Lodgings Post: Nathan's Townhouse
Nathan lives in a comfortable two story townhouse, a little too close to Veilgarden to be completely respectable. This post is open for anyone to drop by, leave messages, throw stones at the windows, whathave you.
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[Nathan's studio is the largest room in the house, besides the kitchen. His easel with his latest work in progress sits directly across from the door, a stool by it and a small table cluttered with various colourful jars, pencils and other supplies within easy reach. There is a fireplace against the east wall - a battered clock sits on the mantle, flanked by a lovely but obviously broken piece of blue and white mask (a christmas gift from Cassius, in fact) and an ordinary-looking cheap tin whistle on the other.
The northeast corner is devoted to Nathan's desk, which is eternally awash in various notes, sketches, pieces of small c correspondence, and occasionally small books lost in the tide.
The southeast corner has several mismatched chairs, including one very badly waterstained green one that probably was quite valuable before someone apparently threw it overboard. The triple windowed arch usually has the curtains drawn back, theoretically letting in the moonish light.
The other end of the room is mostly full of canvases, both finished and blank. A rather striking portrait of Bar in a very fashionable suit glowers among the finished works, an eternal fixture, although the others change as Nathan paints more and sells off old ones. Beyond them are a set of shelves, holding an assortment of interesting souviniers, art supplies, and a few books. A soft but irritable squeaking and sound of leathery wings suggests he has a couple of bats hidden somewhere in the mess.
The entire room smells faintly of oil paint.]
[Phew! Sorry that took so long, but I figured I'd do the full description so I can copy/paste it later]
There are several lamps about the room, probably intended to provide light to paint by. One of them is already lit, probably so that the monkey playing Solitaire on the rug can see his cards. He doesn't look up from his game as they enter.
Nathan heads directly for his shelves, which are possibly organized via some esoteric system only he understands and possibly just a disorganized mess, and eventually produces a bottle of wine and a couple of glasses.
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They make note of the monkey. Cassius has only seen a real, live monkey a few times before, and honestly said monkey was actually playing cards. They quirk an eyebrow at it'...him?' But it is engrossed in its own game and as Nathan makes no comment, they decide to pay it the same silence. Cassius smiles at the portrait of Bar. It is quite a sight to see such a man as him in such a suit as that! But they will again take it in and stay silent, making their way to one of the chairs. Since they have already removed their cap, they start work on getting the pins and clips out. If the mood wasn't so sombre, it could be rather comical, and probably open to some comment from Nathan about preening. They pocket the lot of them in their worn wool coat, then slide both it & their suit jackets off. Contemplating, they select the largest chair, because they expect that they will certainly need to be comfortable.
Cassius rather haphazardly sprawls sideways in it with their walking-stick on their lap.
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On his way back over with the wine, Nathan finally notices the monkey on the rug. "Back up here, are you? Did you fleece the rats again?" He speaks as though he's expecting an answer, not with the higher pitch most people reserve for animals. The monkey turns a beady-eyed glare on him, which might actually be one.
He turns to Cassius. "The tempermental monkey I was telling Asher about," he says, as if 'tempermental' explains away all oddness, and a card playing simian is perfectly ordinary. The monkey makes a very rude gesture at his back, before turning back to the cards, apparently finding both Nathan and Cassius insufficiently interesting.
Nathan pulls over a small, round table, and sets his bottle and the two glasses on it. Despite the fact that he has apparently been keeping it on his studio shelf, the label year is a good one - 1868 - and the first sporing.
He adjusts a chair to better face the one Cassius has chosen, before seating himself. He really does look more comfortable up here, or at least a little more relaxed. The shadows in here are his and familiar, not to be jumped at.
"Well," he says, uncorking the mushroom wine and filling a glass for Cassius, "I had hoped you would call on me at home one day, but this wasn't how I expected it."
He fills a second glass for himself, but leaves it untouched on the table for now, despite his claims of needing a drink.
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"I suppose it suits him." Clearly as a response to the rude gesture. It is always surprising what can talk in the 'Neath.
"I will have to call on you again soon then, and hopefully it will be more to expectations." Trying to ease him a bit "...Perhaps you can even paint me?" They take the drink for a sip, before setting it back on the table, more content to busy themself with the top of their walking-stick while the wait for him to continue.
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He siezes on the thought, eager to think about happier things and the future, instead of the past. "I should like that, though I suspect you of humouring me a little. Would I need to bribe you with sweet things to have you sit still?"
He picks up his wine glass, and rolls the stem between his fingers, looking at the dusty red liquid as though he might see something in there if he watches patiently enough. "They say it's good for exorcising nightmares, not old memories, but I felt it worth a try. Sometimes they are close enough to spit at each other, anyhow."
