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Post by Deleted on Dec 20, 2014 13:09:57 GMT -5
It was cold.
He hated the cold so very much.
It made his job just that little bit harder. See, when the tax collector enters the room, there's supposed to be a supernatural chill. Magic: something most people wouldn't have experienced in any other context, except perhaps run-ins with Ritgr trained by the Sovereign Kingdom. Either way, they would associate that spark in the air with fear.
It was damned hard to put a chill in the air when it was this cold out.
He walked down Lombardi, his breath making tiny clouds in front of him as he moved. The furs he wore were fine wolfspelt. He'd paid a hunter a pretty penny for the material, and paid the tailor a prettier penny to make them into a nice coat. He didn't hear their requests for tax breaks. Well, he pretended not to hear--for their sake. It wouldn't be efficient to have to report them, after all. But it wouldn't be efficient to grant the breaks, either--so while he deafened his ears, he didn't turn a blind eye.
The last snow of the cold season had fallen, and now only some of the sparkling white lay in piles by the roadside, melting into the cracks, sprinkled upon with black dirt. Even the purest snowmelt got a little bit of dirt on it after a while. That was the way the world went on living. Many small corruptions, no large ones.
He was supposed to collect from some business today, a new cafe that hadn't quite caught on to the concept of 'business tax' just yet. The other tax collectors had had to go each month, and they were on their fifth time; that meant it was Jakob's turn. He would have them remember to pay. They wanted keep their storefront access to the road, after all; commerce was commerce, even if the coffee they sold tasted like shit--or at least that's what the others said, he thought.
He stepped into the shop and looked around. Where is the business owner?
He took a seat, waiting to be served. Damn place need a menu.
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Post by Deleted on Dec 20, 2014 22:46:39 GMT -5
See, when it comes to clothes – most people would wear more when it gets cold. Most people. Sadly – and she realizes this too – Fabre is not like most people. She wears just what she has, rather what she finds or steals. This happens to be very little. Fabre has a lack of clothes and a rather great amount of skin showing. She doesn’t mind. Her physique is slim and filled in the right places – of which she is also well aware.
No she doesn’t constantly admire these features in a mirror. Fabre only knows that she’s attractive because she has heard about it constantly. CONSTANTLY . . . Wherever she went she wasn’t seen as a person but a body. If people weren’t talking about her front it was her back.
Disgusting. Fabre thought to herself with a warm cup to her lips. The coffee was as shitty as her thoughts.
Whatever. If it gets me what I want, who cares? She would say to herself, always lying. Of course this harassment bothered her, but the nomad didn’t have the money to blow on petty things like clothes. What she did have, she spent on keeping herself alive. Living was the real struggle, not the filthy words from dogs. Afterall, it’s these same dogs that slander each other just to lead their flea-infested packs in circles of lies. Fabre had long learned to ignore their taunts. Steeling her heart for years, it was no wonder she was numb to sacrificing her own flesh in return for life. She was numb to pain and sadness, at least on the surface.
Fabre told herself she didn’t mind selling herself out if it got her to another day. Perhaps that is why she didn’t feel cold even now – in her risqué garments – because she was already frozen.
“This is crap!” Fabre growled, slamming her empty mug onto the tabletop, “More!” She ordered another free cup of coffee. – She was currently blackmailing the owner with threat of informing his wife with a most scandalous affair.
Three seconds.
“Hello?” Fabre hissed, standing from her chair and peaking over the counter. She saw her waitress scuttled in the back just standing their shaking. The girl was looking into the café with a paled expression, “What the hell is wrong with you?” Fabre asked as she followed the girl’s worried gaze towards a man. The new customer had just entered, bringing in Maleaus’ unforgivingly chilly breeze.
Now this guy appeared to be like a real dog. Top dog. The muttiest of flea mongrels. He was covered in expensive looking furs and from his features he seemed well kept. That face though.
Well, to put it kindly – it was rather plain. To put it in Fabre’s words, grungy, dull, rugged, uninteresting, and so-so. And that expression… Did he sit on a stick?
But who was Fabre to judge. The man looked worn, bitter to the times. Perhaps he felt the same as Fabre did about people. All of them. Ugh.
Right… Fabre looked back at the waitress and groaned. Pathetic. She slipped behind the counter and grabbed another mug. Filling it with some preheated crap-cup coffee, Fabre strolled over to the man. She sat the cup down and slipped into the seat across from him, “This one is on me,” Fabre put on her best smile as she sat back in her chair, arms folding under her bosom. Since the moment she saw this guy, she was making plans for staying in Fordeth.
