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| Hard-boiled and bad tempered | |
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| Topic Started: Sep 23 2009, 12:34 PM (81 Views) | |
| Meesh | Sep 23 2009, 12:34 PM Post #1 |
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Mortimer had hardly slept the night before. Instead he had chosen to spend the evening in his favorite armchair, or rather the only one that they kept in the apartment. He had been too preoccupied with a few books that he had recently purchased off of an oversees shipment, that he had neglected to get enough rest to sleep off the inevitable hangover. Now the sun had risen and he was going to have to spend the day in the shop with bags under his eyes and a pounding headache that sought to have him knock his skull against a wall until the pain subsided. Though he may have dossed off periodically throughout the night, he knew that the day ahead was going to be rough, even more so if he didn't get a good meal in his stomach before heading out. Letting the nearly empty bottle of wine fall out of his hand, Mort squirmed free of the smelly old afghan that Rachelle had placed over him at some point in the night. He couldn't remember when she had come back out to the living room but then again he also couldn't remember when he had stopped using his glass to drink wine and instead took to drinking it straight from the bottle. Such things happened when he was lost in his books. A crashing sound of cast iron against the sink let him know, in the most painful of ways, that his breakfast was in the process of being made. "Could you possibly be any louder?" He rubbed his eyes with the hand that he had freed from the empty bottle and reached into the pocket of his rest-wrinkled vest and retrieved the ever handy pocket watch that controlled his life. It was already ten minutes after seven and his breakfast was not yet on the table. It was late. He was already in a foul mood before pulling himself out of the chair and from the sounds that issued forth from the next room, he doubted his simple morning meal of eggs and toast would brighten his day. After trying his best to tug the wrinkles out of the shirt and vest that he had slept in, only to give up in frustration, Mort climbed back into his discarded pants that had spent the evening playing the part of a tablecloth. Then pulled on a pair of socks that Rachelle had been mending before she went to bed, followed by his well-polished leather shoes that he had tucked under the armchair for safekeeping. He didn't bother with the bottle that would surely empty its last few sips onto the floor or the blanket that was now spread across the adjoining couch and the rug. The only thing he bothered to give half a mind to before seeing after his breakfast were the books that had taken up the better part of the evening and would occupy a good part of the day if no customers otherwise disturbed him. how he loved a good new book, or as it was a fascinating old book. When he finally sat down in the in the hard-backed old chair with a creak from the wood that protested supporting even his weight, he sat before what little would serve as a breakfast. With his fork in hand, Mort cracked open the shell of his egg. He had hoped that the yolk would spill out in a nice little golden puddle that he could soak up with his toast but instead he got an egg that was overcooked and was far to solid to be soaked up with anything. "How many times have I told you SOFT-boiled, not hard but soft?" He raised his voice, dropped his accent, and turned his head to lash out at the woman who after three months was still incompetent enough that she could not cook a simple egg. Breakfast alone usually wasn't enough to set him over the edge but with waking up late, not getting enough sleep and having a terrible headache, he just couldn't contain the rage that was building up inside of him. He needed to lash out and Rachelle just happened to be the stone that tipped the scale. He pushed his chair back out from the table, knocking it over and cursing himself in the process. He walked the tree steps across the kitchen to where she stood waiting for him with her hands wringing out a drying cloth. he stood facing her just long enough so that she could stare back into his eyes, knowing that she had done something wrong and then he raised the back of his hand to her and struck her across the face. Pulling his hand back, reveling the pink patch of skin across her cheek and mouth, he waited for the tears to build up in her eyes. She needed to know how she hurt him by not doing as she was told. The trick was to to teach her but at the same time he also didn't want to make her cry but that was more because he couldn't stand the sound, especially first thing in the morning. When he was satisfied that he had gotten his point across, he returned to the table long enough to throw his failed attempt at a breakfast against a wall. He collected his coat and books and walked out the door. "When you have cleaned up thez mesz you can come down to z shope." He reinstated his accent and then he was gone. |
| Characters: Mortimer the Magnificent | |
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| Meesh | Sep 25 2009, 11:09 PM Post #2 |
