Completed [The Quill's Rest] The License to Revere

[Philomena]

The 5th of Winter, 512
The Quill's Rest, Zeltiva
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The Quill's Rest, of late,had ceased to become hip, and had become, rather, faddish. It tired and saddened Dr Philomena Lefting to no end, this slow decline from the vibrancy of the select to the crowds of people like her - poseurs, attempted artistes, those who cannot do. The Quill's REst was particularly galling - it was such a long-time haunt of professors that somehow, for once, Minnie had been in a place BEFORE the Great Descended Thereupon. And she had enjoyed the feeling of belonging, not quite in the circle of the literati, but at least belonging in the same room?

Still, there were still moments at the Quill's Rest, and this was one - a private showing: woodcuts, made of exotic beasts of Mizahar. The artist, Derrida Pauls, a gentlemen of only a kindling reputation, had opened the showing for an evening to the professoriate of the University, and it was, officially, a stop on the Grand Tour this winter of the West Wing Academe.

so, Minnie was there - she of course never enjoyed certain aspects of these situations. She was dressed, for one, properly, and being a child of unfortunate circumstances in her day, she did not have the trained acceptance of boning and constraint that a born lady might have. In short - the bodice of the dress, a hideous salmon color with long lines of baleen sewn into it to make some brave attempt at shaping her flabby midsection into the graceful arc required, was driving her crackers. And then there was the company, quieter, perhaps, but all of them acquainted with her name, to one degree or another, which meant, horrifically, that she had to smile, to pretend to remember their names, to greet, to ask after chidlren she was only tentative about the existence of, to ask after research into dull topics like mathematics, to acept that her reputation of volubility regarding her interests made people avoid asking her about her own interests in return. The food, though, was good, and after an hour, those of professoriate who came of obligation began to politely filter out, and she could simply look at the woodcuts, and sip Kelp tea with sea berry, and think.

She spent twenty minutes before the image of the giant eagle, before the artist, Derrida, came over to ask her what she thought of it, and mentioned it was to be an image of what would have been seen by - oh fate... fate, could you not have warned poor Derrida? - by the crew of the Great Circumnavigation.

And now, the trap was laid, for there were certain poisonous words that awoke the great natterings of Professor Lefting: Wright, Kenabelle, Circumnavigation, etc.

"Of the Circumnavigation? Oh, but then, its all wrong, Mr. Pauls! Look at... look at this here... these line, wavy, line things, they are supposed to represent the wind, hmm? But they are carrying... poplar leaves? That can't be, the notes of the naturalist on board clearly state..."

Mr. Pauls smiled, painfully, and nodded. The lady was off now.

The crowd was truly thinning now, at that fine point where those who wish to be gone can slip out, and those who wish to be present but were given no invitation can... slip in.

[Lock Cicuta]

5th Of Winter, Early Evening, The Quill's Rest Blustery winds buffeted against the slender swathed in a black cloak. Lock Cicuta was walking up the hill to the Quill's rest, hindered though he may have been by the Bonesnapper blowing of the sea. I'm in desperate need to socialize, seclusion will not bring me any strength, I need connections. Lock had been woefully alone since his return to Zeltiva, and needed for the benefit of social standing, contacts. A strong man had allies, though they knew it or not. By all means Lock intended to be a strong man. He approached the door of the Quill, Tacky as always, he thought. The young man had chosen the tea joint for a well calculated reason. It joined a mixing of bohemian artistes, well known professors, and students with money to spare, any of which might make excellent stepping stones. With one more stride the man reached the door, and opened. Inside the Quill has a crowd of, albeit a thinning one, people. No one particularly had struck his eye as he removed his hood. His eyes darted to and fro before settling on a table, it was near the middle, though not at the center. Perfect. Moving casually over he sat down, ensuring as he walked that a face of gentle interest was plastered on his visage. Once Lock had sat he observed his surroundings; to his immediate left sat an older woman in an ill-fitting salmon dress, to his right two students eagerly chatting, behind him a rather put out looking artist sketching something. Slim pickings this evening, he thought while settling into his seat. He noticed a woman a few tables away who seemed to be a waitress. "Tea please, with some seaberry if any is left for the year." he asked. Hopefully the night would reveal some prospects.

