Sinceritas

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

Sinceritas

Post by Marlowe » October 1st, 2022, 1:35 pm

His trusted satchel wouldn't cut it this time. For this trip, nothing less substantial than a backpack would do.

It lay open on a chair, the neat stack of provisions carefully wrapped and tucked on the bottom. Quincy was no hunter, so he needed to manage his nourishment very closely lest there was nothing palatable being offered at the tents by Bright Lantern. The packing was surely taking longer than expected, though he knew the reasons why: the recent developments kept resurfacing in his mind, ebbing in his conscience and delaying whatever task was at hand; and, ultimately, he didn't want to leave, though he didn't know how to handle it otherwise.

"What would you say the penalty of abandoning someone is for a man's soul?", he remembered asking Rikard in a private conversation at Eryn's communal room. Quincy had quickly become fond of the unlikely priest, enough to impart a serious matter to his judgment.

"You askin' if abandoning someone, the punishment is yer soul?", he said plainly. "No, short answer. The long answer is a bit more complicated".

"Of course".

"What's your abandonment? And why you abandon?".

"Do you perchance know the physician from Kaduraas?".

As he folded some sheets, their exchange kept bouncing back and forth in his head, he wondered if had disclosed enough to Rikard: the tumultuous encounters with Drusilla in the past, the equally unrelenting dealings with her as of late, Quincy's misplaced sentiments for her and the unsteady, treacherous path to an eventual recovery. The older man listened, nodding placidly at times, as it's expected from clergymen.

"And here's my point, Rikard", he said, wringing his hands over the table, "Drusilla is in need of aid".

"Hmm".

"Greatly, so I cannot see her uncared for in this time. But I may irreparably damage my relationship with Miranda if I'm the one to do it".

"You want to separate yerself from this Drusilla", he asked, scratching his head, "but you fear doing so will harm her greatly. And to not do so, will harm your relation with Miranda?". Quincy nodded in response.

"The last thing I need to ask her is that she herself tries to patch the relation with Miranda", he said, pressing his temple. "If that fails...".

He still remembered his relief when Rikard accepted his plea to help Drusilla on his behalf, should the worst take place. The priest dissuaded him from the ultimatum, saying that they never worked. It would have been to the best, only Drusilla came to seek him at his house the very next day.

"You never answer the door when I come here. Maeby always says you're out or too busy...", she said, wide-eyed and still on the mat by his porch.

"Well, I won't deny that I'm quite occupied as of late", he motioned her in, making room in the dining hall.

"With what?". She was brasher than usual, just returning from a particularly controversial sermon on Sacrifice, as she would later tell him. Drusilla seemed quite distraught with the priest who held it, motioning widely as she relayed the implications his words might have on the general, less cultivated public.

Even her garments were different this time: she retired her usual crimson attire, opting for a fairly underwhelming outfit bathed in browns and unremarkable white. "It's getting colder out there, and the red draws attention", she offered with a gentle shrug. Yet, soon they were trudging on known and rocky territory, the same terrain they inevitably reached whenever they were alone.

"Do you want me to go?", she asked.

"Do you want to go?".

"I don't want to go. You just seem like you don't want me here". It took a while to explain his business at Bright Lantern, supervising closely a hearty shipment of mulled wine he ordered.

"I hope we've settled that there was no avoiding involved?", Quincy asked, receiving her reluctant nod. "Good. Drusilla, please listen to me".

All of it just poured out. Brother Rikard's advice held for only so long, and Quincy told her about Miranda's distrust in her intentions and what her presence was doing to their relationship. Drusilla's reaction was adamant as she explained what she tried to bridge the gap between both women, to no avail.

"This is ridiculous, Quincy!", she said, half-rising from her seat as her words. "I did it! I'm doing it. I gave her a flower the last time I saw her. I told her I liked her clothes. She said thank you. She seemed happy. How are we here now? Why can't anyone ever just be -happy-? How can I fuck up even -that-?".

Quincy draped a cloak over his shoulders, watching himself in the mirror. Her face still haunted him: she wasn't furious or hurt; she just gazed at him with a chilly neutrality to her features as she walked past the door. "It was nice knowing you for a while". The calm tone she used knifed him deeper than the words themselves. What wouldn't he have given to be slapped instead!

All that was left was Miranda. Constantine always advised him to be honest with her, even though the Kaduraan didn't know exactly what that entailed. Rikard explained the Virtue of Honesty at length to him, and no other reason stood in his way but the fearful outcome itself. In his wildest dreams, Miranda would find a way to see past of what he had to confess to her.

But he wasn't dreaming: the image of Miranda's hands drowning in her hair rooted Quincy into hard, cold reality.