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Post by Deleted on Dec 21, 2014 0:38:38 GMT -5
The waitress came to his table from her spot at the bar, and gave him a mug of coffee. "On you?" he asked, reaching into his bag. He hadn't actually given her much of a look. "Free coffee. Interesting... an appropriate price for the vulgar shit you serve here." He took out a slide of paper and scribbled a note on it with a thin, tapered sliver of charcoal. "However, I can't accept any gifts. How much?" He looked up.
She was... that feeling you get when you first step outside to greet the day on a brisk winter's morning, the sun in your eyes and a cool breeze in your hair. Annoying. But he supposed he could tolerate her; she was near fully-exposed, and had some of the finest breasts he'd seen in Fordeth. It was intentional, how she'd folded her arms under them; he could tell when someone was trying to bribe him. But, he could admit, she was certainly the most attractive woman who'd ever done it.
The coffee was a soothing caramel, about the same color as her skin. He put his hand on the mug and felt its warmth. For a moment, he forgot his job, and raised it to his mouth, a curious expression in his brow. "I haven't seen you here before." Then he drank. On the inside, the coffee was awful.
Dry, bitter. It turned his mind back to the souring thought of work. "When did they hire you? How much are you paid?" He stood up immediately, the coffee in his hand. "Awful suspicious... aha!" He looked behind the counter. "Girl," he said, "Where's your father, Mr. Drygel?" The actual waitress was sitting in a fetal position in the corner, holding her legs.
A trembling finger pointed towards the stairs, leading up to the second floor. "Good girl," he said, "Smart. But then--" he looked back. The woman's backside was just as exposed as her front, and just as curvy. "Is she..." He cleared his throat, and looked to the skinny girl. "She's not a worker here?"
The girl shook her head.
"Oh," he said, and swallowed the rest of the coffee. Awful. His face made a soured expression. "Well, do you have the money prepared?" She shook her head again. "No?" She nodded. "Oh, that's unfortunate."
He turned around, addressing the woman he'd so rudely left. "Miss," he said, "I apologize for treating you so harshly, but I'm on the clock, and I thought you were attempting bribery. After my business is done here, I would love to talk with you." Good god, that was terribly done. He turned on his heel, and walked towards the doorway before the stairs. Hopefully she'd leave before he made it to the first step.
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Post by Deleted on Dec 22, 2014 0:04:02 GMT -5
Not laughing when guilty of a most hilarious misconception is extremely difficult, especially for someone as critically judgemental as Fabre. She couldn’t resist a slightly facetious smile, but otherwise didn’t say a word against the obvious misunderstanding. Amusing.
When he’d finally looked at her, the girl had known she scored a couple of points. It was one of the few responses she was used to. Silence accompanied by a gaze. I’m getting a bed to sleep in tonight, Fabre thought as she leaned forward, resting one of her elbows on the tabletop and cupping her cheek in her hand. She listened to him a bit more, waiting to answer all of his questions with a simple answer once he was done, but this man came to his own assumptions pretty quick. She wondered if he made similar slip-ups on a daily basis, not that it looked like it made much of a difference. The man quickly discovered the truth of the matter on his own accord.
When he started asking the worker for money, little red flags were waving in Fabre’s head. Unfortunately, she still needed a roof over her head at night. She ignored the warning signs and just kept her artificially pleasant smile.
“Miss,” Good. Fabre was slightly worried this man would be more concerned with money than her. That would’ve been a first. She looked up to meet his eyes, “I apologize for treating you so harshly, but I’m on the clock, and I thought you were attempting bribery. After my business is done here, I would love to talk with you.” Aw. That was cute. Fabre did her best not to laugh at the way he spoke. He wanted to talk to her? Right. Once the man had turned, Fabre sat back in her chair beaming.
Before he had hit the first step, Fabre spoke up, “Me too,” Just loud enough for him to hear, “So hurry back.”
Score. She stayed in her seat and decided to wait for his return, fixing a strand of her hair while looking at her reflection in the window. She had removed the headband and short shawl upon entering the café. Perfect. Now if she could just stick to routine - get the guy, get to sleep, get some stuff, get out’ta town. Depending, she might extend her stay, but Fordeth really held a sour history for her. She’d rather not prolong the possibility of remembering all of the hardships experienced here. Fabre had only returned to snoop around and find a better place to stay during the winter. It was nearly impossible for her to survive in the wilderness during this cold.