[Philomena]

"Yes... yes of course, Mr. Pauls, yes... I will write it all up for you, I will leave it at the office of the School of Art, I will write as much detail as I can! I am... honoured if my little shreds of knowlege can illuminate the work of an artist!"

Old Derrida Pauls, perhaps, was not so feckless as first appearance might lead - he extracted himself from the woman with a smile of deep and powerful relief. Minnie looked at the woodcut a few more minutes, and seated herself at a table nearby, sipping again at her tea, as seh drew out a tablet and stylus, jotting a note carefully into the wax, a crude sketch of the drawing, a few horribly illegible lines beneath. She snapped a cover over the tablet and tucked it away again, with a sigh. Frowning. Seaberry.

The waitress, jumped up - after serving dried out, pompous members of the Academe all evening, what a relief to have a gentleman of breeding to serve! And an attractive one, "Seaberry? Yes, sir, only dried though, of course, by now, you know! They fruited early this year, sir. But the dried is fine, yes, sweet and sharp, perfect for tea, shall I get you some?"

Minnie's eyes wandered, watched the exchange, halfheartedly. The eyes turned, yes, the brain did not, clearly, her face blank. At this point, a sumptuously dressed woman, on the arm of a doctor of philosophy, tugged her husbands arm over and leaned down, with a face mixed with self-righteousness and condescension, toward Minnie. This woman, tall, slender, clearly beautiful, and utterly at peace in her gown, a ravishing black silk number, spoke in the clipped, clear tones of a woman who does not mind being overheard, "Minnie, darling, you will be at our little supper on Second-day, non, darling? I didn't see your RSVP, but I'm counting on you! Only one place, I presume, or shall I keep a spot open for a date, then?"

This last had the glint of the slightest edge of malice, the tiny nips and snaps of the wolves of society, meant to barb so cautiously, so gently, that the barber coudl not be blamed if they cut. //The bitch,// though Minnie, and her thought appeared clearly on her face, a woman who interacted with this high society, but clearly did not understand it, as she so freely gave the anger and hurt that the other woman so clearly sought.

"Just one, I think, Mrs. Hurston."

"Well," the woman threw back as she parted, a fluid, practiced flick fo the wrist, with the fine control of a woman who simultaneously knew how to look casual, while expressing contempt and - perhaps? a touch of jealousy? - all the time displaying to the room a wrist full of diamonds, "You will let me know if it changes, darling? We can always fit one more!"

The woman and her husband drifted off in quiet chatter and left the place. Minnie slurped tea the way an angry drunk guzzles scotch, and seethed quietly, looking about her more alertly now. A gentleman sitting nearby - had they met? She could not recall the pale, good-looking younger gentleman, at all, but he was at a faculty luncheon. Someone's son? Or some lecherous woman's plaything? No, not that. He looked dressed, not displayed, this boy. She nodded, politely, if a bit blankly at the man, her brow wrinkling in confusion. No gambler's face hath Minnie Lefting, non.

[Lock Cicuta]

Lock may have seemed to be simply sitting, enjoying his tea, but the eyes and ears were open, cogs turning. He sipped his tea, Disgusting stuff. Seaberry hardly made it drinkable. A man with a cup in his hand was more approachable than one without he had learned. The old women continued to natter with the artist, until the man walked away. Lock lost himself for a moment, thinking of how he could turn what seemed an unpromising evening around. He pulled himself out. I have to stay observant. Just in time too, the daft old women had been approached by a couple. How could I have missed them?, thought Lock. Now they had a sense of nobility; well dressed, with proper mannerisms. The hag is better off than I thought After the couple had walked away returning to their corner were Lock had overlooked them, he started to focus more closely on the woman. She slurped angrily at her tea, obviously put off in some manner. A rivalry perhaps? There was no way that Lock could simply jump in with the higher ups, but the elderly could be more easily persuaded. How about a young, handsome date to bring to that party she mentioned? She was probably lonely, and it would give her a chance to get back at the arrogant noble lady she had been talking to. Lock knew he was handsome enough and the flustered bustle of the waitress bringing him tea had more than proved that. He stood slowly and strode over to the old woman. "Pardon me for intruding, I don't mean to be forward. Did I notice you discussing art with that gentleman earlier?" Lock let his cheeks rise and pull his mouth into a grin, " I am quite a fan of art.", he lied.

