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JOLY Technicolor-Werewolf SISTER SITES  
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| Who Will Buy?; for Violet/lifeofalimabean but open too! | |
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| Topic Started: Feb 27 2009, 10:35 PM (119 Views) | |
| Alandree | Feb 27 2009, 10:35 PM Post #1 |
 
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Imogen was not the best at picking. She had no sharp objects to speak of, and found that simply pulling the stalks would result in either a rip or a yank of the bulb out of the ground completely. Luckily today, she had found a way to disguise this by wrapping the stems in ripped bits of calico, and placing them carefully in bunches next to each other in her wide basket. She'd never admit to stealing. But she supposed that was what this was. Taking flowers from a public building's courtyard. But no one seemed to notice. Today she had acquired a lovely set of orchids, with only half the petals missing! This delighted her as she hustled along a particularly dirty street, hands wrung, basket looped over one arm, smiling contentedly. Her frock dragged on the ground, a bit damp, a bit dirty, but the tatterdemalion was instantly righted as a gaze would travel upward to bright eyes. She wore her little garland one one side, and some sticks stuffed in the back of her hair, perhaps to hold it all together, it was beginning to unravel at this point though. Hmm, now to find a good place to attract attention. Where would that be...She passed through a little archway to a section situating a mountebank with a canary and a potato-seller. This would do nicely! She shuffled past a large man in a frock-coat toward a little corner, whereupon she dropped a rolled-up blanket, and stood dutifully at its side, holding out her basket and hoping to attract attention. Unfortunately, no one seemed to be interested. The mountebank released three more birds, holding each at the feet, their wings flapping like mad in protest. Miss Betel watched, her expression dropping. The birds did not look very happy at all! She took a little step closer, neck craned over the crowd, tip-toed. The canaries squawked angrily, and the thaumaturge stuffed them in a box, throwing a cloth over it and latching it shut. She whimpered, and forgot momentarily of her pursuit of business at all. The man opened the box again, showing the crowd that it was empty! A collective gasp from the audience. Imogen was less impressed and more outraged. What had he done to them?? And what sort of product could he be trying to sell, anyway? |
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| lifeofalimabean | May 11 2009, 11:24 AM Post #2 |
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Getting some air had not seemed appealing when it was curtly suggested to him, and to be honest, it was getting less so. The streets were particularly pugent today, doing little for Mr. Wolfe's already waning appetite. Oh, it was a cycle, certainly, but he felt a certain sense of detachment from that fact, as if he was making a study of his own habits. Like a scientist, perhaps. He felt he could make it in the sciences, had he the time to waste and the money to throw away. The people flow by him in a chaotic blur of color and sound. Virgil glared at them, more on principle than out of malice. He'd like to get back to his house, and treasure the solitude of the weekend a little bit, instead of being forced to navigate this maze of social mores and offensive sensations. Perhaps he could finish the Alexander Bain text he'd managed to buy, it was singularly fascinating. Less and less cash was coming in these days, and he sensed that eventually the ability to sit and enjoy a new book every other weekend would be a luxury- he had begun life in the middle class, but that was perhaps not where he was heading. In the age of self-improvement, he was unmaking himself. Surely it was ironic or something. Realizing he was staring blindly at the cobbles before him, Virgil jerked his head up, cloudy grey eyes scanning the market. He took in one point of interest- a large gap in the suffocating human throng, which he gratefully slipped into. A sigh escaped him- finally, he could breathe. The gap was due to some two-bit magician plying his trade on the street. People were packed in around, trying to watch. Try as he might, Virgil couldn't understand of helping another man to make a fool of you, especially when it required you to buy into obvious lies. Of course, Virgil had left the Church quite young. Across the way, there was a young girl, a few years too old to attend school, selling flowers. In his head, he could hear his sister note that the display was quite sad- they stems were bruised and the missing petals put him in mind of teeth that had been knocked out. But he found himself drifting over to the flower-seller, if only to get away from the crowd around the magician. At least it would smell better here, and flowers were flowers, it was hard to make them unlovely, he noted. The flower-seller herself bore a resemblance to her wares, as if she had started life bright and lovely in her own place, and arrived here only after some frightenly rough handling. Ah... his thoughts were growing unruly again. "Good afternoon, Miss." Virgil frowned. He was quite skilled at frowning. He had noticed he was being ignored, in favor of the ridiculous display of waste across the street. He scowled resignedly at the magic show, preparing to move on- he'd expect no less of people, it was always the least meaningful things in life they paid attention to. But somehow, his own ill-nourished made a fool of him, dizziness over-coming him. He stumbled, and as his head cleared, his hands landed square in the middle of the flower-girl's booth, destroying several of the delicate things, to his open dismay. Trying to maintain some dignity, he straightened up as soon as he regained his balance, but the damage was done. ((Um. Yeah. Not great post, just need to get the hang of it. <3)) |
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| Alandree | May 12 2009, 04:13 PM Post #3 |
