Post by Edie on Nov 13, 2010 17:08:03 GMT -8
Mmmmmaarrggggooodddammnit. Was it morning already? Supposedly, oh so supposedly, given the light attempting to sneak under his eyelids, like the bright whore t’was. Hmm. Whore? Whore. He fumbled blindly in the not-nearly-as-dark-as-he-wished-considering-the-bloody-sun with his eyes shut. Hands outstretched like big white spiders, scrabbling about his general location. Well, there were bed clothes still most warm warm warm from heat producing body language, and what may or mayn’t have been that sock that t’was misplaced last fortnight, and a most quite very much so definite something his hand collided with and sent bumble fumble tumbling to the floor with a satisfying SMASH. But no bed mate. Huh. Could’ve sworn there’d been one, oh yes he could’ve, on Momma and Poppa and sweet sweet sweet Dida’s graves. Dida? Best not ponder that one this supposedly morning, else would be visiting a dark night soul place not soon left, oh yes he would.
“Who’s your woman, love?”
Eh? Mayhaps t’was one of the wee little fae, a sprite who’d flit flat fluttered into his quarters, posing as a woman of the streets to catch his attention? He’d dreamed stranger things in this state of mind’n’body’n’such. The man rubbed hard at the sleep in his eyes. Yes. Yes yes yes, the spirit maiden had overheard his silent musings—with what? with magic but o’course—like a clever, sneaky sort of broad. Wouldn’t ‘spect any more-or-less from a spirit, no sir-or-madam he wouldn’t.
“Lady,” he mumbled, “oh, lady, lady, lady, t’was a most typical dream, but a dream evernevertheless, indeed.” He opened his eyes, expecting most anywhichthing other than some decidedly common wench grubbing about in the multitude of rouges and paints he stored in the room. So. So so so of course that was what he saw.
“Really, love,” the entirely human creature laughed, dabbing a (redorangeyellow) green colour on her eyelids. “I doubt it’s best to tell your conquest she’s typical, but under the circumstances I’ll take it as a compliment.”
Well. This fully natural bitch gave ‘im a bit of a fright, she did, made ‘im start ‘n’ stumble off the bed in a mess of glass ‘n’ sheets. He mumble rumble grumbled to himself, ignoring ‘er shrieks, as he yanked the not-quite-large-enough-to-cause-serious-damage-but-still-enough-to-sting-like-hell shards outta his arms and feet. Then, the tattered remains of his modesty wrapped in the bed clothes, he walked an ever so curving and wobbling line to the mirror and the whore.
“What d’you know of my woman, lady?” he hissed, with wide staring eyes reflecting into hers through the glass. “Art thou a conjurer, a mindreader, a fairy? What has led to your discovery of sweet sweet sweet Dida?”
“Dida?” the woman faltered. She held out the green paint, looking ever so feminine and ever so wistful as to attempt to tug at his already hardening senses. No, sir-or-madam, no matter how hard she tried, couldn’t breach the wall that was building up up up around ‘is heart’n’soul’n’such. “I—I only assumed—all this makeup...”
He froze; for a moment, ‘fore bursting into giggles. T’would’ve been a more natural sight, if his mouth didn’t ‘main in a straight ‘n’ narrow line. “Oh, lady, lady, lady,” he choked out betwixt his laughter, “Did’st thou ever think to ask what sort of roles I portray in my troupe?"
He picked up a garishly red lip rouge, and expertly applied it to his lips. "I may be the oldest of my actors, lady, but that does not mean I don't enjoy tarting myself up to play the ingenue, oh no it does not."
The disappointingly mortal lass rose indignantly, her cheeks flushed near the same shade as the paint on his mouth. Before waltzing out of his-life-completely-but-firstly-the door, she turned, and snapped, "You don't even know my name, do you, Jarvis?"
The man rolled his shoulders into a shrug, not looking up from his dressing table. "Did I ever ask it, lady?"
“Who’s your woman, love?”
Eh? Mayhaps t’was one of the wee little fae, a sprite who’d flit flat fluttered into his quarters, posing as a woman of the streets to catch his attention? He’d dreamed stranger things in this state of mind’n’body’n’such. The man rubbed hard at the sleep in his eyes. Yes. Yes yes yes, the spirit maiden had overheard his silent musings—with what? with magic but o’course—like a clever, sneaky sort of broad. Wouldn’t ‘spect any more-or-less from a spirit, no sir-or-madam he wouldn’t.
“Lady,” he mumbled, “oh, lady, lady, lady, t’was a most typical dream, but a dream evernevertheless, indeed.” He opened his eyes, expecting most anywhichthing other than some decidedly common wench grubbing about in the multitude of rouges and paints he stored in the room. So. So so so of course that was what he saw.
“Really, love,” the entirely human creature laughed, dabbing a (redorangeyellow) green colour on her eyelids. “I doubt it’s best to tell your conquest she’s typical, but under the circumstances I’ll take it as a compliment.”
Well. This fully natural bitch gave ‘im a bit of a fright, she did, made ‘im start ‘n’ stumble off the bed in a mess of glass ‘n’ sheets. He mumble rumble grumbled to himself, ignoring ‘er shrieks, as he yanked the not-quite-large-enough-to-cause-serious-damage-but-still-enough-to-sting-like-hell shards outta his arms and feet. Then, the tattered remains of his modesty wrapped in the bed clothes, he walked an ever so curving and wobbling line to the mirror and the whore.
“What d’you know of my woman, lady?” he hissed, with wide staring eyes reflecting into hers through the glass. “Art thou a conjurer, a mindreader, a fairy? What has led to your discovery of sweet sweet sweet Dida?”
“Dida?” the woman faltered. She held out the green paint, looking ever so feminine and ever so wistful as to attempt to tug at his already hardening senses. No, sir-or-madam, no matter how hard she tried, couldn’t breach the wall that was building up up up around ‘is heart’n’soul’n’such. “I—I only assumed—all this makeup...”
He froze; for a moment, ‘fore bursting into giggles. T’would’ve been a more natural sight, if his mouth didn’t ‘main in a straight ‘n’ narrow line. “Oh, lady, lady, lady,” he choked out betwixt his laughter, “Did’st thou ever think to ask what sort of roles I portray in my troupe?"
He picked up a garishly red lip rouge, and expertly applied it to his lips. "I may be the oldest of my actors, lady, but that does not mean I don't enjoy tarting myself up to play the ingenue, oh no it does not."
The disappointingly mortal lass rose indignantly, her cheeks flushed near the same shade as the paint on his mouth. Before waltzing out of his-life-completely-but-firstly-the door, she turned, and snapped, "You don't even know my name, do you, Jarvis?"
The man rolled his shoulders into a shrug, not looking up from his dressing table. "Did I ever ask it, lady?"