[Philomena]

Bluntness is a trait normally associated with those who have strong opinions that they feel other people should respect an listen to. Minnie has a trait, an aspect some might call bluntness in that, at times of distraction, she will speak precisely what comes to mind, but the implications of the word are wrong - it is an obliviousness, barbed inward rather than outward, the linguistic equivalent, in the warring art of conversation, apologizing for one's strokes.

This trait comes out now, at the mixture of irritation, and shock at being approached for no particular reason, by a gentleman of younger years and better breeding, "I don't know your name. If I knew it I have forgotten it. Have you told it to me? I do not think I've seen you, before. Are you someone's son? Someone I know, I mean." There is a hiccup of time, then, as her mind races forward to interdict her lips, and an accompanying blush, "No, I mean, yes. I love art. Do you... know where the word fanatic comes from?"

HEr hands wander vaguely as she speaks, one taking up her teaspon across her middle finger, and twiddling it back and forth to quietly tap the table at a nervous speed, with her index and ring fingers. The other wanders absently to the neckline of her dress, the fingers fussing with the seamline, compulsively, of her bust. Her face is shrunken backwards, a face mixing terror and a rallying desire to comport herself honorably, the face of an army cook who finds herself holding a pike towards a knight.

[Lock Cicuta]

Lock's smile widened, Well, aren't I lucky, she is a few planks short of a boat. More boring for him of course, but easier to use to his advantage. "Oh madam, I doubt you know a trifle like me. This is my city of birth and raising, but I returned but a season or so ago." He dipped his head in a small, curt bow. "I couldn't help but notice you talking to the artist earlier." He let his smile carefully pass into a more restrained face, calm but pleasant, not too eager nor bored. "It is so disappointing now days, so few people have the depth and culture to really enjoy art." Lock gestured to his table, "Care for a seat? I'm Cicuta, Lock Cicuta. Pleased to meet you, may I inquire on your name, my lady?"

[Philomena]

She stared at the proferred change of seat, frowned, sighed, brought herself to the seat, reseating herself like a man settling his neck in before they lock the stuck shut around it, "It is..." she closed her eyes a moment, the face of a girl trying to remember the next line of a recitation, "It is very kind of you, to offer a seat, sir." A certain mechanical quality to the words. She thumped her satchel on the floor beside her, and kept her eyes trained on the knuckles of her thumbs, as they sat at the table, tugged, in a not terribly ladylike way, at her bodice, sat on the table again.

"Dr. Lefting, young Master Cicuta. Are you a student at the University?"

[Lock Cicuta]

Lock smiled genially, "Oh a professor, how interesting." The old woman was too tense, she obviously wasn't use to this. Not of high born status then, he thought, she must have worked her way up. Common in Zeltiva. He steepled his fingers and raised his eyebrows. "Me? A student? Oh no, I plan to attend within the coming seasons though as of yet I need to find work and resettle into my birth city." The hag had obviously slipped into some mannerism of perfunctory replies that dwelt somewhere in her cobwebbed mind. A professor was a valuable asset and Lock couldn't afford to lose her. She obviously had friends in high places, or at least knew somebody who did. I guess I'll have to be more...persuasive. He focused for a moment and reached within, to the djed that lived in all things. Djed made for a powerful tool, and though Lock was still but a minor player in his particular discipline, didn't mean he couldn't use it well. A cool burn, like a mild electric tingle or cold fire, creeped up his tongue and filled his eyes. Lock made pointed eye contact with the woman, dark blue eyes meeting hers. Softening his expression into one of kindness he said. "Oh Madam, would you care to drink and talk to me, I have been lonely and want for a cultured woman like yourself with which to converse." All the while he pushed mentally at her a small, simple, subliminal message; Trust me, trust me, trust me, trust me... It was small enough to go unnoticed, but hopefully strong enough to soften her up a bit. His eyebrows arched and his lips turned up in a wry smile. To her it would seem like puppy eyes, to him it was a small expression of devious pleasure. Hypnotism certainly had it's uses.

