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Post by REMINGTON DUQUETTE on Apr 6, 2013 1:16:39 GMT -5
| [atrb=border,0,true][atrb=width, 500px][atrb=style,border-top: 10px solid #601d00;background-color: #111111;] { heat of the moment “…and I just feel as if there’s no hope for him! Really, an elf?! An elf of all things—she’ll live longer than he ever will! The she-devil’s playing with him, I know it! I’ve already called the guards and they won’t hear me out! That’s why I need you master sorcerer--”
It said something for Remy’s acting skills that none of his annoyance showed on his face as the woman in front of his current ‘stall’ in the Noredge market continued to prattle on and on about her son. It was amazing really, Remy mused to himself, how good he was at pretending he was interested—his eyes still had a curious gleam and he managed to ‘hmmm’ and ‘aah’ at the right moments. Why, he hadn’t even yawned yet!
Giving a smile that showed nothing about how little he was listening to the woman babbling, Remy nodded his head once before holding up his hand to quiet the matronly woman. “Ah, Madame Cangrige, I understand your situation splendidly and believe you me, I have just the potion for you.” A bit annoyed at first, the old hag perked right up at the mention of the potion now didn’t she?
Really—this was far too easy.
Like taking candy from a baby.
Hiding the smug smile that threatened to slide upon his lips with practiced ease, Remy slid his hand beneath the counter, pulling out a vial in one smooth motion. “You’ll just need to slip this into the elf’s drink—lovely thing really. It will do the trick—why I’ll have you know that my sister—bless her soul—had to use it on a lad—a dragon, if you believe it—who was stalking her. Worked wonders. And if it can work on one of them flaming beasts, I have no doubt it will work on your lady elf.” In reality, it was little more than water with dye in it for color and perfume for smell, but the little biddy didn’t need to know that now did she? Holding the small vial tantalizing in front of the older woman, Remy smiled, perfectly cheery and not the slightest bit predatory, “The only matter we will need to discuss is payment.”
“What? I thought we agreed on twenty gold coins?” Goodness, wasn’t the confusion in her voice absolutely precious?
The only hint of the smile threatening to curl its way onto his face was a slight twitch of his lips before they pulled into a downwards frown. Shaking his head woefully, Remy sighed and rubbed at his forehead—the picture of dismay. “Yes, but you see, I am afraid that the demand for this potion is quite high you see. This in fact…is our last bottle.” It wasn’t but again, what did this woman need to know? And praise to her heart, she only looked nervous for a second before she nodded her head briskly, patting the painted wood counter of his stall as if to hurry him on.
“The price then—tell it to me. I’ll willingly pay whatever you ask—I just need that elf off my son, the harlot!”
The look on Remy’s face could only be described as regretful as he paused for a moment, visibly wavering before grudgingly giving out a price. “75 gold coins," he finally stated, as if to speak the ridiculous price physically hurt him. And it did—or at least it hurt Roderick Lacoe, his current alias. Roderick after all, was a kind man with some talent in sorcery and prone to giving his customers discounts off of extraordinarily rare items. To state a price so high was positively rankling to the poor man. Good thing that Remy had no such qualms—ah, but he was not being Remy at the moment. Oh no.
Face plastered in the same look of dismay, Remy hid a pleased smile as the matronly woman hesitated for only a brief second before pulling out her coin purse and slapping the necessary amount on the table. “You’re sure this will work?”
‘Roderick’ nodded his head sagely while Remy inwardly rolled his eyes. “Indeed. Couldn’t find a better potion. It will do just the trick.”
Apparently the look on Roderick’s face was convincing enough for the woman nodded her head once, a satisfied smile twisting her pudgy features before she did an about face without so much as a thank you and disappeared into the crowed.
Watching her go with a sigh, Roderick stayed in place only until Remy could no longer see the woman’s back. That was when he allowed his features to relax, no longer keeping the bright—if regretful—smile plastered in place.
Roderick was a pain to uphold—but he was the most popular alias when it came to the upper class. Strange how the slightest bit of compliments seemed to give the fools an ego. Rolling his eyes as he began to tidy up his stand, Remy packed it up with practiced ease, tidying up all of his items into a small bag that he haphazardly tossed over his shoulder.
