A choppy carousel

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: 42
Character: Quincy Everhard

A choppy carousel

Post by Marlowe » August 23rd, 2022, 4:17 pm

The ceiling was lively with the mishmash of reflected candlelight.

Quincy stared, enraptured by the intermittent glow bathing his bedroom. He had his hands crossed under his head on the pillow, waves of relaxation trickling down his legs and, ultimately, his toes. Living in the Fort meant shorter walks to the bath house nearby, and a sharp observer would soon notice they could very well bribe him with regular massages. Although they hinted at a few services on the side that he wasn't too keen on hiring, there was a lithe brunette with strong fingers Quincy always requested up front (what was her name...?). The Arknonen would punish his calves and soles without mercy for maybe an hour, and he would offer her everlasting gratitude for it.

He could get a glimpse of the crackling fireplace from where he lay, the door leading to the atelier ajar. "Atelier", he said to no one, a lazy smirk gracing his lips. He had an atelier now, she gifted him one; quite a leap from actually having to sleep among boxes and dusty bolts of cloth. Naturally, she came to his mind, every day to nest herself there for a little longer than before. Her composure at dinner, that long skirt only Decus knows how she managed to walk without stumbling, the argument and that lovely parting gesture by the pond at the heart of town.

Slight wrinkles played with his face as if his forehead was a stage: the look on Miranda's face when he said the visitor he was entertaining upstairs was Drusilla. Quincy couldn't quite tell what was happening in her head, but the flutter in her eyes guaranteed it wasn't pleasant. The waning manner with which she just said "oh" as realization struck her were needles to his ears, he felt the impact it had on her voice. "These are the wrong plants", she said, and in the heat of the moment he foolishly even tried to convince her they were fine. Quincy rolled on the bed, her visage melting from cheerful into despondent still haunting him.

He was only certain Miranda's claim regarding the unsuitable plants to be a ruse when he was by her cottage's door, his new painting under his arm. Every flower she brought to his place was there, tossed aside by the front steps. He messed up. Even though he managed to clear the confusion with her afterwards, what wouldn't he offer to erase that look from his mind...it was still a long way until the air would be clear between her and Drusilla.

Well, isn't this another matter...! Drusilla seemed...different. Ever since the abrasive exchange when she brought him her apple pie, she was mellow around him. He was still astonished when those words sliced through the calm atmosphere in the docks."Can you just... help me? Please?". Just that. No finger pointing or turning his words against himself. Her plea seamlessly tore down every brick Quincy laid to keep her at bay. Was she letting him in, as he requested so many times before?

He wasn't the only one needing help such as back then, the poor sod who needed mending from well-meaning aristocrats; Drusilla was placing herself in his shoes, claiming she was just as lost as he was. "I don't know what to do about -anything- anymore, Quincy...". If only they could have matched their paces to address each other's hurt in unison, much of the rough altercations between him and Constantine would not have taken place.

Never had he worked as diligently in a single page than for the Kaduraan entrepreneur: the vellum he ordered had to present nothing but the best quality, with a silky touch and a moisture-resistant treatment for good measure. Quincy paid for more sheets than required to be on the safe side lest disaster struck. The ink had to display the perfect balance of blueish purple, his handwriting nothing short of exemplary. This just had to go right, as the affront he once inflicted upon this man was in equal measure an affront on one of Decus' very tenets. And the minstrel would do everything in his power to tip the Scales in his favor when judgment day came for him.

On the edge of slumber, the next picture came to him moments before slipping into the precipice. Once Constantine's invitation had been delivered, then it was back to the easel. There was light at the end of that grisly tunnel, and he drifted off to sleep, grateful for that radiance for just being there.

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