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Closing the door behind him, Mortimer straitened his oversized jacket over his vest, leaving it unbuttoned and made his way down the hall to the stairs. His apartment was on the third floor, well technically the fourth if one were to count the ground floor and each one above it. If nothing else he could get a good little exercise in climbing down all those stairs and the good ten minute walk to the shop afterwords. Mort had never really been one to enjoy in such things as physical exertion but he understood the need for it. Sure he might feel winded after making his way up and down those stairs twice a day, he might feel sweaty and smell of cheap liquor exiting his pores as quickly as it can but he also felt good afterwords. He felt stronger and more of a man, even if he followed up his short bout of exercise with a long swig from a bottle and a three hour lounge in his favorite armchair. Descending the stair, Mort tried to think more about the books that he held under his arm than the ugly wallpaper with its water spots and torn edges where it could no longer hold to the wall to where it had once been placed. To think that this place had once been attractive in its day was somewhat hard to believe. The place needed work. It smelled like mildew and always had that almost unpleasant damp feeling to it but as he reminded himself, he was only living here because the cheap rent is what allowed him to keep the store open. When things improved, he would find a better place. Yes, it wouldn't be permanent. Once the store attracted more customers and he was able to pay off his loan, then he could look into finding a more comfortable place to settle. He might even find a place big enough to host dinner parties where he could entertain his house guests with his newest card ticks while they defied the prohibition, listened to jazz music and conversed over politics and art. Thinking of card tricks, his mind was once again drawn back to the books under his hand. Well, the one that had taken up most of the night before had not necessarily been about cards but it had focused on other such acts that he planned to include in the services the store offered. The Art of Divination, or so the name translated. One of the greatest mysteries was that of the future, it was also one of the best sellers. Embracing the next set of stairs, he thought about all the sweet young ladies that would fork over their husbands money so that he could rub their hands and tell them whatever it was that they wanted to hear. Everyone wanted a future that held wealth, a good standing in society, good health and either love or a warm body to occupy their bed. He was lost in thought, a bad habit of his, and wasn't watching where he was walking. |
| Characters: Mortimer the Magnificent | |
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| Sord | Oct 18 2009, 08:46 PM Post #3 |
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Mr. Cornelius Hargrave tossed his red scarf on around his neck made as he made his way down the stairs from his eighth floor apartment for what felt like the thousandth time since he had moved into the only building that felt like it was as old as he was. it wasn't a bad thing, not by a long shot, the musty air, creaking floor boards and pealing wall paper gave the place some character. It was times like this Hargrave remembered the first time he's ever seen this decrepit old place, he could no longer be bothered to remember how long ago it was, but needless to say it was quite some time ago, since back then this place had just been erected. The funny thing was, he remembered passing the place by and thinking " I shan't ever be seen making such a hobble my abode..." The demon's nostalgic mood was soon ruined by the sound of some half whit slack jawed rabble hollering at the top of his lungs, he'd no idea what sort of an offense had set the oaf off today, probably the same thing that set him off every time Hargrave passed that floor. "I know this place is shite but do we really have to put up with this." The old man grumbled to himself aloud as he glanced down at the ground. he'd just reached the second floor and stepped on an exceptionally creaky floor board, luckily it had drawn his attention to an untied shoe lace. The old man bent over to correct this mistake, thinking it to be safer to assure that he wouldn't trip and fall down the remaining steps, unfortunately some half whit thought it would be a wise idea to drift off and not watch the path before him. Before he knew it Hargrave was struck from behind and was sent tumbling down the steps before crashing into the landing below. "By god how dense are you?!" the old man said as he climbed back up to his feet. "Zounds! The idiocy of youth never ceases to baffle me!" The demon shouted as he turned his furious gaze to the fool who had knocked him over as he checked his fore head for blood, fortunately finding nothing. "Tell me why i shouldn't snap your worthless little neck for this?!" |
| Lukas Mitchell | |
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| Meesh | Oct 20 2009, 03:34 PM Post #4 |
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It was true, Mort wasn't watching where he was walking. He had not seen the elderly gentleman bent over, tying his shoelace, when he had bumped into him. Of course if he had seen the man, he would not have walked into him and sent the man tumbling over. "Hmmm...?" He looked down upon hearing the disgruntled shouts of the man very much his senior as the events that had just transpired came to him. "Oh...dear me! I am terribly soary. Iz did not see you down therez." He moved his books from under his right arm to that of his left arm so that he could offer the man a helping hand. He bent his knees slightly and arched his back, for leverage and grabbed the man's hand to help him to his feet. "I muz say de stairway does not make for a vary safe playz to be squatting down." He felt foolish that he had stumbled upon an old man while being careless but he sought to make amends for the accident the best he could while still moving on as quickly as he could so that he could open the store before it got too late. |
