Dry Ice

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

Dry Ice

Post by Marlowe » August 28th, 2022, 8:25 am

Only the foolish can be tasked to dry a block of ice.

It was quite cool outside, the glimmer of much missed starlight through clear skies irresistible to Quincy. A dim bronze lantern by a foot stool cast but slivers of light onto the canvas right before him, but it was enough. Inspiration had been his constant companion these past few days, and much was there to prompt him to paint until sets of brushes were rendered useless. This was partly due to the lost ring's reappearance: he still wasn't sure whether Atticus really needed assistance with the matter or if it was an elaborate prank to have him running around asking fruitless questions; it was hard to narrow down the man's sense of humor. Whatever the case, Quincy didn't need to concern himself with the case anymore.

The main reason his fingertips tingled with anticipation before the canvas, however, was his newfound approach to just lay the colors first and worry later. It seemed so simple! Painting shouldn't be trickier than roasting a duck or polishing a scimitar: one should just get down to do it. Miranda did that on so many levels! Quincy's hand added ascending strokes as his mind wandered: she had taken her boots off and just crashed across the benches in his library. Her cottage was but two blocks south, yet there she was. He needed to talk to her later about the large bandage around her thigh, it looked more than just a mining accident. But he settled for just placing a pillow under her head and draping a blanket over her. Quincy reached his hand to move a wild lock of hair over her face, tucking it over an ear before leaving and carefully clicking the door.

"What's inspiring you?", a female voice said, breaking into the trends lapping in his mind. Even before turning to make eye contact with whoever had said that, Quincy already registered whose voice it was; he knew it quite well. "Oh, lack of sleep, mostly". Notwithstanding, the casual remarks soon gave way to a far less amiable exchange, though he was also at fault: why did he need to mention the incident when Drusilla last visited him? Why did he need to bring the subject right off the bat and ensure to ignite her bad side and be scorched for it?

"Oh. Alright. I'll just go then", she said, still frozen by his porch, her stance guarded more defensively with every word bridging the widening gap between them. Whatever the reason, she was especially intractable that evening, a stark contrast to the same woman who earnestly pleaded for his help only a few days ago. The window was gone, the Drusilla from the docks replaced by this entity, impervious to anything but her bitter dogma regarding everything and everyone surrounding her. When Quincy wanted her far so she didn't hurt him, she made sure to seek him everywhere; now that he was in a far healthier place to see her just for who she was, all Drusilla did was push him away.

So be it. Even the harmless prospect of dinner, offered to settle old accounts with Constantine, was met with relentless opposition. "If you wanted me here, you would have invited me yourself! I'm not coming", she said. She was making sure to close all the doors, even if she wouldn't do this when he requested that very thing off her in the past. Quincy couldn't help but bring his mind to the buckets of dye he had been making all week: regardless of how much one stirred the pot, let it rest to see both water and oil slowly break apart. Quincy has been shaking this pot for months now; he was tired, he was done.

"You can just hate me too", she said, turning to leave without a moment's hesitation. He took a step to seek her trail as she gained the streets, but that was it. She closed the last door, and he realized he might as well do the same. She once asked him about Heston, and there was little to offer other than vague ramblings of nostalgia back then. Now he had an entire wall to show her, a large four-piece panel she would never see. Quincy didn't have a chance to broach on the subject, having to dodge knife after knife until she decided to call it quits. So be it.

He slowly got back in and locked the door. May Decus watch over her. This block of ice Quincy would never dry again.

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