This random guy was probably Fabre’s only chance at finding a noble before the day’s end. Evening was already threatening to turn its nasty head, bringing the dark and every evil within it. Plain, awkward, and heartless were traits that Fabre would endure if it meant keeping her off the streets. Naturally, she would put up with whatever else followed after tempting a man to take her home. So, Fabre waited.
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Post by Deleted on Dec 22, 2014 14:50:11 GMT -5
In any case, he didn't wait for her to decide. Not like he had before, anyway. He was up the stairs in a jiff.
Most of his days, of course, weren't like this. He spent many an hour hunched over his desk (a rather nice desk) in his office (a rather nice office), tallying the numbers away and assigning districts to his collectors. The managing--oh, the dreadful managing. Ensuring that not one soul slipped through the cracks of the system was tough work. He had to make some fun every now and then just to get by with himself.
He only came the fifth time that a business was late by at minimum one day--and the fifth time, only. They weren't usually late after the fifth time. This was what he lived for. This was what brought the ice in his veins to the skin, what filled his nerves with adrenaline. He needed it to feel alive. He needed the power--the real power that fear gives you, not the false power that a title and a rather nice desk in a rather nice office gives you.
Mr. Drygel was a fat, balding man, gathered with a paper and quill by the light of a candle, writing something. It was like looking at himself, in a way. Yes, a smaller desk, a more bare office, a much uglier person. But the actions--they were his actions. He knew the slow draw of the quill from the inkpot to the page, the way your fingers curled around the thing when you'd been writing, writing, writing. But did he feel empathy? No. He felt only more hatred. He hated the self that did the things this man did. That self had to bow to men who held higher seats. In the field, Jakob bowed to no one. Whether they were his equals, or even stronger, he knew how to break them. And that's how he liked it.
The fat, balding man looked away from his work just as the windows blew open. "Oh lord," he said as the chill crept in, "It's that time already?"
"Yes, Mr. Drygel, you pitiful excuse for a coffeemaker." To the man, he would appear a monstrous glowing lich, if all went well, which it usually did. "It's time to pay what you owe." He walked towards the man. That's usually all it took.
The man nearly jumped back out of his chair, knocking the inkwell over. It fell onto the floor, leaving a dark black streak where it rolled. He crawled over to a box by the side of his bed, and reached inside it. He took out a few coins, his trembling fingers dropping them. "Oh, h-h-h-how much?" He asked.
Yes, there was the fear. That was power. "2 Ritz, 8 Cor, 3 Zinc." Jakob spoke each word slowly. "An awful lot of business you're getting, Mr. Drygel. But I don't see any customers..."
Drygel gasped, nearly swallowing the tongue that was working to form his excuses. "The c-c-coffee shipment. Didn't come through this last m-m-month, something about b-b-b... b-b-bandits down between here and the Delta. F-f-f--"
"And?" Jakob said, "And so, you're using last month's dregs?"
"Yes," he said, shamefully, "The sh-sh-shitty m-m-mulch coffee. S-s-sorry."
"It is awful," Jakob replied. "I'm glad you recognize that. The money. Now."
Drygel looked up curiously, tilting his head. "No torture?"
"I'm busy." Jakob coughed. "Don't test me. NOW!"
"Well, sh-sh-sh--" He offered up the entire box to Jakob.
The tax collector took what was needed and nothing more. "Good business," he said. His aura flared up; Drygel would see blue flames sprouting from his hair. "AND DON'T LET IT HAPPEN AGAIN!" His nightmare was over. Jakob had the money. He walked back downstairs.
There was some black ink dripping from the ceiling. He walked past it between drips. "Girl," he said, "Go see to your father. Don't want him dying on my watch." He went over to the coffee tap, as the girl rushed through the dripping ink and up the stairs.
Now, he was speaking to the woman. "You know," he said, "As it turns out, he's not losing anything selling this cheap shit. It's what's left of last month's shipment..." He filled a mug. "Woulda been 'donated' to the farmer's guild. Mulch."
He leaned over the bar. "And what's your story?"
(Learning: Intimidation, Cold, Illusion)
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Post by Deleted on Dec 25, 2014 18:23:56 GMT -5
So she was just sitting there waiting obediently for the man to return and sweep her off of her feet.
Yeah. Right.
