A Gambit
Posted: 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.
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.