'I try,' Malachi replied. 'I try to do good. Be a good boy. Sometimes I make mistakes though...' The boy pursed his lips and just when it looked like he was going to fall back into his sadness, the mute took a breath and seemed to notice that his sketchbook had been saved. He blinked and started to gather it back up to himself, to clutch it close.

He tried to do good. And Malachi was often left to his own so the boy had to learn how to do good for himself. There wasn't much of anyone else to guide him or take care of him. In some ways he was quite mature, in others he was still just a mere boy.

'Guess I still got to learn a lot,' he signed with a crooked lil grin for Mack.


OOC: as far as where to go....I think Malachi would be more comfortable putting off facing Desre face-to-face for a bit

"As do I. Every day I realize I've learned something new." Mack noted, tousling Malachai's hair again. "I think perhaps no matter how old we grow, we never stop learning, or if we do it's because of our own fault, not the fault of the world. Or else we've reached a very sad point where the world has nothing more to teach us. I think that would be terrible."
Although the price for learning wasn't cheap, there was much to be learned that was painful, as much at least as there was to learn that was incredible or beautiful.
"Should we go back to the theatre for a while then? I was thinking I might ask if our ever so jovial old friend..." He lingered over the words to show he was joking in these terms of endearment. "Might object if I offered to paint the halls. It might sweeten his disposition if he remembered what a little goodwill felt like."
Although any goodwill might also go a little further into keeping the man from investigating him, as much as it protected him, he reasoned it was also bound to disturb people if they found that he did not, per se, exist on paper. Such was the world.

"Only to change the color of a wall." Mack explained, with his own self depreciating smile as he held up scarred hands. "I have dreams sometimes, of playing a flute, or carving, but those are very delicate tasks. Just beyond my reach. But yes, walking sounds like a good plan." He lifted Malachi gently to the ground to stand up also, stretching his arms languidly, yellow eyes glittering. "I think, in regards to painting, if restoration of the old murals were required, you would be a better candidate perhaps. Have you seen them? You can see them faintly, on the theatre walls and ceiling, but the walls upstairs are plainer. They only need a new coat of paint. And perhaps some repairs to the banisters."

"I'm sure you could." Mack agreed, amused at whatever mental image this summoned. "Do you want me to carry anything?" He offered, seeing as to how Malachai with both hands full was entirely confined to nodding or shaking his head. Or maybe kicking people in the ankle, but he didn't quite see him going to that particularly young-Hellen-Keller extreme.

ooc: lol!!!!!! yeah I don't see Mal as an ankle-kicker ;P


The boy smiled at the idea. He did like to help. The mute liked to actually feel as if he was contributing something instead of the opposite he often got from people. The distinct impression that they saw him as a burden and something not to have around.

Malachi blinked at the offer, pursing his lips as he looked down to the haphazard bundle he clutched. The boy shrugged. He had it held fair enough though of course he couldn't talk to Mack while his hands were full. But he did have everything even if it was crooked in his grasp with some of the pages of his touseled sketching pad sticking out at random from the cardboard cover and backing of the thing. If Mack wanted something Malachi wasn't going to stop him but otherwise the boy was certain he could carry it himself...something of a bit of pride to do it all by his lonesome.

Mack pondered tying up the strap on one of his old satchels, to give the boy something to carry things in, but that was getting ahead of himself, and he'd been using the satchels to travel for a long time. It would seem strange if he had to move on and leave one behind, and he would wonder if he had forgotten anything in it.
"I will show you the rooms over the theatre for a while then." He offered, since they were walking that direction. Malachai at least couldn't read, so the only concern was keeping the illustrated portions of -that journal- away from him, if only to keep from giving him nightmares.

((Yes but it's a funny mental image. XD))

lol indeedy! heheheheh


Malachi offered a crooked grin then and a nod. He was content in following Mack where-ever the big man wanted at the moment. After all thusfar the behemoth had given him no reason not to trust him. He was still intimidating but part of that was simply because the guardian was so kind and the mute was not used to that. Still he couldn't deny he longed for such.

The boy stepped closer to his companion, trying to turn his attention on his surroundings as he certainly did not want to make the same mistake twice in one night.

The walk back to the Pantheon was likely considerably more peaceful than before, with Mack acting as a sort of giant, moving wall between Malachi and any threatening forces of humanity, though for someone who was accustomed to being buffeted by the human tide, this may have created a strange sort of distance, as though watching the moving bodies around them from a more distant perspective.

Mack rolled his shoulders in a half-attempt at a stretch, yawning slightly and covering his mouth with the back of one hand, less from true tiredness and more because he was winding down from the excitement of the morning as it had been. It was, he realized, something he didn't do very often, and he added an appologetic smile to Malachai.
"Not tired, just relaxing." Usually he didn't unwind until he was safe in his room. "It's a nice day, overall."