| Characters: Mortimer the Magnificent | |
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| Sord | Oct 20 2009, 09:02 PM Post #5 |
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"fine fine whatever, just drop the fake accent, zounds there hasn't been this much butchering of French since Louis the 16th met the guillotine" The old demon said as he took the mans hand and pulled himself up. "honestly you not only knock an old man over but you sully his ears with such shite" Hargrave said as he dusted himself off, to be honest though the man's accent was actually worse than being knocked down the stairs, any one who had ever been to France and spoke with a Frenchman could probably tell in a heart beat that it was false, and the demon had lived in France for hundreds of years at a time in the past. "pray tell, what in heaven above could preoccupy your mind long enough to not notice an old man tyeing his shoe!" |
| Lukas Mitchell | |
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| Meesh | Oct 21 2009, 01:39 AM Post #6 |
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Mort helped the older gentleman to his feet but as for the comment about his accent, he merely frowned in response. How dare he insult his accent, one had had worked on for years, one that was nearly more a part of his normal speech than the way he spoke with Rachelle. He thought very highly of the way he came across to others and to be insulted in such a way, well it was just plain rude. He opened his mouth in the act of telling the man off but the insult that had been forming on his lips died before he had a chance to speak. He shut his mouth, give it a moment and tried again. Still no good. Then he decided to momentarily drop the accent if for no other reason then to deflect any further insult upon himself. "Well you don't have to go insulting the way in which people choose to speak, sometimes it is good for business for us to appear to be something different from that which we appear to be." He shifted his books back to his right arm, trying not to bunch up the fabric of his coat under the weight of cargo, and stood back up to his full height. "Again I am sorry for having tripped over you but I was, and still am in a hurry and my mind was far too occupied with these books and the others that await me at my shop." Mort considered showing the old man his bound treasures but he figured this elderly gentleman, like so many more of his kind, would not be interested in the mysteries. Too often were the old lost to their old fashioned believes and as far as they were concerned all this new fangled mumbo jumbo was merely that or some sort of devil worshiping. Mort hardly bothered to try to convince the elderly and simply thought of them as not being worth his time. "I don't know if it would interest you but I run a small little shop just down the street, The Ace of Pentacles, I call it. " |
| Characters: Mortimer the Magnificent | |
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| Sord | Nov 3 2009, 09:29 PM Post #7 |
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perhaps this bumbler wasn't all that much of a twit, his false accent was as good as a drunken Gaul attempting to entrain his brethren with a mock Roman accent just before he dropped from over consumption, he at least knew that misinformation could be a usefully tool. "little word of advice from a man who's seen more moons cross the heavens than you ever will." The 5000 year demon said with a slight sigh. "If monsieur desires to, imitate se language of an people, attempt to converse withs one prior to creating such a pathetic mock tong." Hargrave said in a voice he had not used for three life times. When he had first used crafted it not a soul alive could tell he was not paris born, not it was a bit dated and would sound stiff or stuck up to any frenchman who heard it, but to a man like this, that shouldn't have mattered. "Eh? So your that snake oil salesman who peddles in cheep imitations of tomes that hold half blind speculation on matters beyond the total comprehension of the frightened little men who had observed them, eh?" The old demon said as his voice was filled with an audible loathing. The demon knew first hand from witnessing many a man both wrighting and using such tomes, that they where, for the most part, vauge compilations of half true observations and basesless speculation that eyther did not work, got the user into a troumendous amout of troubble, or if you where lucky, it would do what is was supposed to without some horroble price. |
| Lukas Mitchell | |
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| Meesh | Nov 10 2009, 10:16 AM Post #8 |
