Quincy's Quizzical Chronicles

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Marlowe
Posts: 42
Character: Quincy Everhard

Quincy's Quizzical Chronicles

Post by Marlowe » May 27th, 2022, 2:08 pm

'Twas a rather bumpy ride! When Mary handed him the reins, she (perhaps purposefully) failed to mention how impetuous the mad stallion must've been! Quincy's haversack rattled wildly all throughout the ordeal, the inept duo devouring miles the same way he'd gnaw on a loaf of sweet Drodain's honeybread. Everything was being juggled hard inside his pack: a butter knife, his lucky mug he got from a drinking contest back in Greatport, the bundle of theater outfits and so on. Yet, nothing pressed as dire on his mind as the fact he himself was also being jostled up and down, unceremoniously landing his private package on the saddle several times. Out of all the things he'd pictured himself saying on his first day on the Fort, running into someone and saying "you need to take a look at my balls" was definitely not one of them.

By the outer gates of the towering settlement, a stout woman who went by Caley tried to contain the horse's energic recoiling. She failed, but during the commotion Quincy got somewhat safely off the intractable beast. Eventually a white-cloaked man-at-arms lent her his aid, and together they finally stabled the fierce stallion for the next poor soul to need a ride. As glad as he was to be onto his own two feet, Fort Praesidium's first impression portrayed a rather different picture he had upon arriving: people trudged back and forth through the gates, their gaze always cast downwards in order to avoid stepping on the plethora of rats roaming just about everywhere. One might even say they were rodents of unusual size, quite a catchy phrase.

His eyes soon landed on a rather drab shop, with goods sold therein as plain as expected: sleeves stitched wrong, boots of mismatched sizes or tools assembled with a quantity as opposed to quality mentality. Even so, their price was really good, nothing in there cost more than half a silver piece - perfect for any newcomer to just get a feel of their surroundings. It is worth mentioning both Quincy and the bazaar's merchant had matching moustaches, which is usually enough for a thirthy-minute chat between grown men nowadays (even though the other fellow's hair decided one day enough was enough and moved on without him).

Quincy's tasks mounted before him: deciding on which pillow he'd rest his head that evening, whether people required any of his talent's uses and gather real estate rates in the region. Up the road ahead somebody was selling the local newspaper, just exactly what one needed to get a hold of a lot of information at once. He'd always being particular fond of the alphabet and everything one can do with it. His ten-silver smile finally broke loose for the first time as he gazed at two words on the bottom of the page, and simply folded the paper into his haversack. In a fluid motion, Quincy swung his mandolin off his sash and started strumming chords he practiced on and off for fifteen years. Either humming or singing short verses, the melody strolled alongside him as he followed the cobblestone road. Later that night, Quincy'd write that song down and call it "we're hiring".
Last edited by Marlowe on June 2nd, 2022, 12:25 am, edited 1 time in total.

Marlowe
Posts: 42
Character: Quincy Everhard

Re: Quincy's Quizzical Chronicles

Post by Marlowe » June 2nd, 2022, 12:07 am

On disaster-stricken circumstances

Thither he lay amidst the gloom, cold and cornered,
For company but two bottles, their bellies void;
By his own accord, unmistakably quartered;
A most prized possession wholly destroyed.

Ere a merry stroll throughout the fortified town,
Meeting faces young and old, both shy and bold;
Unaware of mayhem mustering sewers down,
A promise to wreak chaos of damage untold.

The shrieking mass, bellowing, came from under,
Fur, vomit and tragedy incessant, spewing forth;
Human legs scurrying, many lives torn asunder,
He joined his peers, most unfit to wield a sword

Some prevailed and escaped, whilst others fell,
He tripped, crashed and bled, yet moved on.
His mandolin's ill fate, now a ruined shell;
A beloved instrument, faithful companion.

Distraught, no solace to be found in a bottle,
Last hope, a luthier's desperate trace to follow.
Ere jovial and fair, now blue, almost hostile;
Unstrung. Without it, he was naught but hollow.