"You're right, there it is." Mack agreed, glancing up at the theater as though he were trying to see it through the veils of passed time. "Don't you think it must have been incredible once?" He asked. "But then I don't know how familiar you are with old architecture." Probably not very, he thought. What reason would he have to be? It was almost a shame, he missed the days when such places were near palaces, resplendent with gilding and almost gaudy. He'd stood out even more, or felt like he had, in those glorious, gaudy days, when the world felt like it was going to glut itself on the opulent and the beautiful, but he'd loved it anyway.
"I wonder if we'll ever see that sort of thing again."

[[btw!!! you look BEAUTIFUL!!!! love the outfit ^^ hehehehe]]]

Malachi blinked as he glanced up at Mack with a tilt of his head. His brow pinched as he looked back to the delapidated building. True it was hardly standing in its prime but to the young mute it was beautiful. It was one of the grandest places he'd ever seen. Malachi could only see the old theater through glazed and biased eyes. It was as a sanctuary and haven to him.

'I think its very pretty and nice,' he signed, or tried his best to with his limited hand-mobility at the moment. But even if the gestures were awkward and half-formed the look in his large dark eyes said it all as he smiled so brilliantly up at the broken place.

"Things have changed, but once upon a time, going to the movie theatre was an dress affair. Thats actually where the phrase 'peanut gallery' came from." He explained. He doubted even the old man would really remember those days, but it didn't matter. "Lets go inside, shall we?" He shrugged, moving to lead Malachai around to the doors to enter the part of the building that house apartments like his.

Although far less incredible than it's face, there were still elements of the fantastic in the side stairwell and it's winding path into the upper building, including rusted wrought ironwork shaped into filigree patterns that looked delicate enough for Mack to put a hand through, like a tissue screen, and the faint traces of long faded murals, that gave hints of pastoral scenes.
Upstairs, where the dull hallway, which smelled like the remnants of ages of smoke, gave way to doors with peeling paint, Mack led them both to one door, who's green paint peeled more as he unlocked the squeaking lock, and let them inside to a room with slightly yellowed plaster, and dingy windows who looked unlikely to ever come fully clean. One wall still had antique hand painted wall paper, but it was, like the murals, too long faded to be of any value.
Furnishing was sparse, an enormous, drooping sofa and a small television and dinged table, an vastly outdated refrigerator and stove, on which a old kettle had been left. The bedroom was visible largely for merit of not actually having it's own door, and looked to be largely ornamented with an pair of mattress on the floor and a few shelves constructed of boards and cinder blocks.
The place wasn't entirely without it's strange sense of alien charm however, since bottle chimes had been hung from the ceiling, and books were piled here and there, in all manner of language. German, Italian, English...
Most were poetry books, but there were a few of other natures, like the small leather bound journal that had been placed on the one high shelf in the room, tied around with an leather cord clearly of different nature and time than the rest of the book, as though sealing something ceremonially in it's cage.
In addition to the books, there were scatterings of small things. Ivory carvings of seals and whales arrayed on the table as though for play. A few packets of seeds and terracotta pots with potting soil, And a wooden statue of a praying monk, no bigger than the palm of the huge mans hand, but detailed enough that it was carrying a tiny rosary, that could be slid, bead by bead, through the gripping hands.
"No matter how hard we try, we collect things." Mack explained, with a soft smile. "Even if it's only memories and reminders."

"It's mine." Mack accnowledged. "Most of the books come and go, but some things travel with me." He walked over and carefully picked up the wooden monk, not to snatch it away but to hand it to Malachai. "That man I told you about before made this. He said it was to remind me that he would always be saying a prayer. I think he would say one for you too, if he knew you. He was that kind of person."

"He would have liked you, I'm sure." Mack assured. "It's based on him, he would have thought it far to vain to make it a very clear portrait." He explained, wandering over and taking a seat at the table, stretching out long legs in front of him. "He was though, very fond of praying for others. He told me once 'Praying to God reminds us to have faith in God, having someone else pray on our behalf reminds us to have faith in each other."
He shrugged faintly, as though to excuse his sentimentality on the issue. He had once felt that he was not a creature that would be, could be, or should be prayed for, and that experience had changed that. Life had perhaps not necessarily been easier afterward, but he had felt it....well...it was hard to explain. Like a line had been cast out to keep him from drowning.

"Sometimes." He admitted, smiling cryptically. "Since I met him, I do, occasionally."
Perhaps not as often as he should, but he felt awkward doing it still, as though he were interrupting on a private conversation between the God of Men and his creations, when he was, at best, a bastard-grandchild. "Do you want a chair? Or a drink?" He gestured faintly at the refrigerator, though it wasn't exactly full to brimming.