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Post by Emma T. Baskerville on Nov 3, 2012 17:34:23 GMT -6
The sky was darkening when Emma left the marine barracks where she'd been bunking for the past week, white cape of justice hanging unfamiliarly but not uncomfortably across her back, cigarillo clamped firmly in-between her teeth, nicotine-grey smoke wafting slowly out of her mouth and into the crisp autumn air. The Fortinbras family rapier hung at her hip, a combat rapier of unusual quality in such a backwards outpost as this one.
Private Virchow, who was mopping the grounds, saluted as she left the premises, palm backwards. She saluted back, purposefully clumsy and watched as the private held in a resigned chuckle.
She was Honorary Lieutenant Janissary Fortinbras today, a minor noble jumping at the chance to play at war, and thus sent to one of the safest places in the world. A Pierrot meant to be overly visible so that her colleagues could be invisible. A bit part that was below even her supposedly abysmal acting abilities, she still launched floridly and enthusiastically into the usual arrogant idioms that nobles were wont to employ, emulating every half-baked king and member of royalty that she had ever seen. She turned onto the main road, cigarillo near-forgotten as she moved on, strides long, tomboyish but with enough of a measured gait to suggest training in more courtly arts. The role was as automatic as her motions, she knew had been trained how to move, the rest was just a matter of deciding what and how much. It should have been an assignment like any other.
However.
However, she had to admit to being a bit… dissatisfied. Not a sentiment she usually indulged in, the world moved too quickly for such shallow thoughts to long remain meaningful. But here, in this place, such were her feelings.
The streets were paved, the people happy, the assignments short, the accommodations adequate, the meals surprisingly good, the complications minimal, she’d even completed one of her personal objectives, all in all this should have been as close to a vacation as it ever got - but for one Emma T. Baskerville it just put her further on edge. It happened sometimes. She was only human.
The truly irritating thing about Baterilla was the drowsy, eclectic pointlessness of it all. The people here were sluggish and static and charming in ways that frittered away at even the Cipher Pol's vaunted Bloodhound's nerves, an endless parade of targets she couldn't kill, battlefields that ghosted around like networks of forgotten possibilities, tragedies and calamities that had once happened but just apathetically wouldn't anymore. It was an Island and Kingdom that no longer knew how to fight, and as such, no longer knew how to live. Perhaps their will had been taken out of them after the great Purge, or perhaps it was merely slumbering, far past the threshold of her awareness, just waiting to re-awaken.
No, perhaps what bothered her most was the quiet nobility of it all. There was something galvanizing about being here, about being at peace. She felt that her fangs would dull if she stayed here any longer. A ridiculous notion, of course, but there it was.
The first drops of rain had begun to drop Emma made it into the little coffeeshop by the corner of Vernes Road, a picturesque homestead converted into a cafe, the name of the chain it belonged to, LIQUID MUSE, hanging over its door in off-white capitals. With an explosive sigh, she sat by the counter, the barrista hurriedly coming to attend to her persona’s whims with an explosive, impressively-jowled laugh.
“Kharharhar, so, ma’am, your usual then?”
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Post by Poppy Van Karnne on Nov 3, 2012 19:45:17 GMT -6
| [atrb=border,0,true][atrb=width,406,bTable] | [STYLE=margin-right: 33px; text-align: center; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 25px; text-transform: uppercase; color: #8FB3B4;]KEEP YOUR HOPES UP HIGH[/style][STYLE=float: right; width: 250px; text-align: center; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 25px; text-transform: lowercase; font-style: italic; color: #F2F9F9; line-height: 17px; background-color: #043233; border-top: 1px dotted #043233; border-left: 1px solid #043233; border-bottom: 1px dotted #043233; padding-right: 10px; padding-left: 10px; padding-top: 5px; padding-bottom: 5px; border-top-right-radius: 20px; border-top-left-radius: 20px; margin-top: 118px; margin-bottom: -147px; margin-right: -118px; -webkit-transform: rotate(90deg); -o-transform: rotate(90deg); -moz-transform: rotate(90deg);]AND YOUR HEAD DOWN LOW[/style][STYLE=float: left; background-color: #FFFFFF; border-top: 3px solid #043233; border-left: 3px solid #043233; padding: 10px; font-family: arial; font-size: 11px; color: #031D1E; text-align: justify; margin-top: -3px; margin-bottom: 0px; width: 345px; line-height: 12px;][STYLE=float: right; padding-left: 12px; padding-bottom: 5px;] [/style] A solitary figure walked down the road, cloaked in a robe that protected them from the rain that had begun to pitter down from the heavens. Poppy had only just recently arrived in the town. The first thing she needed to do was to find a place to rest for the night, but against better judgement, she decided against it. The rain was slow, but it was still a little chilly. All she wanted to do at the moment was sit down, and have a nice warm drink. After all, it wasn't healthy to be running around all the time without taking the time to just sit back and relax some times.