He drains half of his glass in a single long pull, not taking the time to appreciate his own expensive vintage, but when he sets it down again he looks a little steadier.
"But I did promise the story, didn't I? I don't think I've told anyone the whole of it before." Almost as an afterthought, he adds, "Bar knows most of it, I think. I don't remember the tail end of that night well. I'm not sure what I told him."
He looks at Cassius' face, as though expecting disapproval. "I...would rather not share the details with him." It sounds more like a confession than a request.
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Cassius almost laughs at thinking of Nathan treating them the same way he must have the royal children "I haven't had problems in the past, but you could freely offer me treats--but no mushroom ones." They watch him contemplate his wine, wondering if he would be jealous that they have been painted before. And even more jealous of just how they had been painted.
'And sometimes closer still...' Cassius is glad for the 'Neath dreams at times. They meet his gaze. "I promise I will not tell him any of what you tell me tonight." And lighter to try to ease him a bit "We detectives don't have meetings to swap such things besides, if you are worried about that is." They try to think of something that can solidify their promise not to tell.
"...Would you like in exchange for me to answer any question you might have of me? You are often calling me 'mysterious' it seems. I cannot promise it will me a straight answer, or possibly even make sense, but I can promise that I will be truthful."
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"You don't have some secret Constable's Ball where you gossip about the rest of us? You are destroying my dreams, Cassius."
He thinks longer on how to handle their unexpected offer of confidence. He can certainly think of at least three questions off the top of his head that he might ask Cassius to answer, one of which has been intriguing him since the day he met them.
But this kind of secret-for-secret reminds him of secrets as currency and the politics and intrigues of Court, and that's a game he doesn't want to play with Cassius. He shakes his head. "I'm sure I will learn the answers you feel able to share. And I think you rather enjoy being mysterious, anyhow, why would I spoil your fun?"
He leans back in his chair, face tilted a little towards the ceiling, eyes closed, as though he is not so much telling the story as watching it and describing what he sees.
"It was just the end of August, during that miserable heat we had. Bar was working regularly for the constables and anyone else who'd take him, and I was... well, a slightly younger fool artist than I am today, trying to make the leap from Veilgarden to high society.
I don't know if you remember, but it was the fashion for a time for young men with more money than brains to carry sword canes and play at being fierce. Of course, I had to have one," He shakes his head, without opening his eyes,
"Although, truth be told, I was living above a gambling den off Hollow Street because I couldn't afford better. No money and no brains."
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"Not too my knowledge, though Scotland Yard-and the CLP of course-themselves might have one, and just not invite all us outsiders. Or even special ways to tend mustaches?"
They are very surprised when he declines their offer, and to avoid showing it too much, they reach and have another drink. Partway to raising it to their mouth it sinks in they have to drink to stop from beaming. As much as secrets are currency, Cassius' confidence could be considered another. Nathan really is a true friend to refuse.
"And isn't my mystery even a bit intriguing? You might end-up finding me boring afterall."
They watch him start to recall, and listen. Not to gather details for some big case, but because it is something he has to tell, and horrible as it may get, they want him to know that they have no intention of leaving or repeating it.
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But he was... well, nearly the only constant person in my life." Nathan smiles, although there's no good cheer in it. "Everything they say about artistic temperament and dramatics is absolutely true. But once a week we went drinking, and I would get drunk and complain about the idiots I spent my time with and he would tell me I'm an idiot myself. And I would make sure he... looked after himself.
I don't know if that's why Jack came for me. It could have been random, God knows he doesn't stop to explain himself. I know... Well, I think that I know Bar believes it was.
I had left the group I was with to go back to my rooms. I didn't want them knowing where I lived, because they were slumming and I was trying to take a step up, so I went alone. And there he was, swooping in like he'd been waiting just for me."
He pauses in his recollection to take a sip of the wine, and his eyes fall on Cassius' cane in their lap.
"I'm no fighter, but back on the Surface.... well, it wasn't the first time in my life someone came at me with a knife. I didn't realize at first what was going on - I'd had...a bit much to drink, and I thought I was beset by someone more ordinary. So by luck or stupid instinct I managed to avoid getting my throat cut straight away, and fumble out the sword."
Nathan has paled with the telling, and his face is nearly as grey as his suit. His voice - a little unsteady for most of the story - now is even more subdued.
"He laughed, Cassius. I don't think I will ever forget it. He took it from me like he was confiscating a child's toy, and when I tried to run he struck me down with it."