Fabre had gotten up as soon as the man was out of sight. She slinked behind the counter, shoving the concerned girl out of her way. Fabre stood by the wall, just out of the staircase’s entrance. She could hear everything going on in the upstairs study. Anything would be less boring than sitting around. Just as she got there, a loud clattering sound startled both her and the other girl. Their eyes got big as a long sound of a bottle rolling across wood reached them. It stopped somewhere nearby and a dark stain formed from the ceiling. Black ink began to drip from its place.
Whatever conversation the stranger was having was hilarious. He was talking to some pathetic sounding old dude with an obnoxious stutter. Fabre would laugh, but she didn’t want to offend the daughter – actually she just didn’t want to be heard by her target.
More than being disgusted by the power grabbing and talk of taxes, Fabre was sickened to find that her shitty coffee was even shittier than it tasted because of the rotten ingredients. Fabre was standing there burning the girl in front of her with an accusatory gaze when they both jumped from the loud, “AND DON’T LET IT HAPPEN AGAIN!” Was shouted. Assuming that was the wrap up to this tense conversation, Fabre scurried back to her seat. She fixed her hair once more, adjusted her top, and sat casually in her chair, as if she hadn’t moved an inch since he left.
“You know, as it turns out, he’s not losing anything selling this cheap shit. It’s what’s left of last month’s shipment…”
“You don’t say?” She made a disgusted face, despite having learned that moments before, “Explains the taste.”
“And what’s your story?”
Fabre liked that. Stories were figments. They didn’t have to be true or even complete. It gave Fabre the ability to exaggerate and twist things into exactly what she needed, “My story? Well my name is Fabre. I came in here to escape the cold,” Truth, “Its dull but better than being hounded by street rats. Some of them men in Fordeth they’re just—“ She pouted, furrowing her brow and crossing her arms under her breast as she shook her head. Fabre let out a sigh and noticeably ran her eyes up and down the stranger’s figure, “Well, they’re not at all like you, sir,” A coy little grin formed the tone of her voice and laced the respective formality, “Now I’m just worried that I won’t be able to find a place to stay for the night without running into pathetic scrappers living in the streets. I’d pretty much do anything to have a warm bed to sleep in tonight.” Fabre stood up then, moving from the chair in one graceful motion – her scarce garments swaying from side to side as she slipped around the back of her chair and pushed it in, “And what about you?” She asked, despite having made her predictions already. Her biggest curiosities lie in whether his story would allow her into it.
Sm: 22/25
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Post by Deleted on Dec 28, 2014 1:31:07 GMT -5
He had to admit, she made him feel... something. But it certainly wasn't sympathy.
He put his brain to work, perhaps so he could divert the blood back into it. Of course he could share his house, with anyone. He would have no loss from it, if no one in his professional life found out. He'd have to provide some sort of security for himself to ensure no one found out--not even some young maid who'd propositioned him some other day. Certainly not anyone who sought to rise to his position, nor anyone who wished to rise to the same positions which he had hopes for.
He drank some coffee. Damn, but this stuff was strong. His house wasn't a mansion, by any means. He understood her intentions, the meaning behind her smooth, cat-like actions. But a more subtle approach could be to his benefit.
As she got up, he found some difficulty keeping his eyes off her body. If she was persistent, there would be plenty time for that later; now, however, there was a need for more clear communication. "Warmth, huh?" he asked, affecting a serious tone. "I have a couch, beside a fireplace, on which you could freely sleep for a time. No lady should have to live on the street." He'd end up charging her for the fire's fuel, of course, but he wouldn't tell her that.
"My story isn't of much importance. I'm a private man," he straightened his back, adjusting to his full height above six feet. "And my house is safe. The scrappers and rats scurry away in my sight--not to boast." He shrugged. "It's a simple truth. But I wouldn't want anything thinking the wrong thing..." He began unbuttoning his cloak, fine wolfspelt which came down to his knees. "It would be best if you wear this." On her, it'd drag in the streets.
He'd thank his mind later for working quickly under such... uh, duress.
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Post by Deleted on Dec 29, 2014 21:51:25 GMT -5
She could see his brain working. That wasn’t good. Men’s’ brains weren’t supposed to be able to work when they were looking at her. In her moment of concern, he seemed to solve whatever problem was riddling in his head, as he was speaking again.