The stall itself he left alone save for a once over to make sure it was cleared out before going to a stand far to the left and tossing one of his newly acquisitioned coins to the rat like man behind the counter who ran the rental service. Nodding in response to the yellow toothed grin he received in reply, Remy sighed before finally making his way from the upper market to the lower markets.
It was only whenever the smell of fine perfumes gave way to the scent of fresh baked pies and bread, did he truly allow himself to relax. A hand went to his hair, pulling off the hat that had kept it covered before he tossed it into his bag along with the rest of his trinkets. The braid that kept it pinned was next and his hair went spilling down his back, if slightly wavy. The tie followed not long after, as did the pins on his shirt and within moments Remy was more himself—no longer frocked up like a peacock.
Turning down a side alley leading to one of the more questionable taverns, Remy slipped inside the dingy doors with barely a whisper and made his way towards the back with a familiar nod towards the bartender and maid. Taking his place at a table, Remy inhaled the smoky air before he gave a pleased grin.
Today was looking to be a wonderful day indeed.
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Post by LADY PHERENE OF OSTLEA on Jul 23, 2013 23:30:53 GMT -5
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>>>hate to stare<<< Pherene was not Pherene. Pherene was Genevra. Or, rather, Ev for short.
Taking on her mother’s name, it was one of those days in which Pherene couldn’t stand it in the castle any longer. She had to get out. So, she declared to her “handlers” that she was going for a horseback ride. But upon making the hike to the stables, she found out from one of the grooms that her favorite horse had thrown a shoe earlier in the week and was lame for the time being. Thoroughly irritated at the inconvenience, Pherene went to the horse’s stall to see for herself. Indeed, he was favoring his left foreleg. The groom had also said that the farrier would not be in for another day or so. Pherene heaved a disgruntled sigh. A walk in the gardens would have to suffice. Though, she had qualms that the walk would quiet her stir craziness; it would only result in a mild calming, only to flare-up later. Her restlessness was keenly nestled in the corner made between excessive quiet hours in the library and the constant supervision that came with being a reckless royal.
Still in her daily riding clothes – which, out of no coincidence, looked peculiarly like a commoner’s clothing – she grasped the skirt of her dress, and picked up the hem so it was easier to lug her black laced boots through the thick grasses that rolled over the hills of the Roseash estate. From behind her came the sound of a single horse’s hooves and the rattling of the old cart wooden cart, only used by the servants to head into town. Pivoting, Pherene quickly found herself face to face with one of the older draft horses. “Lady Pherene, I am heading into town to do business for your brother. I heard your horse is lame and, if it is your wish, it would be my honor for you to join me,” said the silver haired man grasping the worn leather reigns in his worn leather hands. A small smile tugged at the corners of her lips. “You know me too well, Mr. Bue.”
With a hand from Bue, Pherene stepped the cart and plopped down beside him. The old man was one of the few servants that Pherene admitted to admiring. In fact, she rather doubted that she had ever heard a bad word about Bue. He was the child of an honorable lady’s maid and grew up in the palace. Now well past middle age, no one, not even Cyprian, had the heart to dismiss him and Pherene often saw him doing odd jobs around the castle, as he was no longer physically capable of tending to the gardens as he did for the greater part of his life living amongst the royals.
They talked little. But the silence spoke more than the words ever could. Bue knew that Pherene needed her freedom. And Pherene knew that Bue just wanted a travel companion.
Once in the city, Bue dropped off Pherene at the market. They didn’t need to exchange information. Enough they had come to town together to know to meet at a specific tavern just as the sun was beginning to dip below the horizon. He trusted her that she would be there to pick up. And she trusted him that he would be there to pick her up. It was a simple give and take that had been going on for the greater part of Pherene’s teenage years – and now into her twenties. Unfortunately, it wasn’t exactly condoned for Pherene to go off by herself. So, when asked what she did during the days she went to town, she always replied, “Why, I accompanied Mr. Bue to town.” There was no need for specifics.
