Post by Laurnath on May 2, 2020 6:46:02 GMT 10
Mirros - Garden Quarter
May 1049
Perched on the edge of a pale brick wall, artfully crisscrossed with trailing ivy and soft jasmine - Verity Voclain leans down precariously to reach her leather pack that she hooked on the smooth branch of a camellia tree. The curly wood had a perfect notch in it for hanging things. In fact it looked like perhaps at times a lantern often was looped there with a wire.
Arching her back and balancing on one scuffed black boot, she finally grabs the leather strap. Her triumphant quiet exhale turns into a groan as a deep masculine voice calls out.
"This is private property you know! I'll have to call the guards!" A square jawed man in his later years, steps down into the back courtyard. Dressed it seemed only in a bright rose silk robe, one hand running through his salt and pepper hair that falls just below his collar.
"I'm not stealing my own things Biscarle and you know it." she replies angrily as she clunks to the ground - pack and all. Easily a foot shorter in her velvet and silk black wraith clothing. Still she knocks her hood back and gives him a 9/10 scowl.
The handsome man puts a hand to his chest and fakes a swoon of fear.
"Oh my, the villain Verity Voclain, come to end us all - and her hair is bloody awful." He flings a hand out towards her and back towards the palatial villa. Not allowing her a right of reply about her inky tresses.
She holds a hand to her updone hair self consciously and follows him like a sulky child. Making sure to scuff the pale apricot marble stairs that were beautifully polished, were. The open glass doors expose an elegantly furnished sitting room, a spiral staircase and small end tables full of freshly arranged flowers. The carpets are beautifully woven Ylari masterpieces of silky strands in pale colours.
Verity sits on the overstuffed couch and puts her boot up on the table, making direct eye contact with the robed Biscarle the whole time. He grins at her small impetuousness with straight white teeth.
"Well, how was court?" He asks finally, letting the silence settle in and giving her some time to take in the rest of the room. Elegantly painted nudes on every wall, hers is still hanging above the fire in pride of place. 'Girl with scars'. Her back is better than it was, but the disaster of her scars was so confronting they gave Biscarte an award just to take it out of the Gallery in Mirros.
"Bullshit, as always. They won't tell me anything about the house, not even who's upkeeping it or what company manages the exterior. They're clammed up completely tight." Verity gives an airy reply, trying not to show her feelings about the situation. Pale grey eyes roving the room nonchalantly, until there is movement by the stairs.
"I know something that's clammed up tight, but that's a whole 'nother story love." A muscular Sjoderford warrior stalks down the stairs. His reddish hair in dissaray and his greying beard is slightly overlong. Wearing a robe that could definitely hope to be slightly longer and wider. His tattooed arms gentle as he walks past and knuckles Verity's tiny cheekbone gently.
"Y'alright, Hen?" He adds as he starts putting down big pottery mugs of coffee. Each one has a thick handle with a thumbprint in it.
"I'm alright Brent." She takes the black coffee and sips some of it. Sighing into the couch and taking her foot down politely. "Better for seeing you both." Those eyes again rove the couple as they sit side by side on the other chaise. Good, strong men. Artists, empaths, friends, neighbours. Lovers. Her eyes mist over and she takes another big slug of coffee.
She can tell they saw, because Biscarle inhales sharply and he and Brent do one of their signature - let's make eye contact and not speak but we're having a whole beautiful sentence. It hurts her right in the heart to have never been able to introduce Sully to her friends. To the people who she kept secret.
"Alright is clearly a different word in your language, Hen." Brent says stiffly. Sitting forward and putting his big arms on his knees. "You were going to take your bag and sneak off without talking to us. Like as if we haven't been following every bit 'o news about our girl."
Bis nods in agreement, his floppy hair acting as it's own entity and needing to be flung back in a carefree but considered motion.
She is not an artist, but in this moment she tells her brain strongly to make a memory of these gentle giants and their perfect features - because no one lasts forever. Before realising it there is a salty tear invading her coffee. She drinks it anyway.
"It just keeps creeping up on me. I'm better when it's my choice, you know I don't like to be surprised."
"No one likes to be surprised. No one likes to lose one they love." Bis offers quietly, just holding his mug and putting his finger over the large print that marks the earthy, beautiful sea glazed pottery as being made by Brent. "But we know it will happen one day." The men touch shoulders briefly, a quick press of muscle. It is as beautiful as she can bear. So she gets up and begins roaming the room.
Swallowing hard, she examines the changes. New books, small knicknacks.
"Are you going to the re-opening of the Corros Casino and Ballroom?" Bis asks hesitantly, giving a slight swallow as she passes her own portrait again. Standing beneath it, back below back. The velvet and chain armor covering her completely - still, almost a dark silhouette of herself.
"Don't be silly Biscarte, look at her. She doesn't want to mingle with those people. She's tired and she's angry and she's probably going to-"
"Yes. I will." Verity cuts Brent off, politely. "Just because I am tired and angry and I'm interested in answers. Questions don't go away."