So, she set about looking for the nearest cafe. It took a bit of searching, but she found a place named 'Liquid Muse', and figured that it was as good a place as any and entered. As she did so, she would push back the hood of her cloak, and brushed out her long hair with her hand. Poppy would stand at the door for a moment, glancing around the establishment before she stepped forward to the counter. Another woman was already in line, so Poppy would stop a couple feet behind, and politely waited in line, her briefcase held in front of her with both hands.
She was silent, and said nothing. It was all calculated. The way she kept her eyes low, and her body close. Poppy made sure that every bit of her body language said that she was weak, and innocent. Doing so was practically second nature for her at this point in her life. [/style][STYLE=padding: 10px; letter-spacing: 1px; text-transform: lowercase; font-family: arial; font-size: 10px; color: #031D1E; text-align: center; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; width: 345px;]made by kiwii at btn & gs![/style] |
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Post by Emma T. Baskerville on Nov 3, 2012 20:16:30 GMT -6
"Of course," she replied breezily, her accent an obvious affectation. There were points when undercover work required a little more care, but for a place so far out in the boonies, just about any farfetched material she came up with would be considered the height of fashion. What this meant to anyone in particular, of course, was a matter of personal opinion.
So when they brought her her Very Expensive Drink(tm) she held it away from her with her pinky jutting straight upwards, and stepped jauntily towards her little corner alcove reserved specifically for her. Once there, she whipped out a newspaper, and gave it a cursory once-over before obviously beginning her fake 'job', of carefully observing everyone over the top of her newspaper.
As one, the crowd shifted uneasily. Excellent.
Taking a delicate whiff of her drink, she was about to pour it down her gullet when she caught the smell of something else. Something like iron and... her eyes roved, but either the smell was too old, or the person too meticulous at hiding their presence. With a shrug she went back to her drink, pondering the crowd with an idle curiosity.
Someone here smelled like she did. How... interesting.
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Post by Poppy Van Karnne on Nov 3, 2012 21:13:42 GMT -6
| [atrb=border,0,true][atrb=width,406,bTable] | [STYLE=margin-right: 33px; text-align: center; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 25px; text-transform: uppercase; color: #8FB3B4;]KEEP YOUR HOPES UP HIGH[/style][STYLE=float: right; width: 250px; text-align: center; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 25px; text-transform: lowercase; font-style: italic; color: #F2F9F9; line-height: 17px; background-color: #043233; border-top: 1px dotted #043233; border-left: 1px solid #043233; border-bottom: 1px dotted #043233; padding-right: 10px; padding-left: 10px; padding-top: 5px; padding-bottom: 5px; border-top-right-radius: 20px; border-top-left-radius: 20px; margin-top: 118px; margin-bottom: -147px; margin-right: -118px; -webkit-transform: rotate(90deg); -o-transform: rotate(90deg); -moz-transform: rotate(90deg);]AND YOUR HEAD DOWN LOW[/style][STYLE=float: left; background-color: #FFFFFF; border-top: 3px solid #043233; border-left: 3px solid #043233; padding: 10px; font-family: arial; font-size: 11px; color: #031D1E; text-align: justify; margin-top: -3px; margin-bottom: 0px; width: 345px; line-height: 12px;][STYLE=float: right; padding-left: 12px; padding-bottom: 5px;][/style]When she heard the voice of the blond woman, Poppy's interest was piqued. Every movement she made was well, rather silly. It amused the brunette. Still, she remained silent, and simply walked forward to order a simple coffee along with a chocolate chip muffin. As she waited for her order to be served, Poppy would glance around at the other patrons. It seemed that all of them were rather uneasy about the blond woman. This made her even more curious about the stranger.
Once her order was served, Poppy would stand for a moment, plate and cup in hand. It was rather awkward considering she had to wedge her briefcase under her arm as she carried those things. After a short moments hesitation, she would make her way in the general direction of the blond woman, struggling a bit.
When she was starting to pass by the woman's table, she would stumble, and just barely manage to place her cup on the table before the briefcase slipped from beneath her arm. "A-Ah. Sorry." she'd mutter apologetically, as she set down the muffin and scrambled to quickly pick up her things. "I'm so clumsy..." she'd chuckle nervously.[/style][STYLE=padding: 10px; letter-spacing: 1px; text-transform: lowercase; font-family: arial; font-size: 10px; color: #031D1E; text-align: center; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; width: 345px;]made by kiwii at btn & gs![/style] |
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Post by Emma T. Baskerville on Nov 3, 2012 21:41:36 GMT -6
Emma put her cigarillo away, grinding the tip into the ash tray when a woman, having a little too much trouble carrying her own things nearly fell apart in front of her, drink landing on her table, muffin a moment later, and various bits and pieces of her luggage hitting the ground not a moment later. Emma blinked, bemused.