On a normal day to town, she would have a few coins on her to pick up a treat or something to add to her jewelry and trinket collection but she was without any money and simply wandered the stalls, admiring all of the handiwork of the sellers. A permanent smile was traced in the blossom pink color of her lips. Pherene loved it in town. No need to be proper or kind. She could just chameleon her way into the throng of people and not be concerned about being noticed.
As she was browsing the booths, her attention was caught by a particularly frantic, pudgy woman. She was absolutely hysterical; she was rambling on about some elf harlot. Curious, Pherene moved to the nextdoor stall, so to better hear. She acted as if she was interested in a certain glimmery bolt of cloth. In all honesty, it was quite atrocious. Glancing over, Pherene caught sight of the seller. He looked mighty familiar. There were some sellers that Pherene had gotten to know fairly well and the one dealing with the crazed woman had definitely rented out a stall before, but something didn’t click right in her mind. However, she couldn’t place her finger on it.
So not to appear suspicious, Pherene moved onto another bolt of fabric – this one a rich emerald – and examined it closely. When she turned back to peer at the seller, he had already packed up and gone. Spirits. That was fast. Dropping the fabric back in the bin it was held in, without a word, Pherene weaved through the sticky commoners, following the snapshot glimpses of the seller’s uniform. Soon, though it was quickly easy to find him, he had let his hair out of its braid and he slipped into the tavern that Pherene and Beu regularly met at. She wasn’t exactly a regular but she stopped there often enough to be a familiar face – but not a memorable name.
Too curious to pass it up, Pherene used her waltzing walk – the one reserved for the galas – to glide over to where the seller had just set down. Giving him a genuine smile, teeth and all, she inquired, her cerulean eyes bright but her tone brighter, “Would you mind if I set with you?” Pausing, Pherene surveyed his face – he looked like he could have been a royal if he had been dressed properly. “I was just back at the market, and,” she looked down at her clasped hands as if bashful for what she was about to admit, “I followed you here because I was interested in the woman’s story.” Pressing down the front of her skirt, Pherene began fiddling with the hem of her sleeve, despite the fact that she was far from embarrassed. But she wasn’t sure how this man would react to a brassy-tongued lass, so she figured it best to start out as timid, mild, and demure. “And I must be acquainted with someone with such magnificent hair.” Pherene paused, “Oh! How could I be so thick? My name is Genevra but, please, call me Ev,” she declared, looking up, daring to watch her reflection in his eyes.
WORDS: 1159 . TAGGED: REMY . NOTES: CREEPY PHER IS CREEPY |
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Post by REMINGTON DUQUETTE on Jul 24, 2013 23:25:34 GMT -5
| [atrb=border,0,true][atrb=width, 500px][atrb=style,border-top: 10px solid #601d00;background-color: #111111;] { heat of the moment Legs stretched beneath the table to prop his feet up on the chair opposite him, Remy leaned back into his seat with a contented sigh, arms crossed behind his head. In the few scant minutes he’d made himself at home in his usual spot the barmaid—Elisa was her name, lovely girl if a bit stupid—had already brought over his usual—a simple bowl of porridge seasoned with semi-ripe berries and honey and glass of frothy cider. Lips curved into a smile, Remy congratulated himself on his own success—sometimes it paid to be a regular! All in all, it was turning out to be a wonderful morning. Really free porridge (it was amazing what a few well placed tips about the man’s cheating wife could do), cider on discount and a morning con gone successful could do wonders for one’s mood.
And to think, he had started off the morning in a shade just shy of foul. Of course, Remy thought privately as he untangled his arms from behind his head to reach forward and take a sip of his cider, waking up before even the crack of dawn was enough to sour anyone’s mood. And speaking of souring moods, that woman looked familiar, now didn’t she? Eyes quirking over the rim of his glass as he caught sight of the woman—though perhaps girl would be the better word-- entering the tavern. Golden brown hair and a pretty enough face—and by all accounts, regular enough to be recognized at the very least even if the tavern staff didn’t seem to know her name if the way their eyes seemed to light in a vague sense of recognition. Still—as far as Remy knew he hadn’t been in the tavern whenever she’d come in. He did after all, pride himself on knowing the tavern’s more frequent patrons. Which meant she was not here as often as he was—so that couldn’t be why her face was familiar. No—no…it was something different altogether; something he couldn’t quite place…
Narrowing his eyes just slightly enough that vision improved but not so much so that the action was visible, Remy cocked his head to the side before taking another contemplative sip from his cider. It barely took a second before the girl’s eyes lit on him, and my if her movement wasn’t something interesting. One brow quirking above the other as he watched her from the corner of his eye, Remy felt his lip quirk up. It was almost a waltz—very fancy and high class. Something the gutterscum that usually frequented this tavern wouldn’t really know. That meant he really did have to remember where he spotted her.