“Warmth, huh?” Ugh, Fabre didn’t like that serious tone. It sounded as though rejection was well on its way. That would be an embarrassing first, “I have a couch, beside a fireplace, on which you could freely sleep for a time. No lady should have to live in the street.” Oh? That sounded very nice. Fabre would enjoy the peace until the man fell asleep, where she’d then slip into his bed and finally get some sleep too. It actually seemed like a sweet – perfect deal. She wouldn’t have to do anything that she didn’t want to, she could avoid the cold, get the comfort, and keep away from the nightmares.
Alright, he didn’t want to talk – or lie – about himself. Fair enough. Fabre let him put the offered cloak on her, if he’d be such a gentleman. If not, she’d pull it around herself with a contempt smile and hug herself in its warmth.
“Thank you very much, kind sir.” Fabre was at a loss for words. She had just won. Besides smiling from her successes, the human avoided acknowledging this victory. She would follow him to wherever he’d go, asking, “Surely you are cold. Shall we not link arms to stay warm?” Fabre would hope he’d say yes so that she might continue this ruse so that she could squeeze whatever benefits she might gain from this arrangement. If they linked arms, Fabre would smile up at him and press herself close to him – to share the warmth of the coat of course.
Working on Relationship I... (in probably the wrong ways)
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Post by Deleted on Dec 31, 2014 21:34:56 GMT -5
Would he stoop to arranging a coat on her, himself? Of course not.
He let her take it from his hands and put it on. He gave freely, but it was not his job to clothe her; she'd have to take it upon herself to accept what was given. It was the way of the world. The government accepted only those who had the initiative to take all it offered them; it scorned those who attempted to take more, or who refused what was offered.
He had no patience for those who could not maximize their opportunities, and even less tolerance of those who would not allow him to maximize his. "Link arms?" he repeated after her. He only considered it a brief moment. Though he stood nearly a foot taller than her, she wasn't so short that their arms couldn't be comfortably linked. "I don't see why not." He offered his arm to her; if she took it, he would open the door for her, if she had no protests. They would walk into the cold together.
It had started to snow outside, ever so lightly; the white was forming in the cracks. He wore a thick enough shirt that it wouldn't bother him too much. But so much snow falling upon her skin--and what a lot of skin it was--would freeze her to death without the coat.
She was both forward and persistent, both traits he admired. It showed she would seize what she wanted, and maximized her own benefit, just like Jakob himself. But what is it she wants? If it were only a bed, she would not make such an offer, such a public display. This girl was too mischievous for that, too smart.
He knew what it was about her. When he asked her the shadow of a question, she only gave him the shadow of an answer. After all, when he'd asked her her story, she'd gone perhaps an hour into the past, no more. "What do you want from me?" he asked as they entered the snowfall, his voice calm but inquisitive. It was a plainly-stated question, and he wished for a plainly-stated answer. "And what do you want... in life? I mean, generally." Yes, he wondered where this mysterious girl was going in life--but more importantly, he wanted to know how she was planning on using him to get there.
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Post by Deleted on Jan 1, 2015 16:10:23 GMT -5
As they walked through the streets of filth, arm in arm, Fabre reflected on their previous conversations. Short, brief, calculated. Yes, perhaps she had taken a rather bold risk in choosing him. She just had to go for the interesting. Usually, she settled for those who were simply fascinating in physical features. It was rare for her to stumble upon one with a mental capacity that was truly intriguing - lesser even for someone who held both assets.
A snowflake fell upon her nose. It was cold – an unpleasant sensation. She reached up with her free hand and brushed off the flake with the warm fur of the sleeve. Man, was she glad she had this giant fur coat to wear. Seeing the people passing by, shivering as they walked and trying to warm their bodies by rubbing their frozen hands against their arms was pathetic. Is that how he views me - pathetic? I’m just surviving.
She couldn’t quite tell what he was thinking with that serious look. Just that his mind was working. Their walk was silent most of the way, save for the sound of their footsteps and breathing. Fabre liked the way she could see her breath in the snow, but hated how quickly her lips dried out. They were starting to get a little red from how often she had to rewet them. The last thing she wanted was cracked lips. How unappealing. Then the silence broke when the man was rather blunt with questioning her intentions.