Marlowe
Posts: 42
Character: Quincy Everhard

Re: Quincy's Quizzical Chronicles

Post by Marlowe » June 28th, 2022, 8:33 am

He lay in his studio, reclined right below where a painting once briefly stood; a piece only two people ever laid eyes upon and thus it would remain, given it was already slashed and properly discarded. But Quincy didn't dwell on those thoughts too much, even though they kept ebbing to and fro: he had tasked himself with preparing the wooden instrument he cradled on his lap, and he wanted to be thorough.

The soundboard had a peculiar design, but he could tell the mandolin's maker didn't properly store the piece between folds of cloth. Humidity or lack thereof could easily ruin the wood grain, so he rubbed a damp cloth where the chamber met the bars. It was a while before he realized he was grinning, still perplexed Mr. Gryhun wouldn't tell the difference between a lute and a mandolin.

"Here!", he had said, practically thrusting the instrument on Quincy's chest back at the Risk. The man just said 'she had made it' when inquired upon its origin, and that was it. Though the luthier's identity was unknown, it hardly mattered. A sack with his old mandolin remained on a corner, still smashed to bits. His eyes landed there and stayed, and he couldn't deny he'd rather have his old scratched mandolin than a brand-new one. However, what would be the finest human quality in these harsh times, else the ability to move on? As losses went, his have been rather mild, all things considered.

The lengthy encounter with Drusilla crashed ashore his mind again, and this time it made itself at home. One sun died and another reborn before they were done, a bare exchange between two human beings bereft of masks. Quincy didn't even remember the last time he allowed his persona to subside, yet it was just like the bad mushroom experience: horrible at first, but it paid off in the end. He surrendered bad blood in his past, but then so did she. He was just glad someone would alleviate the burden on his shoulders, for a change.

The mandolin had been tuned to solfeggio, a note Quincy knew by heart. The anxiety of handling the strings after so long a span consumed him. He rose, closing the windows to have the best echo he could muster. Propping himself against the wall, he closed his eyes the moment his fingers slid on the strings.


"The blood within her crystal cheeks
Did such a colour drive,
As though the lilly and the rose
For mastership did strive."


He played for hours. Somebody had given him his arm back.

Marlowe
Posts: 42
Character: Quincy Everhard

Re: Quincy's Quizzical Chronicles

Post by Marlowe » October 20th, 2022, 4:00 pm

Deliverance

Dawn was slowly breaking, casting hints of sunlight onto the sleeping rooftops. However, the roads were quite tenebrous still, enough for Quincy to leave his house heavily camouflaged and not be pestered by the drowsy White Cloak on watch.

As soon as he covered his nose with a cupped hand, he remembered he didn't need to: that hedious heap of garbage was nowhere to be seen anymore, with a proper trash barrel in its stead; yet another boon granted to him by Miranda. Even though he knew it was far more likely directed at assisting the most popular tavern in town, he was grateful for the cleaning all the same.

Just beyond the eastern fort gates, Quincy finished his usual transformation amidst the willow trees' heavy cover: underneath the shirt was the tunic's crude yet sturdy fabric, dyed in a mossy green just like everything else from the neck down. He put on a cowl away from prying eyes, and he was done when the veil to cover nose and mouth was in place. No, not quite; he noticed the bracelet laced on his right wrist. Though he couldn't wear it and risk making noise unexpectedly, leaving it back home was not an option, so he took it off and carefully tucked it into his travel satchel close to the soft package of his rations.

He had been fortunate enough to receive advice from not one, but two doctors in the museum the night before: after dealing with Atticus about ideas for his next article, Quincy didn't quite have the time to peruse notes from old interviews until Theo descended the basement steps in her usual dignified manner. The discussion around travel snacks to keep concentration raged on until Drusilla appeared from the landing to join them; the two physicians sat beside each other, and now he was the oddball in the room.