And ah!
Blinking in realization—and it said something for his acting that the movement looked smooth and natural—Remy felt his brow furrow and his lips quick. She’d been eying fabrics hadn’t she? When he’d been selling his…goods…to the old crone from before. Distracted as he had been by his objective, Remy hadn’t paid much attention to her besides a passing glace. Still, it was strange-- she hadn’t seemed the type to frequent the taverns of this sort.
Watching serenely from the corner of his eye as the girl finished her waltz towards his table, Remy waited a few brief seconds—counting down from twenty had never failed him yet—before turning his attention towards the would-be-fabric-buyer just in time to catch her smile at him. It was a pretty enough expression, all things considered—with white teeth and bright blue eyes to match, but no way was he going to let the little tart think that charmed him. Returning the bright smile with a thin lipped one of his own coupled with an arched brow that told her to get along with it, Remy took another sip from his cider, the picture of nonchalance. Really, if the girl thought she could throw him by batting her eye lashes, she had another thing coming.
Listening to the girl’s words with a blank expression that gave little of his thoughts away—Remy almost thought of being nice and sending the girl go on her way gently. Almost, but not quite. He did of course have a reputation to uphold—and she had after all, mentioned being interested in the ‘potion’ he’d sold the loud hag. He’d be a fool to pass that up, and Remy Duquette was many things but he was no fool, now was he?
Setting his cider down with exact precision, Remy smiled, the expression wholly beatific. Charming the girl was his new goal, but still—he couldn’t resist a jab. “Followed me from the market? My, my—I didn’t know stalking was such a popular pastime these days. Who knows…” he drawled glibly, “if I refuse you a seat you might try to kill me. And since that would be a such a horrid turn of events, I don’t think I quite have a choice, now do I?” Waiting a moment to pin the girl with a dry smile, Remy paused before his face lit up in a congenial smile and with barely a shift of fabric, he had his feet back on the floor rather than the chair he’d has them resting in before.
If he was right about this girl—and he usually was—this timid demeanor was just an act (she was after all, staring at him quite blatantly and if he didn't have the ego he did, he might even find it off putting). And if not well, he could afford to send one girl running away insulted, now couldn’t he? At the very least he’d have his amusement for the day.
Waving his hand towards the newly vacated seat, Remy took another sip from his cider. “Well now Generva—“ he murmured, pointedly ignoring the nickname she’d told him to call her, “aren’t you going to sit? You did after all, want to talk potions, yes? Though if you’re interests are any indication….” Twirling a strand of his hair between his fingers, Remy gave the girl’s—Ev, she called herself—hair a pointed look. “I think a hair potion might be more what you want, eh? Unless of course…” Remy gave his showman’s smile, steepling his fingers in front of his chin and cocking his head to the side, “You have a suitor you are attempting to send off? If so, I can offer quite a few--not just the one I gave the woman from earlier.”
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Post by LADY PHERENE OF OSTLEA on Jul 28, 2013 13:42:34 GMT -5
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>>>hate to stare<<< The castle was stuffy with the scent of musty velvet and aged cedar wood. Where it was a comfort it was also suffocating, and there was something to be said for the excitement-evoking stench of the tavern. The scum of the unbathed – or the unperfumed - and the sharp, pungent sting of home-brewed spirits was quite enough to remind Pherene that she was not home. She was not safe. She would most definitely need to be tread lightly so to not put herself in any sort of danger before Bue came back to fetch her. Assuming she had an hour or so to spare before she was to be picked up, she figured it would be best to play a mind game with this red-headed merchant. He seemed like an easy enough target, but not so easy to bore her. Because there is nothing more safe than playing a mind game with a complete stranger.