“From you?” She smiled at him and sighed, a long stream of steam leaving her, “You can ease up, I’m not after anything that would bring you trouble,” But fine. She would reward him for his kindness. Once, she would allow him a peak into her mind. Perhaps that would appease his curiosities and lighten the tension so dense between them with a blunt answer, “It is as I said. I wanted a warm place to stay during the cold night. Though, I also don't sleep alone well. I suppose I fear the dark. To choose you over another is simply because you interested me. I'd prefer to spend my evening with someone fascinating.” Fabre hoped this would suffice, as it was the most basic way of explaining herself without being too descriptive. His next question was one Fabre had no intention of answering honestly, for she hardly knew an explanation for herself. Instead, Fabre placed her hand over her mouth in feigned shock and gave the man a coy side-glance, “Sir, perhaps I should at least give you my name first? I am Fae,” It wasn’t a real name, but she didn’t want this guy to actually fall in love with her or things to go south and have a way of tracking her by name. She’d grown accustomed to using this false name when drawing the attention of more formal men, “Life is so fleeting. It is hard to say where it will lead me. Generally,” She gave a momentary glance, “I would want to find a place I can call home. Somewhere I can make an honest earning by work that I can take pride in.” She of course meant art, but knew mentioning this was out of question. There was no way for Fabre to expand her mind and skills within the constrictions of Fordeth, “I also enjoy traveling though, so I wouldn’t mind continuing on this course for a while longer,” Fabre wondered if she had revealed too much. It wasn’t often that men asked her what was on her mind, “And you?” Now it was his turn, “I want to know what you want from me?” Fabre teased, despite having made a guess the moment he laid eyes on her, “Or what do you want in life?” If he didn’t tell, she’d feign a pout and not speak to him for the rest of their walk – all a playful cold shoulder act.
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Post by Deleted on Jan 1, 2015 19:05:36 GMT -5
He'd never thought of himself as "fascinating." He'd seen fascinating people killed, time and time again--after all, the nail that sticks out will always be hammered down. A universal truth.
Her name. "Fae," he said, "I like the name." He hadn't asked for it. Normally, he wasn't in the business of asking for names--they didn't matter to him. When he left, the people would remember the tax man, not Jakob Zakhagr.
His interest was piqued when she finally let slip that she didn't intend on sleeping alone. Of course he'd accept any of her offers, but he knew better than to push himself upon her. He was no hormonal teenager. Another thing she said had struck him deeper--he wondered how she was living if her earning wasn't "honest." He winced when she said that. He would have to ignore it, for now. His duty as a tax collector could be... postponed, he supposed.
"I'm Jakob," he said, "A tax collector... Well--chief of the tax collection program." He took no joy in the title or the position. Despite his best efforts, there were still the pathetic beggars, spitting their lives out on the street. "I believe there's a way that these uneducated, homeless poor can be given education, homes, and work, so they might earn an honest living. To enact this, I need to rise in the ranks still. Trade Commisioner, perhaps, or Treasurer..." he trailed off. She probably didn't care much about any of that. Moreover, she probably didn't believe him. He realized he hadn't addressed what he wanted from her. Then again, he wasn't sure if he wanted anything from her--much less what.
Up against the alley-wall, an old wench rocked a rag-covered child, humming. When she saw him, she spit at him, her eyes full of scorn... If they only knew.
He couldn't blame his parents for taking what was offered, for investing in his future. He felt no shame, there. Any of his peers' parents could have done what they'd done--but they were none willing to sacrifice their own happiness in exchange for their children's. It was willful ignorance, a malicious lack of action--not some incidental, blind miscalculation. The poor were poor because they took all for themselves, and did not plan for the future. The poor deserved it, since they refused what was so generously offered.
But after spitting, the beggar woman's hand reached out to him. "Sir," she said, "Spare some change?" Her child was still.
He abruptly stopped. The steam blew from his nose, a cloud which moved on where his body might have gone. He unlinked with Fabre's arms, and moved over to the crone. In his palm was a single gold coin. He held it out. "Do you promise to feed your child before yourself?" She was noticeably shocked, but she nodded furiously. He clamped his hand shut. "I do not give to liars," he said. He tossed a Zinc on the ground at her feet, and walked back to the girl in his fur coat.
Behind him, the woman dropped the lifeless ragdoll in the snow, and scrambled in the grime for the copper coin. "Honesty," he said, "Honesty is a rare thing." He offered his arm to her again, if she would take it. Maybe she would scorn him, too.
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Post by Deleted on Jan 2, 2015 12:08:45 GMT -5
Of course he liked the name; the false title given to a queen of lies. The compliment shouldn’t have made her smile in the way that she did, as if she could accept his words sincerely and be thankful. Fabre looked away and forced herself to let go of those notions.
