Dark Side of the Moon (closed)

Ondrea gave a wry smile at his teasing, taking the potion vial and setting it on the night stand within his reach.

"I'm sorry to hear that. I'm sure there's a reason you're still alive, though. I wouldn't go so far as to suggest there's a God - I should think he'd have to be rather sadistic or uncaring if he did exist - and I'm not so sure I believe in fate, either. Still... I'm sure there's a reason. You just have to find it. Or maybe, you have to make it." The girl shrugged.

Ondrea nodded seriously. "That's what my parents always taught me," she said. "On the one hand, it makes sense. But on the other... it's hard not to judge a whole group on the actions of a few."

The girl set the rest of the supplies aside, then rose to her feet.

"I'll let you get some rest," she told him. "Mo is making breakfast, today. I'll have her bring you a tray when it's ready."

Ty gave a slight smile and inclinde his head. He was silent as she spoke, and just watched her leave.

Once she was gone his gaze turned to the potion she had set down. Slowly he picked it up once more. He played with it for a moment, testing the weight in his hand.

Looking around the room, he bit his lip. Then before he could change his mind, he picked it up, opened it and chugged the contents back.

Shivering slightly, he sighed, and laid back down.

Owen was now sitting cross-legged in the middle of the frame, elbows on his knee and chin propped in one hand.

"Tough break," he commented. "Could be worse, though, mate. You could be me. There are only two sorts of victims of werewolf attacks, after all. Those that survive, and those who don't.

"Pain draughts aren't really that bad, considering," the painted man continued. "You should taste Skele-Gro. That is some pretty gross potion.

"You really a muggle, then? Or, were, I guess. Aren't anymore. Sorry. That was tactless, wasn't it? Jocy's rubbing off on me, I swear it. Not very old, either, are you? Twenty at the oldest, maybe? I'd have been twenty, myself, end of August."

Owen shifted so he was leaning back on his palms. "Sorry to hear about your family, by the way. Never lost anyone, myself - they only lost me." He grimaced faintly.



(OOC: Egads, I didn't know Owen was about to be so chatty, I swear!)

Ty jumped slightly and then groaned. He had forgotten about the talking painting angle and the voice had startled him - and with his numerous wounds, that was not a pleasant thing.

The young man blinked at the owl for a long moment, listenting to him before asking the first thing that came to his mind, "Whats it like in there? I mean are yeah really... or is it just some... magic... thang?"

He blushed slightly and hung his head, "Sorry, suppose that was rude; yeah aren't the only one who ain't got any tact is seems - My Mama would skin me if she could hear me."

"Nineteen, for now anyway - guess I'll be twenty soon enough," he said softly, "And ain't a drop of magic in me... or at least there weren't till..." he shrugged and gave a wan smile.

"Thank yeah," he said with a small smile, "Yeah get use to it ... sorta... after a while - not really, but yeah can pretend yeah do... I'm sorry about, yeah know," he waved his hand at Owen and his frame, not really sure how to phrase what he was sorry for, but figuring the point would get across none the less.

Owen threw back his head, laughing heartily. "It's fine, it's fine," he said, waving dismissively.

"It's... strange? Everything in here is sort of... well, a bit like a pop-up book, really. You know it isn't really three-dimensional, but it almost could be. Some of the paintings, though, are horrible - everything's flat." He wrinkled his nose in distaste. "Then, you look out of the frame, and everything out there is three-dimensional. Which throws your perception completely off, sometimes."

Owen, motioned to the image behind him - a wooden swing in the midst of a garden. "This isn't my painting," he said. "I'm in a proper portrait, painted in front of our piano, actually. Jocy and I came up here when Faye - that'd be Ondrea - brought you in. As for whether I really am in here...

He scratched his head, thinking. "Well, I really am a painting," he tried to explain, "but I'm not really Owen Montgomery. I'm sort of more... his essence. Like a ghost, only my spirit didn't remain behind. I mean, I feel like Owen Montgomery - I have his memories, I act like him, react like him. But I'm really not. He's dead, and I'm just... a memory, trapped in two-dimension.

"Merlin, that made a lot more sense in my head..."

Owen shrugged. "It's alright. You get sorta used to it," he echoed. "Not really. But you pretend you do."

Ty nodded his head as the young man spoke.

"Nah," he waved it off. "It made sense enough, for yeah know, bein' told it from a talkin' paintin' after I'd been attacked by his werewolf sister."

He shook his head. This was all... maybe it would turn out to be a dream. Then again maybe everyday since he was twelve would turn out to be a dream, and he'd wake up to find himself at home in his bed in Louisiana.

He snorted a bit to himself. Like that would happen.

"that," he said to the last comment, the one that was just a repeat of his own. "I understand."

Owen grinned appreciatively. "You know," he remarked. "You're handling this pretty well for a muggle. I'm impressed. Truly."

He simply nodded, having nothing more to add. The blond laid down on his back, careful to avoid hitting his head on the swing. Soon, only his bent knees were really visible of him.

"I'll let you rest," Owen said. "Just holler if you need anything, mate."

Ty gave a half smile and shrugs, "What can I say? Handling these situations seems to be my life. Gotta be good at something."

Sighing and rolling onto his side he nodded.

"Will do, Night Owan," he yawned and blinked before sleeping.