[Philomena]

In a sense, Minnie is the very image of a hypnotist's case study, for the hypnotist, after all, must work along the grain of the wood as it were, must know the workings of the person who they wish to convince, they must provide, in a sense, the excuse for them to feel what they would wish.

All human souls, perhaps, wish for trust, unless the desire is trained out of them vigorously, and a woman who was once a lonely child, and is now an isolated adult is unlikely to break that mold. And yet there is the opposite of this, the desire for safety, the desire to not be vulnerable.

A woman unused to the affection of others by long practice might learn one of two ways of dealing with them - one is to assume that this is the world's fault,that the occaisional truly wise observer will realize them for how intelligent and witty and personable they are, and they become the talkative bore. There is an element of this in her, but different, displayed a moment ago with the artist.

The other sort of woman assumes that it is her, and learns to fear affection, kindness, all of these things. These things, after all, as far mroe pedestrian practices than exotic hypnotism frequently prove, make one vulnerable, open one to be hurt. A hand outreached demands that you reach back. Reaching back means your sword or your shield arm is down. An arrogant observer might not see this in her, after all. Arrogance tends to make one believe that laughing stocks are fools, and fool is a dangerous moniker, for it makes one make simplistic assumptions.

She is not so simple as that. Minnie thinks very little of herself. Her weakness is that though she does not hold much affection for herself, she is wildly in love, hopelessly smitten, towards a story that she keeps inside her head - that is when she becomes a bore, less like the fellow who will talk about himself and more like the fellow who just simply won't shut up about how wonderful his lover is. The lover of the professor is the text, she lays with it and curls her fingers through its hair every night.

And so, the assault upon her personal vanities has a paradoxically negative effect, it makes her turn from blank confusion and discomfort to a stony reserve, and in that reserve, there is a sort of dignity, there is the traces of the force of individual identity. It shows now, in the way she raises up her head, and lowers her brows slightly at the man. Her voice,now focused, was cold, crisp, practiced.

"How odd to have a an immensely attractive gentleman of half-my-age come up to me in a room full of people, and suddenly take an immense interest in me. how strange. How lucky a girl I must be. How unusual that such a fellow would find my company so immediately and intensely."

And in her best state, perhaps she would have left it there - even the dogs of the world, the pissed upon and mocked, can occaisionally make someone high and lovely squirm beneath their gaze. But... but... but, there is that little hint, that little murmur beneath the conscious, protective front, that little tickle that does tease just at the edges of that desire to believe that someone really, truly DOES find her interesting. That desire, that gnawing need to trust. And it is this desire to trust that makes her continue, in a more somber, less cold tone contiue, her eyes cast downward.

"What is it that you are looking for, young Master Cicuta? Have a friend who needs help with an examination? One of the students pranking me again, you are looking for humiliation? Or for pay? You are hoping a woman with noone else to spend her money on might take an interest in a pretty child who will put up with her idiosyncracies? I am old, child. Old and tired, too tired for these games, so attractive to children. Tell me what it is you are looking for, and lets simply see if we can come to an arrangement,and all be off about our business."

Her eyes have, sad, weary, beseeching quality. The face of someone who is well-used to losing such battles, and is ready, simply, to see if she can save herself from any too visible scars, too painful fractures. She takes a slow, absent sip of her tea.

[Lock Cicuta]

Stupid woman! Lock was quite unsettled by the backfiring of his hypnotic attempts. But then again he was no master. It became obvious through her response that the crazy hag wasn't the easiest chest to crack open. Maybe trust was too strong a word, or not strong enough. Either way I must salvage the situation. He had obviously offended her in some manner, and he couldn't afford to lose the dear old professor, it could be months before another connection might come along. Lock let his smile fall away, trying to mix pity and an offended grimace together at once. “Madam, I do not want your money. Nor some twisted grading for my friends. I have no friends I merely desired a companion to talk to...someone to know.” He glanced up sadly and let his long hands slip listlessly from table to lap. “It has been a long time since I have visited my hometown. I have wandered here without friends or acquaintances to comfort me, to talk with. I saw you, speaking so vividly about that artist's piece and I knew, I knew, that you had a passion. I need a little passion every once and awhile, to paint the world in some thing other than grey.” Lock looked back up and in that soulful glance shot a different message, hopefully more effective.Sympathy, sympathy, sympathy...