Now, his name was nice. It sounded strong. The articulations in which it was spoken were clear and precise. How very fitting, “It is a good name.” She couldn’t help but think aloud after her had said it. His job, though she despised it sounded to have noble enough intentions – of course, everything could sound noble by word. Deeds accounted for more than spoken “truths”, “Quite ambitious, but I believe it is something desperately needed. Perhaps a man such as you could achieve this.” She had looked back at him with a mask of hope on her face. From the scene earlier he had caused in the café, she doubted such a brash man could follow up his words with gentle action. Perhaps it was a misjudgment, but just as she began to rethink her opinion, the scene before him unfolded. He was harsh, critical of a woman trying to survive. Yes it was cruel, but had this woman’s life not been limited to crawling in the streets for coin by the choking hold of her government? Like Fabre, she was using what methods she could to gain something. Fabre knew all too well opportunities were few and scarce for the old and ugly in these parts. She didn’t say anything, a clinging to her own survival.
Even so, her judgment of Jakob was becoming clear. He may have what she needs, but his treatment of the poor and homeless was not matching up to the way he spoke of helping them. Fabre had already controlled her expression into one of surprise, as if she had not expected him to see through the woman’s charade. Of course, the peasant was an amateur when it came to acting, “It is, but I can tell you value it highly, as do I.” The irony was so hard to keep from bubbling into laughter. Fabre took his arm and held fast to it, pulling him closer. She took a few steps with him away from troubling scene that had just unfold, changing her mood and hopefully the atmosphere with it, “The snowflakes are getting bigger and the sun is setting.” She stated, holding her hand out to catch one of the large snowflakes in her palm. If not for being so close to another’s warmth and wrapped in such a fine coat, the flake probably would have stayed there on her hand for some time without melting. Luckily, it dissolved almost as soon as it had landed – its secrets and intricate structure falling apart as it soaked into Fabre’s skin, “How do you look at snowflakes?” She asked, curious if he would brush off this seemingly random question or if he would indulge her with full understanding her intent of asking. For Fabre, she noticed the miniscule little patterns on each one that flew into view – how unique and beautiful each one was. Pure before hitting the inevitable earth.
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Post by Deleted on Jan 13, 2015 1:15:17 GMT -5
He was glad she favored honesty. However, he wasn't so sure she didn't secretly scorn him. He'd have to reinforce her at some point, show her that he was always right.
Her question was a welcomed change of pace. He gave it a second's thought. "Snow." Well, that wasn't what she'd asked. "The cold isn't worth it unless there's snow." He felt something like a smile come on, but ignored the feeling. No way could his inner warmth pierce his outer cold. "Isn't it all so beautiful, when it first falls in the night? A pristine blanket of white crystals gleaming by the light of the moon must be one of the most wonderful sights mankind can see." The corners of his mouth drew back and up, and his eyes creased, watching the snow falling on the cobbles, filling the cracks. A rare moment--almost a miniscule smile, but not quite.
Not quite. Nothing was ever without its fault. "But always, morning comes with a brisk wind. It's a chill that ends the life of any who slept under that blanket--a blanket which, by noon, is dirtied to a brown rag by the working man's muddy boots." It left a sour taste in his mouth. But it was the truth, the harsh truth no-one ever admitted about the snow. The homeless were weak to the elements, and they needed to have access to homes. If only.
"No matter." He wondered what she thought of him. If she thought he hated the homeless. If she thought he wanted them dead, or to stay poor. He considered it like this: if, metaphorically, each one was in their own deep "hole," it wasn't really reasonable for him to go around pulling each one out. The best he could do, in the end, was manufacture ladders--so they could get themselves out of the hole and have something to be proud of.
He realized he hadn't really answered the question. "But you asked about snowflakes. I suppose I don't consider the snowflakes, themselves. They're beautiful, yes. But a lonely one will melt if it does not fall beside its brothers and sisters. Only together can the snowflakes survive." He nodded. That seemed consistent. "What do you think of them?"