A quiet, evanescent smile graced her lips as he took a sip of his cider and evaporated before he turned back to her. This is exactly what the doctor ordered to pull her from the boredom doldrums. None of the servants at the castle could offer this sort of entertainment. Though she hadn’t figured out the parameters, the rules, or even the goal of the game, surely it would be an amusing conversation if Pherene could keep it up. But she must be careful. Pherene was taking a risk; not often did she play with someone she did not know well. In the eyes of her sister, she was far from sophisticated, but in a tavern as the one she was in, she undoubtedly did not blend in. It was in the square of her shoulder where the pride of a noblewoman rode and she would need to be certain to mute it especially since she would chatting with the merchant. Usually, when she came into the tavern she would be waiting only a few minutes before Bue would come for her. And she would rarely, if ever, converse with anyone but the tavern staff. Without a single thought between her two pretty, pale ears, Pherene had allowed curiosity to overcome her and follow the man to the very spot that she stood.
Damn. Pherene had not thought this through.
At least when she was at the market, there was a wider range of people. In her old riding dress and boots, she could easily be seen as the young wife of a well-off business owner. She noticed now that there was a patron or two who were taking a keen interest in her. The only wealth Pherene had on her person at the time was her name, and even that was being kept a secret. Immediately, Pherene learned that the quiet girl act would do her no good. Ignoring the alarm that was going off in her head and dropping the softness in her eyes, she trained her sight on the man in front of her, steady and sure.
It never once crossed her mind that she could leave and then come back at a later time.
Her cerulean eyes followed his sound hand returning the cup to the table and then flickered to his face as a half-smirk, up turning one corner of her mouth acted as a response to his jest. Pherene’s brows knit together in mock sorrow, “T’would be quite the shame, wouldn’t it? To kill this early in the morning.” She heaved a dramatic sigh and momentarily adverted her eyes, as if she was so terribly sorry at the idea of it all, “I suppose you’re right; you don’t really have a choice. ” Glancing down at the recently vacated chair, she held back a disgusted sneer. Despite the fact that she was in her ancient riding clothes, she still had a relative aversion to getting sullying her dresses when it wasn’t necessary. Pherene quickly examined the seat. No visible dirt. With as minimal grace as possible, she plopped down in the chair, not even bothering to smooth down the skirt of her dress. “Ev. Call me Ev,” she clarified, allowing a touch of venom to leak into her tone. Her first of many mistakes: giving him both names, as opposed to the one that she preferred to be called. If ever asked, Pherene’s alias got her name from the queen of the time she was born. And Genevra was much too formal for her liking. In reality, she couldn’t think of a much better name for her alias but felt unnerved by being called Genevra; hence, Ev.
Eying his hair-twirling fingers with slight animosity, Pherene pursed her lips; she had perfectly adequate hair, thank you very much. As a matter of fact, she was quite fond of its natural lustre. The only thing she wished is that it wouldn’t lighten so much in the summer. But the only way that was going to happen is if she wore a hat outside or, even more of a tragedy, didn’t allow herself outside nearly as much. “I merely complimented you on your hair. I have no interest in some potion to improve mine.” Pherene stated rather bluntly. She pretended to be offended by his last question, shaking her head, as if taken aback. “I prefer to keep my private life private, sir, so I will not be blessing you with the story. Unless, of course, you give me better reason to tell you such a travesty.” She had absolutely no curiosity for potions. They were just a bunch of ridiculous ingredients mixed together that never did as they were expected. Magic was nothing but rumors and Pherene quite preferred to stay far away from those who claimed to have possession of such. However, she wasn’t entirely certain this man was a really capable of developing a ‘useful potion’ judging on how fast he left after making his sale. “However, tell me more of this potion that you say sends off suitors. Likewise, tell me of this potion’s sisters.” Sure, she was interested in what he would pitch her but she hadn’t the money to purchase anything, even if she was interested. Then something struck Pherene. She was about to say something else but she paused, mouth slightly agape in the middle of pronouncing a silent word. Her brows knit together. “I’m sorry. I don’t believe I caught your name.”