[To be continued]

Marlowe
Posts: 42
Character: Quincy Everhard

Re: Sinceritas

Post by Marlowe » October 3rd, 2022, 11:33 am

He cast one last look around, his travel coat folded over one forearm. There was only so much time to etch in his mind a picture of his favorite room in that house.

Even though the decoration suited him, the atelier was something else: tidy, but not too much; messy, yet just enough to stir that creative itch Quincy needed to pour himself over the next project. The smell of the paint buckets piled on a corner, the hard wooden floors, the white flowers Miranda chose and cared for; more than any other spot, he was one with this workspace.

The curtains on the corner, his newest addition, mingled with the ambient despite the haste in which he had embraced the task. Mote seemed so at ease and enthused to have her painting drawn that Quincy installed a makeshift changing room in the best corner: he dyed the curtains as soon as they arrived, setting the best wardrobe he could find in such short notice. A wide mirror had been polished twice, and for what? She wouldn't use it. Not anymore, maybe not ever. That much of an effort down the drain. She was always so full of life, and instead of eternalizing her figure in a canvas, he was leaving town to retreat to the gloomy and damp grayness of his own.

Quincy was about to head for the landing, but he stopped short of his first step. The easel stood in the middle of the room, canvasless. The image irked him, and he sought one of the wide pieces of cloth lying around to drape over it. No other piece of furnishing would receive the same treatment, but it felt right: Miranda brought the joy of painting back into his life, and now that he had scorched dry the fertile farmstead they had cultivated together, the white sheet concealing the easel seemed fitting. It was the ghostly reminder of what could have been, a phantom of unrealized promise.

She still had her key to his house. From the very beginning, that copy never really felt it was his to request back. It never even occurred to him when they last saw each other. Quincy employed every single acting trick known to man to deliver those awful, cold sentences to her without flinching: his eyes would roam idly at nothing in particular, occasionally landing on meaningless objects lying around. That's why he chose the Old Town courtyard: all other places bore sweet recollections of their growing affection. The courtyard, however, was sterile, and the scattered refuse and dry potted plants helped him focus on his delivery.

Quincy followed a checklist of what remained before departure. Jean-Pic had been given quite the sum of silver to account for a couple of months of his wages, though he received them rather wide-eyed. He knew better not to ask questions, though, and a brief handshake settled their dealings for the near future. As for Constantine, getting a hold of him proved as tricky as usual, so he settled for a letter to take advantage of the newly installed mailbox by his tavern. He mostly envied the Kaduraan: that man would never run regardless of what went his way; a trait Quincy would never develop.

Suddenly, gentle knocking ensued from the door, drawing him out of the inner banter for the time being, as he swung the door open.

"Hello!", Theo Hanlon said, with a cheerful tone. A short neigh drew his attention to a horse nearby, presumably loaded with medical apparel.

"Oh, hello", he offered his courteous nod, though he was unable to smile. "What a surprise. Please, come in". His ties with Theo seemed to grow more enmeshed, as proven by her unannounced visit.

"Wow, impressive", she said, looking around the dining hall as she entered.

"Ah, yes", he followed her gaze. "Everything you see is Miranda's hand".

"She's got talent and skill out her ears, huh?". He nodded once.

"What may I do for you, Theo? I was just about to lock the place up".

"I was just checking in on you. I noticed you left the sermon, not abruptly but...still", she said, tentatively.

"Ah, yes", his gaze fled opportunely to the scales atop the pantry. "I even requested the sermon from Brother Rikard, but...I have to say, I wasn't quite ready for it". Theo tilted her head but said nothing, the mannerism that made him so comfortable to keep sharing his thoughts. "Struck too close to home, so to speak".

"I assume since you requested it, you maybe thought it wouldn't affect you as much?".

"Sounds silly, right? That's why I'll get some air", he lied through his teeth. The sermon was not why he was leaving town, but a sudden fright overtook him, the possibility that the physician might make him reconsider.

"I see".

"I'll be tending to some business outside the Fort for a few days". That was another lie, they were coming easier and easier. If one erects a facade, it better be sturdy.

Theo's horse actually reminded Quincy about a bundle of wool he'd offered a couple of times already, and this time she acquiesced. As they loaded the horse's side bags, his thoughts raced in his head: there was still time to be open with the doctor. They have discussed difficult matters before, and surely she'd understand. Ever since the interview, Theo presented herself as both sagacious and humble, what was there to lose?

But he just couldn't do it. Quincy watched her leave with a weak wave of his hand. He allowed the game of cat and mouse to endure, it was second nature by now. She was the last person to talk to him in the Fort; what a fine legacy.

Quincy's mind wandered as he loaded his horse by the gates: that endearing smile at their special dinner, her many sly innuendos to mess with his composure and, overall, her generosity to offer him as much as she could; including everything that she was.

Even if he hadn't brought anything for the trip, Quincy would take with him everything that he needed.

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