Dealing with Drusilla alone was not as simple: when Theo had to leave them, he knew she was set on making expeditions away from the fort; she seemed eager to have any pretense to get away from that place, even for a little while. However, though she was healthier than in their prior encounter, Quincy had his doubts about taking her to long trips and thus insisted on seeking counsel with another doctor. If only they had asked Theo earlier! The rest of the night offered little but failed attempts to get a hold of Cornelius, both at his office in town and at the Kaelius complex close to the coastal line. They returned empty handed, and he had the Kaduraan doctor to thank for yet another banter and an unnerving stride dangerously close to dusk. The path ahead widened, drawing him out of such recollections for the time being.

Hopefully, he'd be back by sundown at that pace, as he was covering quite a bit of ground due to his light gear. The goal was very far to the north and it'd be madness to cross the whole expanse on foot, but you can't mingle in the scenery on horseback. Quincy crossed all the way to the Rumbling Pass, avoiding a group of low-lives still lurking upon the barren road even after sunup. Only then it was safe enough to borrow a horse.

He wasn't fond of riding, but the memories from the night in that workshop kept coming back to him, and the horse seemed just a little inconvenience compared to what was at stake here. Quincy also decided he'd teach Miranda his skills to blend in the woods and avoid detection, should she want them: it was all a matter of makeup and the right clothes, and, for once, he could actually lend a hand as opposed to just offering hollow words. Thoughts raced in his mind in quick succession, and the mare was being curbed at the Riverside station before he knew it.

From that point, he had to walk, and he did so after a short brunch break. Quincy roamed the rolling meadows, certain to have stumbled upon the small purple tulips somewhere. That was his goal: bring her rare, exquisite wild flowers whose color was so dear to her. Though he didn't know why, they became almost impossible to find, so it'd be a great satisfaction if he managed to return with at least a handful back home.

A few hours in, he spotted a small patch of tulips by a neglected glade. With a sharp sickle, he carefully pruned the flowers and kept them in a bag especially padded to keep the petals fresh; the lining was quite damp to provide some moisture to the flowers inside, hopefully lasting long enough until they could be properly conditioned to a vase. As thrilled as he was to have found them, Quincy realized he'd spent too much time on this leg of his journey alone; the lilies were up north, but so were the crepuscular wolves and the day grew late.

The incursions into the lea past the ravine to the extreme north offered no novelties, since it was still the best source for the highly sought black lilies. Quincy's intent was quite fresh, though: up on the mountainous range that encircled the area, he remembered seeing purple lilies. If he could get a hold of some, it'd give him a sense of triumph he hadn't felt in decades!

He spotted the blossoms up on a ridge, probably the last lilies bearing that deep purple hue. Quincy always knew where they were, and the reason he didn't reach for them was the wolf den dangerously close. A quick survey told him he should have more than an hour before twilight, should be enough? Pressing his teeth against the sickle, he started the climb towards the lilies, about eight feet above him. It was all a matter of balancing his careful grip on natural crevices upon the stone versus making fast progress to slip away undetected.

Quincy hoistered himself until his face was quite close to the wild lilies. Slowly reaching for the sickle, he one-handedly trimmed the flowers just enough to pull them out from the dirt patch they were rooted in; he could prune them better when back on solid footing. Leaving the gardening tool where the flowers used to be, he wrapped the fresh lilies with his pressed lips and would have started the descent if he hadn't seen a wolf by the cave mouth, yawning lazily.

That shouldn't have happened! There was still weak sunlight, but it was nowhere close to twilight. Though not knowledgeable of the wild life in the area, his experience told him more wolves would soon follow the lone one he spotted. The thought of waiting it out crossed his mind, but was quickly pushed back by another one: "What would Constantine do?". Spurred by the need to make every second count, Quincy managed to get his feet on the ground rather silently, kneeling to make his shape smaller and hopefully minimize chances of being detected.