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"If that is what you choose to believe but I assure you that I receive all of my merchandise from a very credible source oversees." The truth was he didn't really know where most of the stuff in his shop came from but as long as he continued to make regular payments to the supplier, whose name he had been given by a respectable fortune teller, he continued to receive a create each month stamped with the bold letters marking it as coming from France or China or Egypt or half a dozen other places. He assumed that everything he sold was as credible as he had been told that it's source was but he could be entirely certain of it. He went off of what information that he had available and he spoke with the assuredness of any good merchant. Perhaps he could persuade this man to at least give his shop a second thought and well if not, than he would be on his way and find others who thought differently about it. Or perhaps not. "Well I am truly sorry that you feel that way." Rachelle had been busy cleaning up the broken ceramic and trying to scrub a yellowing spot off the wall from where the egg had been smashed. After several moments she had given up when the wall paper started to peel off the wall. Having given up, she disposed of the wasted meal and went into the cramped little closet that served as a bathroom for the couple. There was no counter space within the tiny room so she had to rest her makeup bag on the closed lid to the toilet seat while she leaned over the cracked sink and peered into the tiny, little clouded mirror. A little lipstick, some dark eyeshadow, a little mascara, and a a few bobby pins to hold her heavy curls out of her eyes. On her way out the door, she grabbed her own coat and a purse that didn't really hold any money but was accustomed to holding a flask every now and then. She slung the strap of the purse over her shoulder and closed the door behind her with a violent shove from her backside. After locking the door, she too headed down the stairs. A few levels down, she found Mortimer caught in conversation with an elderly gentleman instead of already opening the shop for the day. "Mort what are you still doing here? I thought you left a half hour ago to open shop for the day." |
| Characters: Mortimer the Magnificent | |
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| Sord | Nov 26 2009, 01:20 AM Post #9 |
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"Yes, I'm sure you do." Hargrave said with a look as sour as always, with any luck this fool was simply jacking up prices on cheep fake imports, or better yet cheep local fakes, after all he didn't even want to know what could happen if some one got a hold of a genuine artifact of arcane powers, especially since at his age the last thing he wanted to do was try to put down another supernatural uprising of any sort. "Hm?" Hargave mumbled to himself as he looked over his shoulder at some woman who apparently knew this man, perhaps even lived with him... something about this female's voice sounded vaguely familiar to Cornilius, like he'd heard it more than a few times before but in a more frightened, panicked tone. It was just then that it hit him, not unlike the way the human oaf did earlier, these two people where the ones responsible for ruining his morning! and twice in one day no less! "Oh, this must be the punching bag that you do so seem to love to beat ever time i pass your room." Hargrave said with the annoyance muddled with rage clearly audible in his voice. "let me tell you something boy, when i was young we'd hang a man like you for what goes on in that room of yours!" The old demon shouted as he let his human seeming form slip a bit as he lost control of what little temper he had. "And not out of some foolish chivalry, no no, we'd do that just because of the damned racket you cause all to damned often, so early in the morning a man cant spend his waking hours in peace, and so late at night that he cant get a moment's rest!" Hargrave said before calming back down a bit, he hadn't even noticed that he was spitting small sparks and wisps of fire at the human as his eyes quite literally burned. "now, what do you have to say for yourself?" |
| Lukas Mitchell | |
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| Meesh | Dec 5 2009, 01:33 PM Post #10 |
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Mort momentarily turned away from the old man, missing his sour expression in order to give Rachelle a dissatisfied look of his own for having disrupted the conversation he was having with the aggravating old man. It wasn't until the other man spoke up again that he bothered to turn and face the man once more, it was the tone of his voice that caught his attention and sought his rebuttal. "Excuse me? I did not realize that we were now getting into the private relations I have with my woman." He spoke the word my in a drawn out, possessive way that implied that she was more a possession of his than any sort of female counterpart or equal. He was in the middle of trying to voice his opinion against the preposterous idea of women's suffrage, any idea that their place wasn't within a kitchen and what crazy future could come in which men were not in charge, when Rachelle crept up behind him and tugged on the back of his wrinkled shirt. Unlike Mort, she had noticed the tiny sparks that formed around the other man, the unusual look within his eyes and some sort of inhuman feel about him, be it a trick or not. "What?" Mort gave her another annoyed look. It was only afterwords that he looked to where her eyes were focused and saw the interesting fiery nature of the older man. "That's a nice trick you have. I'm sure it scares the hell out of those unaccompanied to such things." |
| Characters: Mortimer the Magnificent | |
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