the "bedroom" corner bleeds into the "living room" corner. An old rusty bucket on the floor next to the armoire boasts not one, not two, nor three, but four different types of swords, having taken Della's suggestion to heart, though some are sharper or duller than others; at this point, they're still little more than toys to him. A chaise longue he dragged home from some passing flea market is shoved in the corner of the room, and a couple paces in front of it sits an open, hard-cover suitcase, equally old-fashioned and well-worn as all these other "found" items he may or may not have literally found in the trash; but the small suitcase is all but overflowing with an ungodly amount of colored pencils, markers, and crayons, every color imaginable, beneath a roll of brown butcher paper hanging from a curtain rod nailed to the wall. The Doodle Center, clearly, with disparate doodles already underway. A broken bicycle wheel is propped up against the wall with various drawings and notes and whatnot clipped to its spokes like some makeshift bulletin board. Hanging above this whole space are a fair few repurposed glass sauce jars done up with messy macrame, some full or half-full of beach glass, interesting pebbles, seashells, acorns, bottle caps, who knows what. Likewise, there are several repurposed glass olive oil bottles scattered throughout the room, most empty, some with dried reeds or wilted wildflowers stuck in them; one with an unusually wide neck, maybe an old liquor bottle he found, contains a collection of magic wands, though in all honesty he doesn't know what they are, like the alchemy set... He just thought they were some cool sticks. Della might recognize a couple of these from his box of stolen found "stuff" from their first meeting, too.
Against the central wall is a simple wooden desk, one of its drawers open and overcrowded with hammers, wrenches, screwdrivers, spatulas???, an axe, pliers, who knows what else, and whatever doesn't fit in there, has been shoved into the slots of a rusty old toaster on the floor... The rest of his workspace is surprisingly clear and functional, though. Sure, there's a nice tall, vertical stack of comic books shoved to one corner, along with a shoebox (from the one pair of shoes Alberto owns now) brimming with folded sheets of notebook paper, envelopes, and more Polaroids, completely disorganized but at least collected together. But the kerosene lantern shines on a small collection of whittled wooden figurines: a couple Vespas, a little boat with oars, some spoons and forks, a cat, a dinosaur, a fish, some colored, most not, with a knife and curly wood shavings still fresh around a couple rougher-looking ones. There's the original copies of the drawings he posted to the network still on the desktop with some colored pencils strewn about, an abandoned half-empty cup of cold espresso beside the papers. His Polaroid camera is left open and put off to the side, a few peel-away film casings littered around it, a couple fallen on the floor with their final developed copies sitting out on the desktop. The desk chair is a simple wooden dining chair with a normal bed pillow tied to its back with a couple frayed pieces of rope, a ratty fleece blanket folded on the seat to serve as a cushion; his winged cat familiar, Carlo, is curled up in a loaf on the chair, his iridescent wings folded against himself, half-asleep. The desk space best shows Alberto's energy levels, ambitions, and attention span, really.
But the whole room shows Alberto's creativity and resourcefulness — and shaky, oddball self-sufficiency. The most functional, organized, mature space in the room is the kitchenette in the final corner, but the writer will spare the reader a detailed description, not pertinent at the moment... for now. The only pertinent detail from the kitchen at the moment is the faint, fading smell of coffee that drifts through the air. Also drifting through the air is a melancholy Italian pop song that's only just begun, but will in fact repeat itself again on loop until Alberto eventually changes it, playing at full volume on his phone, the lyrics magically understood by the linguistic magic of Avalon, like the way a language falls on the ear of a polyglot, recognized as foreign and determinable, but still sensible — because can art be stripped of its original language, really? It sets this ambient scene quite well, surprisingly calm for how chaotic it absolutely is, a strangely suiting contrast for the young boy Della's become so fond of. It's a much more mature and functional space than the far more chaoticisland hideout that Alberto used to call home, but in effect has lost very little of the overall aesthetic charm. If there's one place to be holed up for weeks, trapped inside by snowy weather... this isn't the worst, by far.
He opens the door loosely wrapped in a green blanket, wearing a faded red T-shirt, worn blue jeans slightly too big for him, held up by another ragged piece of rope as usual, cuffs rolled up a ways past his ankles, revealing a cowrie shell anklet that's a new accessory since the last time Della saw him. He's also wearing a weak but warm smile, happy to see Della as always but... this time severely apprehensive, contrasting Della's apparent cheer and earnest eagerness. A lower energy Alberto than she's ever met. That's also new. ]
a small novel
His room is wildly overcrowded and over-decorated with no lack of clutter. The visual impact is immense. He's made use of every inch of his small inn room. His bed is shoved in one corner, decorated with miscellaneous crap and way too many pillows, along with a canopy of colorful fairy lights, which are providing the most lighting in the room right now, along with a few candles created by the Candlebloom spell scattered about and an old kerosene lantern on his desk, the flame dancing inside being the only flame that's not open, but all of it contributing to some very nice, warm, ambient mood lighting, despite the grey, dismal weather outside. On the wall above the bed are also his Vespa poster, a taped together drawing of his own that's clearly important to him because it's directly above where he lies his head, plus several rows of twine boasting a vast collection of Polaroid photos strung up with clothespins, paperclips, even safety pins. On the floor at the foot of the bed, there's a nest of blankets and extra pillows (how many pillows does he need?!) and if Della is observant, she'll see a tiny lizard-like snout peeking out from under these blankets, Sofia curled up warm and asleep near an old space heater he found for cheap. Beside the bed, he's nailed some mangled old wire coathangers upside down to the wall, having twisted their hooks out to serve as weird coatracks to hang a brown flat cap and a pair of old-fashioned binoculars. The only window in the room is the main focal point, just beside the bed and coathangers; he's pinned up a ragged old sail as a curtain, plus a fishing net adorned with myriad trinkets. He's stuck a dead tree branch dripping crystals on the well-worn armoire next to it, the hanging gems refracting the colorful fairy lights and flames, faint rainbows dancing in the corner of one's eyes as they idly twirl and shift in the air. A delicate-looking antique alchemy set is perched precariously along the windowsill — one Della might vaguely recognize as one of the things Alberto was trying to steal when they first met, ahem — with colorful strings hanging beneath it with bells and feathers and balls of tinfoil tied to the ends: homemade cat toys. More are strung up on the doorknob of the bathroom door, left closed just for that reason. Ever resourceful, still the same clever boy she met at the traders' fair at the castle, after all this time.