He hesitates, but then adds, "He... he missed my heart but pierced my lung, so I was there for some minutes before I actually- before I died." He licks his lips, a nervous habit. "I remember... trying to get up and being unable because he'd run my sword straight into the street and wedged it between the cobbles."
His story over, Nathan looks relieved to have finished it.
[What actually happened, of course, is that Bar got his "Annoyance to Jack of Smiles" Quality above three, and when you do that you get this:
Mess With the Smile, get the Teeth
You've annoyed Jack-of-Smiles once too often! The Knife-wielding maniac has carved a swathe through your friends and acquaintances. Some are en route to the Tomb Colonies. Several others are recovering, but the experience of being repeatedly murdered has caused them to snub you quite rudely.[Link]]
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But when his eyes look to their walking-stick, they have to look away and regard it. Regard it with the same manner that one with a hook-hand might regard it, if another had just told them they were killed by someone with the same handicap. Of course Cassius is not Jack-of-Smiles, but having a sword around Nathan is still something they feel awful about.
"Nathan..." They don't know what to say to him. Cassius' mouth is dry, and they reach for their glass again. It isn't that they haven't heard recounts like this before, or not seen it with their own eyes. Calmly Cassius would take down the details, place a hand on the victim's shoulder, or give a sincere nod. But this is Nathan. Nathan Attford. And though they haven't known him that long, he is one of the few real friends that they have, and Cassius just can't take this all in like some victim statement for a case.
"I'm sorry." They say finally, no more than a pause, but it feels like so long for Cassius to collect their thoughts. They set their glass down. "...I am so, so, sorry Nathan." They want to go over and at least try to offer some sort of comfort. But they don't want to leave the issue with their sword right yet, and it may be easier to mention it now, instead of later.
"...And I am sorry if I have ever made you uncomfortable..." They lift their walking-stick up onto their knee--no plans to unsheathe it. They just simply want him to know what they are talkign about. "I won't try to say that I don't also carry a sword-cane, and though it is not the same as..." This has already gotten hard. "I will not try to defend that it is not as dangerous. In anyone's hands a weapon can do things of horror. I cannot defend it as not being the same, but not the same. But I don't wish to make you afraid of me." They want to cry. But like Tomb-Colonists, Cassius can't seem to cry any-more.
[When I did the Jack bits, I wasn't actively RPing, and Cassius was very stand-offish and hard. But they did get Annoyance to Level 5 (it didn't do anything, I think I may have needed to raise it to 6). http://twitpic.com/30czvf ]
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He rubs the back of his neck, an oddly boyish gesture. It makes it easy to imagine him younger than he is."I cannot say that I will ever carry a sword-cane again myself." In fact, they have probably noticed, it is rarely his habit to carry a cane at all. "But much the same would have happened with any other weapon I could have carried. And if I'd had none...I somehow doubt Jack-of-Smiles would refrain from attacking an unarmed man. He doesn't seem the... chivalrous sort."
He brings his glass to his lips before continuing, and it is very nearly empty when he sets it down again. "... that's what was frightening about it. I have thought it over and over, many times, and... there was nothing I could have done differently. If he was waiting for me, then staying with my aquaintances would only have gotten them hurt or killed as well. Armed or unarmed, I don't have the skill to defend myself from such an attacker. It is a very... helpless sort of feeling, to know I died and... and reasonably, could have done nothing to prevent it." His smile is a ghost of his usual easy grin. "It took me some days to gather the nerve to leave my rooms again, and they were not so nice as I have now. The thought of meeting again... well, I am thankful for your escort tonight."
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They set their walking-stick back on their lap. "I actually need this" A nod to it. "at times." They gently tap the side of their left knee. "You may have noticed I have a bit of a limp. Bit of a weak knee. I need, in the least, a 'walking-stick' to catch myself at times." They avoid using 'cane', and try to keep it to just the bare facts, but prepare themself to tell the story if he asks.
But then they think that they should more straightly answer his earlier question. "...I told you that I had dealings with Jack." They are already losing their nerve on answering, but it has already come out, so they can't take it back now, "In September, I put Jack through 62 bodies.--" Cassius is not bragging, and their flat tone should reveal this. They await him to try to change the subject however.
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At the same time, he has hoped that what little he could press out of Bar on the topic of Jack-of-Smiles and his multiple bodies was only a story. Having it confirmed by one of the most sensible people he knows would be more disturbing than comforting if he dwelt on it, so he chooses not to.
"Remind me to avoid picking fights with you, in future, walking stick or not." He shakes his head, smile a little lopsided. whether it is the company, the wine, the relative security of his own home, or relief at having told his worries to someone, he is finally beginning to relax a little. "I... appreciate your offer, truly, but suspect we would find each other's intrepid adventures unappealing."
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