May 1049
Perched on the edge of a pale brick wall, artfully crisscrossed with trailing ivy and soft jasmine - Verity Voclain leans down precariously to reach her leather pack that she hooked on the smooth branch of a camellia tree. The curly wood had a perfect notch in it for hanging things. In fact it looked like perhaps at times a lantern often was looped there with a wire.
Arching her back and balancing on one scuffed black boot, she finally grabs the leather strap. Her triumphant quiet exhale turns into a groan as a deep masculine voice calls out.
"This is private property you know! I'll have to call the guards!" A square jawed man in his later years, steps down into the back courtyard. Dressed it seemed only in a bright rose silk robe, one hand running through his salt and pepper hair that falls just below his collar.
"I'm not stealing my own things Biscarle and you know it." she replies angrily as she clunks to the ground - pack and all. Easily a foot shorter in her velvet and silk black wraith clothing. Still she knocks her hood back and gives him a 9/10 scowl.
The handsome man puts a hand to his chest and fakes a swoon of fear.
"Oh my, the villain Verity Voclain, come to end us all - and her hair is bloody awful." He flings a hand out towards her and back towards the palatial villa. Not allowing her a right of reply about her inky tresses.
She holds a hand to her updone hair self consciously and follows him like a sulky child. Making sure to scuff the pale apricot marble stairs that were beautifully polished, were. The open glass doors expose an elegantly furnished sitting room, a spiral staircase and small end tables full of freshly arranged flowers. The carpets are beautifully woven Ylari masterpieces of silky strands in pale colours.
Verity sits on the overstuffed couch and puts her boot up on the table, making direct eye contact with the robed Biscarle the whole time. He grins at her small impetuousness with straight white teeth.
"Well, how was court?" He asks finally, letting the silence settle in and giving her some time to take in the rest of the room. Elegantly painted nudes on every wall, hers is still hanging above the fire in pride of place. 'Girl with scars'. Her back is better than it was, but the disaster of her scars was so confronting they gave Biscarte an award just to take it out of the Gallery in Mirros.
"Bullshit, as always. They won't tell me anything about the house, not even who's upkeeping it or what company manages the exterior. They're clammed up completely tight." Verity gives an airy reply, trying not to show her feelings about the situation. Pale grey eyes roving the room nonchalantly, until there is movement by the stairs.
"I know something that's clammed up tight, but that's a whole 'nother story love." A muscular Sjoderford warrior stalks down the stairs. His reddish hair in dissaray and his greying beard is slightly overlong. Wearing a robe that could definitely hope to be slightly longer and wider. His tattooed arms gentle as he walks past and knuckles Verity's tiny cheekbone gently.
"Y'alright, Hen?" He adds as he starts putting down big pottery mugs of coffee. Each one has a thick handle with a thumbprint in it.
"I'm alright Brent." She takes the black coffee and sips some of it. Sighing into the couch and taking her foot down politely. "Better for seeing you both." Those eyes again rove the couple as they sit side by side on the other chaise. Good, strong men. Artists, empaths, friends, neighbours. Lovers. Her eyes mist over and she takes another big slug of coffee.
She can tell they saw, because Biscarle inhales sharply and he and Brent do one of their signature - let's make eye contact and not speak but we're having a whole beautiful sentence. It hurts her right in the heart to have never been able to introduce Sully to her friends. To the people who she kept secret.
"Alright is clearly a different word in your language, Hen." Brent says stiffly. Sitting forward and putting his big arms on his knees. "You were going to take your bag and sneak off without talking to us. Like as if we haven't been following every bit 'o news about our girl."
Bis nods in agreement, his floppy hair acting as it's own entity and needing to be flung back in a carefree but considered motion.
She is not an artist, but in this moment she tells her brain strongly to make a memory of these gentle giants and their perfect features - because no one lasts forever. Before realising it there is a salty tear invading her coffee. She drinks it anyway.
"It just keeps creeping up on me. I'm better when it's my choice, you know I don't like to be surprised."
"No one likes to be surprised. No one likes to lose one they love." Bis offers quietly, just holding his mug and putting his finger over the large print that marks the earthy, beautiful sea glazed pottery as being made by Brent. "But we know it will happen one day." The men touch shoulders briefly, a quick press of muscle. It is as beautiful as she can bear. So she gets up and begins roaming the room.
Swallowing hard, she examines the changes. New books, small knicknacks.
"Are you going to the re-opening of the Corros Casino and Ballroom?" Bis asks hesitantly, giving a slight swallow as she passes her own portrait again. Standing beneath it, back below back. The velvet and chain armor covering her completely - still, almost a dark silhouette of herself.
"Don't be silly Biscarte, look at her. She doesn't want to mingle with those people. She's tired and she's angry and she's probably going to-"
"Yes. I will." Verity cuts Brent off, politely. "Just because I am tired and angry and I'm interested in answers. Questions don't go away."