WORDS: 1068. TAGGED: REMY. NOTES: SHE'S ON TO YOU, BRO. |
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Post by REMINGTON DUQUETTE on Aug 4, 2013 22:42:10 GMT -5
| [atrb=border,0,true][atrb=width, 500px][atrb=style,border-top: 10px solid #601d00;background-color: #111111;] { heat of the moment Fingers curled around his cider with more dexterity than one might expect of a low born con artist, Remy resisted the urge to smile as he raised his cup to his lips once more. It didn’t take much effort of course—he was used to this after all. Still, it was becoming more and more apparent that his new …companion…was no meek little mouse. Splendid. Prosperous as the morning had been, he did always enjoy a mental spar—the only question was if this little scrap of a girl could hold up her end of the bargain.
“Ev?” Placing the mug back onto the table with barely a sound, Remy criss-crossed his fingers in front of him head still canted back ever so slightly and face perfectly congenial even with the predatory glint in his eyes. “But Generva is such a pretty name—it would be an absolute shame to shorten it so, don’t you agree?” Practically drawing out the girl’s given name as if he could savor the sound of it, Remy’s brow quirked and he smiled, waiting for the girl’s rebuttal. If this threw her, she truly wasn’t worth his time anyways, and really -- he was going to make the girl regret she’d given him her full name—if nothing else, it would teach her a lesson. After all, one shouldn’t introduce oneself by a name you didn’t want to be called. It was simply poor taste. And worse yet, Remy mused as he tapped his fingers idly on the table with a blank faced smile, it gave your enemies something to go after.
And oh my, wasn’t that cute? Brow quirking as the blonde pursed her lips and went on an offended little huff (and really, that was quite darling, what did she think she was, 10?), Remy merely waved his hand in the air. “Oh, my apologies. I was of course—by no means insulting your hair. It has such a vibrant color after all—that blonde after all, is a rather hard shade to come by and I’ve had a few customers come by for potions that would turn their hair the same shade. Of course…” he continued smoothly, “none have ever reached your exact luster—it’s amazing. Ah, but with hair like that, you must have some difficulties in the summer, no? My sister, poor girl, was born blonde—took after our mother, she did, and absolutely complained about it. Luckily enough, I was able to acquire a potion that helped her right out.” He of course, had no sister but a mate of his back before the plague (poor fellow had been among the first to go—though, by that count, perhaps he was a lucky one) who’d been blonder than the chit in front of him and his hair had gone near white in the summer days. It was of course, a guess—but well, one could not make a profit without taking a bit of risk, no?
Still smiling as Ev moved back to the topic of the ‘potion’ he’d sold earlier, Remy nodded his head slowly. Features furrowing slightly in concentration, “As for the potion—potions of course, if you include its brethren—you are asking about, it varies from type to type. It depends on the outcome you want really. There is one should you want him to avoid you, another to make him forget, to make him fall in love with some else entirely, another that will make him horribly ill any time he comes in contact with you....” ticking the types off on his fingers, Remy named a few more variations (though not too many, as that would arise suspicion –Roderick after all, was a great sorcerer yes, but not too powerful. There was only so many things Remy could fake before people starting catching on) before shrugging, a slow smile curving itself onto his lips. “I prefer the allergy one myself—it does wonders for one’s mood when an unwanted suitor ends up sneezing every time they speak in the vicinity of you.” That one, he was not faking—though it had cost a pretty coin to get a few vials of it from a sorcerer on his pay roll. Still, it wasn’t like he wasn’t going to bump the price up 50 gold anyways. He did after all, understand how to make a profit.
“My name? Oh how rude—I do apologize.” Smile still perfectly in place though it drew a touch darker, and more sly, Remy extended his hand. “Roderick Lacoe—at your service. Though please…” he drawled out, “Do call me Rod—Roderick is far too long, don’t you agree?.” There—a test. Would she retaliate by calling him by his full name just as he was calling her by hers? Or perhaps, in an attempt to gain his favor, she’d call him by the nickname, in the hopes it would get him to do the same? Either way, Remy thought with a hidden smile, it would tell him something new about his newly acquired companion.
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