The room is drawn together with a circular rainbow woven rug in the center, as the "bedroom" corner bleeds into the "living room" corner. An old rusty bucket on the floor next to the armoire boasts not one, not two, nor three, but four different types of swords, having taken Della's suggestion to heart, though some are sharper or duller than others; at this point, they're still little more than toys to him. A chaise longue he dragged home from some passing flea market is shoved in the corner of the room, and a couple paces in front of it sits an open, hard-cover suitcase, equally old-fashioned and well-worn as all these other "found" items he may or may not have literally found in the trash; but the small suitcase is all but overflowing with an ungodly amount of colored pencils, markers, and crayons, every color imaginable, beneath a roll of brown butcher paper hanging from a curtain rod nailed to the wall. The Doodle Center, clearly, with disparate doodles already underway. A broken bicycle wheel is propped up against the wall with various drawings and notes and whatnot clipped to its spokes like some makeshift bulletin board. Hanging above this whole space are a fair few repurposed glass sauce jars done up with messy macrame, some full or half-full of beach glass, interesting pebbles, seashells, acorns, bottle caps, who knows what. Likewise, there are several repurposed glass olive oil bottles scattered throughout the room, most empty, some with dried reeds or wilted wildflowers stuck in them; one with an unusually wide neck, maybe an old liquor bottle he found, contains a collection of magic wands, though in all honesty he doesn't know what they are, like the alchemy set... He just thought they were some cool sticks. Della might recognize a couple of these from his box of
stolenfound "stuff" from their first meeting, too.Against the central wall is a simple wooden desk, one of its drawers open and overcrowded with hammers, wrenches, screwdrivers, spatulas???, an axe, pliers, who knows what else, and whatever doesn't fit in there, has been shoved into the slots of a rusty old toaster on the floor... The rest of his workspace is surprisingly clear and functional, though. Sure, there's a nice tall, vertical stack of comic books shoved to one corner, along with a shoebox (from the one pair of shoes Alberto owns now) brimming with folded sheets of notebook paper, envelopes, and more Polaroids, completely disorganized but at least collected together. But the kerosene lantern shines on a small collection of whittled wooden figurines: a couple Vespas, a little boat with oars, some spoons and forks, a cat, a dinosaur, a fish, some colored, most not, with a knife and curly wood shavings still fresh around a couple rougher-looking ones. There's the original copies of the drawings he posted to the network still on the desktop with some colored pencils strewn about, an abandoned half-empty cup of cold espresso beside the papers. His Polaroid camera is left open and put off to the side, a few peel-away film casings littered around it, a couple fallen on the floor with their final developed copies sitting out on the desktop. The desk chair is a simple wooden dining chair with a normal bed pillow tied to its back with a couple frayed pieces of rope, a ratty fleece blanket folded on the seat to serve as a cushion; his winged cat familiar, Carlo, is curled up in a loaf on the chair, his iridescent wings folded against himself, half-asleep. The desk space best shows Alberto's energy levels, ambitions, and attention span, really.
But the whole room shows Alberto's creativity and resourcefulness — and shaky, oddball self-sufficiency. The most functional, organized, mature space in the room is the kitchenette in the final corner, but the writer will spare the reader a detailed description, not pertinent at the moment...
for now.The only pertinent detail from the kitchen at the moment is the faint, fading smell of coffee that drifts through the air. Also drifting through the air is a melancholy Italian pop song that's only just begun, but will in fact repeat itself again on loop until Alberto eventually changes it, playing at full volume on his phone, the lyrics magically understood by the linguistic magic of Avalon, like the way a language falls on the ear of a polyglot, recognized as foreign and determinable, but still sensible — because can art be stripped of its original language, really? It sets this ambient scene quite well, surprisingly calm for how chaotic it absolutely is, a strangely suiting contrast for the young boy Della's become so fond of. It's a much more mature and functional space than the far more chaotic island hideout that Alberto used to call home, but in effect has lost very little of the overall aesthetic charm. If there's one place to be holed up for weeks, trapped inside by snowy weather... this isn't the worst, by far.He opens the door loosely wrapped in a green blanket, wearing a faded red T-shirt, worn blue jeans slightly too big for him, held up by another ragged piece of rope as usual, cuffs rolled up a ways past his ankles, revealing a cowrie shell anklet that's a new accessory since the last time Della saw him. He's also wearing a weak but warm smile, happy to see Della as always but... this time severely apprehensive, contrasting Della's apparent cheer and earnest eagerness. A lower energy Alberto than she's ever met. That's also new. ]
Ciao, Signora~ C'min.