A Gambit

A general forum for all in-character posts as they relate to Act VI: Absolution, the characters that inhabit the world at large, and the events that help shape both.
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Marlowe
Posts: 39
Character: Quincy Everhard

A Gambit

Post by Marlowe » August 7th, 2022, 7:26 pm

Part I

Providence rescues one in mysterious ways, sometimes. In that recent occasion, Hollis personified the avatar of such a blessing.

Were it not for the young artist from Yultac, Quincy would have found himself irreparably cornered again, a condition he was desperately trying to shake off with every fiber of his being. While he was slowly making progress, Drusilla's deterioration caused much of the old yearning to resurface without much ado; he wanted to cradle her in his arms to make all the sorrow go away, even though in his gut he knew such a thing would never take place. Constantine's crystal reasoning still resonated deep within him, but the emotional response her state evoked in him was more instinctive, raw even. He could not stand his ground if they were alone, not yet anyway. Had she been able to press those gashing questions down his throat, once more his outer shell would be in shambles; a newborn abandoned in a storm.

However, Hollis unwittingly dropped a sturdy anchor amidst tempestuous waters, buying him enough time to keep idle chat flowing until the opening to scutter away from view presented itself. Quincy was taken by a profound sense of gratitude and even admiration for the young maiden, even though admitting so was quite unlikely: her carefree disposition of chaining one task to the next and keeping busy was exhilarating. He had even approached her on her style of painting, much to his own surprise in actually asking that question. Even pretending to be clueless about the proper way to fold the easel she made for him rose no suspicion in her eyes, although he'd been around such equipment since his late teens. Somewhere in his books of collected poetry there was the saying "Love is not something you seek, it's something you give". While there are many types of love, Quincy believed that saying for Hollis on most of them.

As far as keeping one's mind occupied, he certainly had more than enough on his plate as of late: Doctor Sindelar's plans were quite demanding of him (and Quincy didn't even have the time to extend a proper invitation for the man's debut on the Frontier Herald), the never-ending search of the next suitable lodging and keeping the new shop afloat and on most residents' radar. Huddled half-dressed in his trailer, the minstrel lost track of how long he took to choose a coat until these musings took hold of him. There was also the matter of the museum, he needed to seek someone regarding the reopening, just...he couldn't remember who or what for. Was he overdoing it?

He probably was, but it was working: the memories from those nights in the studio were farther and farther from his grasp, washing away amidst the constant battering of everyday life's minutia. Quincy chose a purple coat and slid his hands into the long sleeves. There, he made a choice; just like inviting Mathilda for a nice meal for a change. He should have spotted what an insightful woman she was sooner, maybe they'd still be business partners to this day. She was a great listener, too...he stared idly on a few colorful pairs of gloves now. When selecting the outfit for the day was a chore, then that was bound to be a bad day for Quincy Everhard. Almost absentmindedly he picked matching gloves, shoes and a belt and worked the door of his trailer. Enough was enough. He just needed a little more time, he was so close to feeling nothing at all but the convenient inflections adequate to whatever act he was playing a part in.

"And scene!", he said to himself, fitting the key into the lock. By the time his boots hit the gravel on the road, his face displayed the carefully elaborate look of courteous amusement he offered to his fellow refugees in that hellish depiction of a province.

Marlowe
Posts: 39
Character: Quincy Everhard

Re: A Gambit

Post by Marlowe » August 12th, 2022, 5:09 pm

Part II

It was positively one of the worst strolls of his entire life.

The dying sunlight offered little to uplift his low spirits, and soon the wretched swarms of blood-sucking grasshoppers would infest the roads and hills by the General Store. Akin to these pests, Constantine's words still ebbed to and fro in his mind, each wave crashing ashore more painfully than the one prior. The Kaduraan really knew how to pinpoint his weaknesses and hammer them down with stern words that were also accurate. And Quincy hated him for it.

He worked the lock on his trailer and draped a heavy cloth over the gap the half-door couldn't cover. Until that undead entity was taken care of (Anslem, was that it?), such measures needed to be carried out. The dim lantern light was hardly sufficient to cast a glow inside the wagon, but going back outside was out of the question. He had planned to wipe the lantern's glass globe several days ago, but the minstrel added that to the ever-growing list of things not going according to plan.

The ebb again. Constantine and Drusilla together, locked into each other's arms, resembling intertwined snakes commonly seen in many pieces of jewelry. So be it, he was officially a sorely misplaced third wheel in all this. At least the man had the decency to tell Quincy he didn't want him close to his woman. It would have been so easy if Drusilla wanted distance from him as well. Problem solved.

Nevertheless, he knew she would endlessly seek him to make him understand, or at least consider what she had to say. But for what? He knew more than ever that whatever "friendship" she offered was, in fact, a pretty excuse for pity. It's the sentiment you offer a three-legged dog when it struggles to do the same as any healthy dog wouldn't bat an eye for. As far as he was concerned, that road would go on without his footsteps ever hitting it again. Best of luck to them.

The little space in the wagon was cluttered with fresh canvases, folded cloth piles and a few vases he'd worked on the week before. Quincy sat with his back to the wall, idly rotating a small jug as Constantine's words billowed again, the taste of bile in his mouth resurfacing as it had been ever since that awful conversation. Getting to his feet all of a sudden, he grabbed the jug and hurled it against the wall with all of his might. The frail piece of pottery smashed against the wood, scattering shards all around. He did the same with a small blue vase, his face flushed red.

Quincy was about to toss the next thing he had in his grasp when he noticed it was the easel. Miranda's easel. Breathing loudly, he slowly put it down and slid his back on the wall until he was sat down. He remembered the talk they had by Eryn's place, of how similar both their predicaments were. His ears still burned, but his heart rate was settling down as he thought of all the gentle bits the young painter offered him lately. And the hug, of course. It's been years since anyone truly hugged him apart from the cold, void hugs from second-rate plays. Even if the hug worked both ways (and she said so herself), the effect of an earnest embrace was unearthed under the dunes of fake civility and street life.

He skipped all his meals that day and ended up falling asleep by the crate where he stored his old paintings. Miranda seemed to have liked them (more than just liked, as a matter of fact). He drifted off to heavier sleep amidst that anguish-comfort seesaw, but just like any seesaw, it was bound to be used by two people. If anything, Constantine had given him closure. And that was one sack of bricks Quincy was desperately trying to get rid of.

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