Marius, ever since he began walking without the use of his cane, has preferred the stairs. He dislikes the crowded nature of the elevator; the thought of winding up trapped and suffocating within it generally keeps him well away from the device, unless he has true need of it. He leads them up the staircase, still holding Rat's hand.
"Well, I suppose dumpsters make better burial spaces than in the open street," he replies, thinking of the instances he's stumbled upon corpses on his way home from delivering translations.
It doesn't take them long to reach the fifth floor and Marius' apartment; he fishes for his keys in his pocket before managing to open the door. He moves aside to gesture Rat in.
"Make yourself at home," he says as he follows him in. Even after a year in Darrow, he still hasn't done much in the way of decorating: a comfortable, green blanket draped over the couch and a few prints of paintings he'd admired once in a museum constitute the bulk of it. In one corner stands his bookshelf, overflowing, though his collection is not nearly as large as Rat's. Books in French, German, and English line the shelves; his favorite, a volume of Romantic poetry, nearly falling off one corner. Elsewhere, books and notebooks alike sprawl across his floor. He winces a bit at the sight of it, wishing he'd had the presence of mind to tidy a bit that morning.
The most recent addition to his apartment rests on one of the end tables; a small, but reliable cd player, with a few cases around it: classical, mostly, with the exception of a couple of folk albums, including one by George Glass and the Sure Jans, one of the local, Darrow musicians he actually likes.
He moves to head toward the kitchen, when he catches his cat playing with his old cane in the corner of the room.
"Courfeyrcat, how many times have I told you that's not a toy?" He sighs, but there's no real weight to it as he moves to pick up his ridiculously large cat away from the wooden object. Courfeyrcat mews and paws at him, and he grins. He is absolutely devoted to his cat.
"I have tea, coffee, wine, or something stronger, if you'd like," he says, putting his cat down and turning back to Rat.
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"Well, I suppose dumpsters make better burial spaces than in the open street," he replies, thinking of the instances he's stumbled upon corpses on his way home from delivering translations.
It doesn't take them long to reach the fifth floor and Marius' apartment; he fishes for his keys in his pocket before managing to open the door. He moves aside to gesture Rat in.
"Make yourself at home," he says as he follows him in. Even after a year in Darrow, he still hasn't done much in the way of decorating: a comfortable, green blanket draped over the couch and a few prints of paintings he'd admired once in a museum constitute the bulk of it. In one corner stands his bookshelf, overflowing, though his collection is not nearly as large as Rat's. Books in French, German, and English line the shelves; his favorite, a volume of Romantic poetry, nearly falling off one corner. Elsewhere, books and notebooks alike sprawl across his floor. He winces a bit at the sight of it, wishing he'd had the presence of mind to tidy a bit that morning.
The most recent addition to his apartment rests on one of the end tables; a small, but reliable cd player, with a few cases around it: classical, mostly, with the exception of a couple of folk albums, including one by George Glass and the Sure Jans, one of the local, Darrow musicians he actually likes.
He moves to head toward the kitchen, when he catches his cat playing with his old cane in the corner of the room.
"Courfeyrcat, how many times have I told you that's not a toy?" He sighs, but there's no real weight to it as he moves to pick up his ridiculously large cat away from the wooden object. Courfeyrcat mews and paws at him, and he grins. He is absolutely devoted to his cat.
"I have tea, coffee, wine, or something stronger, if you'd like," he says, putting his cat down and turning back to Rat.