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Post by Deleted on Jan 21, 2015 11:44:44 GMT -5
Listening now and again to his response while she continued to admire each of the frozen flakes falling from the evening sky, Fabre found herself agreeing every now and again simply because of the manner in which he talked. That was dangerous. Such a smooth orator was not to be trusted – Fabre should know that from her own personal methods. Though, his first statements seemed innocent enough and the girl found herself nodding with a smile. She quite liked the way a fresh snow settled. It reflected the light of the sun – almost blindingly so – and glittered in the day. At night, the snow appeared as lakes of blood if the sky were clear of clouds. All three red moons would shine off of the surface and give the earth a maroon glow. The hues of black night – really a dark blue – mixing with the bright crimson of the moon would create blends of purple in the sky while on the ground, the duller red reflecting from the snow would smooth into a deep violet. The casts of light from lanterns would extenuate the colors in such an atmospheric mood. Despite Fabre being more of a summer gal, she always found this time of year magical – if one were describe an essence of color blocking in the natural world.
However, Fabre didn’t much like his rapid break down of the beauty. Even she saw a different kind of fascination with the muddying of purity. Of course, perhaps it was because she related herself to the expression too closely. Is it not then the blame of those who trample so carelessly upon purity? Fabre inwardly thought. She kept to herself the scorn and instead let him finish, simply nodding to give the slightest acknowledgement.
Jakob was complicated. At least, this is what Fabre could gather. He spoke in a way that puzzled the girl. She couldn’t quite understand if he were set so strictly by rules she could never hope to decipher, or if he were blinded by personal gain – as she assumed most tax collectors were – to not hear his own contradictions. Were they really contradictions? Or just a different perspective of observing life – cynical as it may be? Perhaps she could better relate to the negative ideas of reality, but chose to avoid them. Avoiding was easier. Why say yes or no when one could just say, “meh”.
In all honesty, she wanted to remain in wonder of the world. To appreciate all of the details and meticulous schemes that seemed impossible without design. Fabre wanted to record it in her mind and fancy all of the work into her own interpretations.
When Jakob finally asked Fabre spoke to her of the setting sun and heavy snowfall, Fabre had fixed her resolve. She would not be swept away by this man’s – if anyone’s – ideas. The woman decided to value her own view before accepting others’. Go with the gut.
“Hmm? How do I look at them?” Fabre hummed thoughtfully. She put out her hand, catching one on the tip of her finger. It sat there for a moment, pristine only a second before it’s ends began to dissolve. The flake melted in on itself, leaving behind a glittering drop of water, “There have been times where my hands are so cold the snowflake does not melt. I am able to actually look at it – rather observe it. Everyone can look and see with their eyes, but not many people actually observe,” She eyed him curiously. She already knew he observed, even if his reflections were cast in a different light, “I’ve noticed that each one has a different shape. Like crystals, their cores have unique patterns. I’ve never seen one that looks identical to another,” Fabre finally let the drop fall from her fingertip, she figured she should try to relate to him at least verbally, “And yet they all fall, no matter how beautiful,” –Even if she believed this to have a greater purpose too. Joining the rest or becoming one with the earth. Either were pleasant ideas that continued life, as she knew it, “But yeah, winter would be so dull if not for the snow!”
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Post by Deleted on Jan 23, 2015 23:15:24 GMT -5
He was not so stupid. She might have nodded and voiced agreement, but her heart wasn't in it. "I've never really seen them," he said. "The crystals, I mean." He raised his eyebrow, thinking of how true the statement was. "The shape always melts before I can glimpse it." He held his glove up to his eyes and watched as miniature glaciers slid down it, shapeless but for a few scant lumps.
It made him uncomfortable, as if whatever god or gods there were didn't want him to see the beauty. It was something they had stolen from him at birth--being able to see the beauty in the world. Always the thought in the back of his head would spring to the front, and he was unable to suppress it. It was the knowledge that each and every thing was imperfect, that with each positive came a negative. He would look upon the meadowed fields in spring, and see nothing but undeveloped farmland. He would look upon Fae's beauty, and see some kind of dishonesty lying beneath batting lashes.
They turned a corner together, and were staring up the street at the castle gates.
Its intimidating brutalist architecture cast a black shadow on the city, rising up like a monolithic pyre above the skyline. Stone spires shot up like spines of a dragon twisted around the iron-colored walls of the tiered keep. Everywhere on the battlements was lined with metal spikes and cast-iron railings. Its stony face sat like a sleeping giant rearing back into the mountain, unimpressed with the crushable city before it. Its enormity defied perception. Its effect on the people was much more visible; any one on the streets looked away from the building wherever it loomed, lowering their heads if they walked up town.
He looked on upon it proudly. He could pick out his office, one of the windows on the fourth floor facing out and to the left.
"What do you think of the castle? And its King?" He asked, wanting to know if she had any thoughts on the matter or preferred to avoid it like so many.
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