She smelled... different, of the sea, mostly, salt and water, but also iron and some odder odors that the Bloodhound could not quite place.
Apologizing, the woman quickly began to gather her things.
For a moment, the unprofessional urge to bear her teeth and smile thrummed through Emma's veins, but instead, she let the haughty, aristocratic mask of her current persona settled over her face, and it was with perfectly cool, snide expression that she turned her nose up at the clumsy plebeian.
"Indeed you are," she said forbiddingly, folding her newspaper into perfectly creased halves. When the woman began struggling with her suitcase, as well as scrumptious-smelling muffin, the 'noble' sighed theatrically. "Here," she said, gesturing imperiously to the open seat in the alcove, "sit down, before you spill something. It'd be so tiresome to have to change seats. Habit, structure - they are such a beautiful thing, don't you agree?"
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Post by Poppy Van Karnne on Nov 11, 2012 4:06:53 GMT -6
| [atrb=border,0,true][atrb=width,406,bTable] | [STYLE=margin-right: 33px; text-align: center; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 25px; text-transform: uppercase; color: #8FB3B4;]KEEP YOUR HOPES UP HIGH[/style][STYLE=float: right; width: 250px; text-align: center; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 25px; text-transform: lowercase; font-style: italic; color: #F2F9F9; line-height: 17px; background-color: #043233; border-top: 1px dotted #043233; border-left: 1px solid #043233; border-bottom: 1px dotted #043233; padding-right: 10px; padding-left: 10px; padding-top: 5px; padding-bottom: 5px; border-top-right-radius: 20px; border-top-left-radius: 20px; margin-top: 118px; margin-bottom: -147px; margin-right: -118px; -webkit-transform: rotate(90deg); -o-transform: rotate(90deg); -moz-transform: rotate(90deg);]AND YOUR HEAD DOWN LOW[/style][STYLE=float: left; background-color: #FFFFFF; border-top: 3px solid #043233; border-left: 3px solid #043233; padding: 10px; font-family: arial; font-size: 11px; color: #031D1E; text-align: justify; margin-top: -3px; margin-bottom: 0px; width: 345px; line-height: 12px;][STYLE=float: right; padding-left: 12px; padding-bottom: 5px;][/style]Inwardly, Poppy found the woman's attitude rather revolting. Her way of ordering around a complete stranger was irritating, to say the least. Despite this, the doctor would simply smile nervously at the blond as she picked up her suitcase, and arranged it neatly against the offered seat before sitting. "Ah, uhm... I guess?" Poppy would offer quietly as a reply to the question. Continuing the charade of timidity, she would arrange her cup and plate in front of her in an almost OCD manner before taking a sip of her coffee. The dark liquid warming her nicely.
As she sat she tried her best to keep her gaze low, while at the same time trying to look at the woman. "Uh, my name is Poppy... Thank you for offering me a place to sit." she'd say shortly after having answered the other woman's question. "I just got in town, so it's nice to see that the citizens here are so kind." Poppy would offer a quick, nervous smile before continuing. "You never know what kind of people you'll run into when you travel for a living, so I always get nervous when I come into towns. There was this one time that I got driven out of a town for being a 'kook'." A soft chuckle. "I'm a doctor, by the way. I go around helping out those who are sick. So, if you know anyone who's under the weather feel free to tell them to give me a visit. Of course, I haven't even found out where I'm staying..." The woman was rambling, and had no intention of shutting her mouth unless the other woman interjected.[/style][STYLE=padding: 10px; letter-spacing: 1px; text-transform: lowercase; font-family: arial; font-size: 10px; color: #031D1E; text-align: center; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; width: 345px;]made by kiwii at btn & gs![/style] |
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Post by Emma T. Baskerville on Nov 19, 2012 23:35:06 GMT -6
A doctor? That might explain the smell, it was hard, sometimes, to distinguish between old scents. While anger and lust and confusion and mercy all had their own unique scents, by now whatever emotions had spilled that old blood were washed out, leaving nothing more than lingering suspicions.
But to the woman's words, Emma smiled pleasantly, in that slightly condescending way that indicated that she didn't see the Poppy as an actual human being, just a name and a body. "A doctor? How wonderful! The marines are always in need of a bit of patching up after some of their more heroic derring do - do you mind if I refer you to them?"
She sniffed, a trifle aristocratically. "They're hopeless, honestly." She paused, her cup of cappuccino hovering at her lips. "But where are my manners, I am Janissary Fortinbras, Honorary Lieutenant of the Marines."
Most did not introduce their title after their name, but, well, with an aristocrat, one was expected to put the emphasis on name and breeding rather than rank and function.
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