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The crowd grew like a nautical net, awaiting the capture of fish, for it to wriggle and gasp in its grasp. She had never been fond of aquatic life. The eyes of things there bulged and never seemed to blink. And worse still the fish had monster skin. Scaly like dragons, smelly like the Russian lady at the river bank. She clutched her skirts anxiously, backing away a few steps, drawing herself inward so as not to be seen or caught by the falsity web. If one were to address her, in this sea, there would most likely be ill intent. And if not that, then anger or demand for her to shell out her pockets. She was still unsure of what a prostitute was, but any child with her nose above water and eyes behind lashes knew how to steal. Or rather, knew that one is physically capable of shoving an apple which does not belong to her into the pocket of her apron. So when the drab young man decided to address her with such a thing as 'Good afternoon,' there was little suggestion in her mind that such pleasantry could ever be for her person. The magician's Spanish accent was near-indecipherable to her. Her focus was on the birds. The birds that she wanted to let free. To fly in the air, like blackbirds out of the king's pie. But heroism was no thing for a girl. Instead she backed up some paces more before noticing the man topple. She made a small gasp, which was out of shock rather than upset, and clamped her hands together about her waist and shuffled to the side. He seemed very tired and weary. Would a flower fix all that? |
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| lifeofalimabean | May 14 2009, 08:56 AM Post #4 |
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The first thought that crossed his mind was to straighten the flowers, to try and fix the mess he had made of them. He found himself arranging them, partially out of a lingering instinct from all of the customers he had cleaned up after over the years, and partially out of guilt. However, a flower broken was a thing throughly ruined, and he had the feeling his rough attentions were only making the situation worse. So he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his drab suit and sighed. Not that he'd expected the afternoon to turn out well, but certainly he'd hoped to avoid minor disasters on his way to lunch. Of course, now was when the shopgirl took notice of him, he noted darkly. He watched her fret, not breaking the little silence between them. She was very inefficient in her worrying, he decided, like a small child who couldn't quite tell what they wanted to be upset about. Did she have something to say? He realized, with a bit of bitter humor, that he was practically waiting to be recriminated. If she didn't tell him off, he might start doing it himself, just to satisfy his expectation. "I'm terribly sorry," he said a bit loudly, just because the way he was being gawked at was throwing him off. He was rather more used to being yelled at. Or scolded, or even worse, cheered up. So the safest way to start would probably be to apologize. "I- " he grimaced, "I haven't the spare money to pay for these, is there anything I can do...?" Christ, all he wanted was to feed himself, so he could return to his house. Edited by lifeofalimabean, May 14 2009, 09:30 AM.
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| Alandree | May 14 2009, 06:51 PM Post #5 |
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She blinked uncomfortably. Being shouted at. Maybe he was half-seas-over. Maybe he had a disease. Maybe he was a policeman in disguise. Anyone could wear a disguise. Even she. Saying nothing, the girl made an attempt at a curtsy, though not one of genuine felicitation. Perhaps...to calm. Anyone not affiliated or under the roof of the taphouse could be a person of powdery nose or shiny buckled shoe. Even if they looked as he did. Perhaps trying to be well to do, but failing gently in the sickly pallor and the radiation of gloomy skies. She shook her head once, then twice. The last thing she was expecting however was an offer to refund the damage goods. Or rather, the goods damaged to a more embarrassing degree than before. This time more rapidly, she shook her head again, and proceeded to bend down and reassemble her work. Pulling out the blanket again, aligning the tattered stalks in as straight an order as was possible. She did look up at him amidst however, and though she did not smile, she did gather that he was not someone she should be so entirely frightened of. At least not yet. It was unclear whether her sense of judgement helped or hindered her. |
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| lifeofalimabean | May 16 2009, 10:34 AM Post #6 |
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A rather exhausting, exasperated feeling of helplessness nagged as Virgil watched the girl re-arrange the flowers. For one thing, he had done all of the talking, even if he'd managed it entirely without grace. She was most likely ignoring him as a studied insult, and he didn't relish the thought of being insulted by strangers in tatters, though doubtless that was how low he was sinking. He didn't want to get involved in awkwardness, but he hated being stared at awfully, and was perfectly willing to return the favor until she backed down. He returned her assessing stare with his own, grey eyes looking her up and down in his singularly piercing fashion, one which he used to great effect to discomfit idle and sloppy students. Something about her eyes made him doubt his assessment that she might be daft, or a mute. Of course, that simple irked him more, as he was now more sure she was ignoring him on purpose. Really, he ought simply to keep walking, but some perverse combination of irritability and curiousity... "Can't you speak?" A bit of impatience dogged his voice, which was now quite normal in volume. "Normally it's considered polite to respond to someone who addresses you." Oh, he was falling into schoolteacher mode again. |
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| Alandree | May 17 2009, 12:17 PM Post #7 |
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She blinked, as if slightly incredulous at his response, but lowered her gaze in what must have been respect, and mumbled a little, "Pardon, sir." before rising again. He sounded rather like Mother. Mother at dinners where the Betel children would seek refuge under the table. Imogen among them, though far too old to be excused or waved away. At times dragging the tablecloth down with her. Plates and dainty glasses shattering. She'd been called an oaf and appeached in a sundry of other ways. But one did not box the ears of a girl whom he did not know. At least not in public. She asserted this by smiling. Just a little. To try and make up for whatever she'd done to offend. Not speaking. What on earth could she have said? The convention of speech was not something she took to be a basic need. |
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