With the lilies tucked safely in their bag, sneaking under his foe's predatory senses wouldn't be that hard. Suddenly, a dry, vibrating metallic clang filled the range, causing some cardinals to scatter upwards. The sickle slipped from the ridge, tumbling down the stone until it landed flatly on the grass. Even before he looked, Quincy knew what his eyes would register: the brown wolf was hunched forward, its ears perked up and yellow eyes locked onto his position. More yellow eyes popped from inside the cave, the chase afoot once the first wolf started pacing towards him.

He needed to prepare his crossbow to shoot them, none of it was new. However, precious seconds were spent putting away the flower bag until his hand reached for the quiver on his back. The best chance to stay alive was firing good shots, even if they managed to engage him. Quincy aimed carefully and fell two of them before the first flashes of pain traveled up his leg as furious fangs sank into his thigh.

Quincy had the clarity to focus on the others that were not yet upon him, though aiming while ignoring his screaming leg wasn't trivial. It must've been four of them, and a grievous wound let the only remaining wolf yapping as it drew distance from his dead brethren. Apart from scrapes in his forearm and the ripped thigh, everything went relatively well. However, dusk had already settled throughout the struggle, and more howling echoed by the ravine. No amount of camouflage would cover the scent of his blood from fully alert wolves, so idling away inside the cave until first signs of sunlight was best.

Medical knowledge was not his forte, but he found it odd that his leg was bleeding that much. After all, it was just a leg, not some vital body part and not even that close to his heart. Nevertheless, he'd read enough stories to know the heroes would always patch leg wounds with a tight bandage of sorts. Limping his way into the back of the cave, the midlander pulled a thick cloth from his belongings and sat down, groaning. However, he froze just before wrapping the cloth around his leg. What was it, above or below the wound? He couldn't remember, or if it mattered at all.

Trying to appease both worlds, Quincy opted to tie the bandage over the wound as hard as he could, leaving it be when the pressure felt tight enough. Now it was a matter of waiting, another half a day or so and he'd be back home. Pulling the satchel to his lap, he checked the bag with a satisfied smile: a resounding success! Was that not worth a few scrapes that'd become a fond recollection someday? A badge of valor, maybe?

The bandage was growing sticky red as well, the blood slowly perfusing through it. Nevertheless, Quincy stared at the cave mouth and tried to push the pain to the background as night's cloak descended outside. Miranda's words echoed in his mind, still fresh, as if she had just said them.

"I still love you, Quincy, and I don't know what to do with that".

She had seen and heard his worst, and still she nurtured such wonderful feelings for him. It was about time he became worthy of them! He wouldn't achieve such by gifting her flowers, but it was surely a start. Actions, not words. Oddly, his eyelids felt heavy, even though he'd had a decent night's sleep. On the other hand, waiting for dawn break would be far easier if slumber consumed a few hours on his behalf.

His fingers tingled with the prospect of touching hers again, maybe he'd have the courage next time they met. His leg didn't even hurt anymore, he felt just sleepy. Quincy drew the bracelet she gave him and smiled, imagining the look on her face when she saw the purple flowers, an image he carried with him as he shut his eyes. Won't she just love them!

[Final post]


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Character Name: Quincy Everhard
Image

Full name: Quintus Erastus.
Birthdate: 5th of Flowerbloom, 1309.
Birthplace: Heston.
Birthsign: The Fool.
Requiem sung in: 20th of Goldleaf, 1347.

Appearance and Personality Traits

Age: late thirties.
Height: average.
Weight: above average.
Eyes: blue.
Hair: auburn hair, sideburns and mustache (though usually dyed).
Skin: fair.
Handedness: right-handed.
Posture: courteous and expansive, especially when performing.
Hygiene: impeccable.
Scent: saffron or cloves, mostly.

Strengths: loquacious, eloquent, creative.
Weaknesses: cowardly, insecure, untrustworthy.
Governing Virtue: Spirituality.
Governing Throne: Cowardice.

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