Roda the Red
Nitpicker of swords
(NPC) Debora Hillclad
SCENE:
Everyone's a Critic
TIME:
Post-Arc 3, July 9th 2022
LOCATION:
Feralia Art Gallery, Central District
PARTICIPANTS:
Camila, Takakazu
Everyone's a Critic
Hillclad hummed in agreement, her stylized side locks bobbing up and down, stretching and contracting rythmically. "It's the least I can do for all the generous people that let me chase my dreams, and also hopefully making the world a slightly better way in the process." She tilted her head, hands interlocked together and cushioning her terse cheek, her eyes closed softly, feeling enamored by her own ideals and goals.
"I like to pour in my all in every single one of my pieces" She explained, walked to the man's side, her tone shifting to a more solemn and austere one. "The art world is fiercely competitive, everyone's at each other's throats constantly...But I like to see it differently" She extended her index finger, the tip gently hovering just half and inch from the canvas' surface, slow ondulating movements imitating the act of painting, as if pretending to finish the piece. "I like to think that I'm my only competition, and that my growth depends on how much of my soul I can put out, for everyone to lay their eyes upon.
"Sounds like you really know your stuff about art!" She piped in, keeping her hands behind her back, he shoulders perking up in a sheepish manner. "Not like I'm that surprised, word reached to me that you're a famous." She looked away, collecting bits and pieces of her memory. "...Mr. Nayak, wasn't it?"
Tak's sudden gesture took her by surprise, her body going stiff for a moment, her mouth agape and eyes visibly puzzled. Her upper torso leaned back as the man got uncomfortably close. "Oh, u-uh I'm flattered but I don't think I can just-"
"Oh you're fucking dead meat now!" Boris wasted no time leaving his position, the tiled floor rumbled under his mighty steps, steel baton already in the process of winding back, reaching well above the height of his shoulders, the orange lights of the stage beside them reflecting strongly against the darkened metal, as well as his polished bald head.
"Hold up, Boris..."
The guard's arm twitched as it came to a sudden halt. "Ma'am?" His jaw hung low, almost as if the woman's very order paralyzed him entirely. Not that there was any supernatural influence at play, nay, he just didn't want to get fired for the fourth time this year.
"You..." The woman sounded different, almost as if in disbelief. In just a few seconds, her eyes had trailed their way up. From the rough and poorly-conditioned hands that breached all manner of personal space, to the fashion disaster that at one point used to be a really nice suit, all the way to the critic's face, more specifically his now-uncovered eyes, those pearl tinted like bog-water, usually devoid of life.
She brought her hand up, clasping at the man's cheeks, her fingertips sinking into his dry and coarse skin, the woman's own face coming even closer to his, pure focus written all over her.
"...You're incredible!"
She skipped to the side, grasping at the man's wrist with a lady-like grip, before suddenly yanking at him. "You're coming with me right now!" He dragged the man away with an energetic gait. Leaving Boris right where he stood, alone, wondering just what the fuck was wrong with the artsy folks.
"I like to pour in my all in every single one of my pieces" She explained, walked to the man's side, her tone shifting to a more solemn and austere one. "The art world is fiercely competitive, everyone's at each other's throats constantly...But I like to see it differently" She extended her index finger, the tip gently hovering just half and inch from the canvas' surface, slow ondulating movements imitating the act of painting, as if pretending to finish the piece. "I like to think that I'm my only competition, and that my growth depends on how much of my soul I can put out, for everyone to lay their eyes upon.
"Sounds like you really know your stuff about art!" She piped in, keeping her hands behind her back, he shoulders perking up in a sheepish manner. "Not like I'm that surprised, word reached to me that you're a famous." She looked away, collecting bits and pieces of her memory. "...Mr. Nayak, wasn't it?"
Tak's sudden gesture took her by surprise, her body going stiff for a moment, her mouth agape and eyes visibly puzzled. Her upper torso leaned back as the man got uncomfortably close. "Oh, u-uh I'm flattered but I don't think I can just-"
"Oh you're fucking dead meat now!" Boris wasted no time leaving his position, the tiled floor rumbled under his mighty steps, steel baton already in the process of winding back, reaching well above the height of his shoulders, the orange lights of the stage beside them reflecting strongly against the darkened metal, as well as his polished bald head.
"Hold up, Boris..."
The guard's arm twitched as it came to a sudden halt. "Ma'am?" His jaw hung low, almost as if the woman's very order paralyzed him entirely. Not that there was any supernatural influence at play, nay, he just didn't want to get fired for the fourth time this year.
"You..." The woman sounded different, almost as if in disbelief. In just a few seconds, her eyes had trailed their way up. From the rough and poorly-conditioned hands that breached all manner of personal space, to the fashion disaster that at one point used to be a really nice suit, all the way to the critic's face, more specifically his now-uncovered eyes, those pearl tinted like bog-water, usually devoid of life.
She brought her hand up, clasping at the man's cheeks, her fingertips sinking into his dry and coarse skin, the woman's own face coming even closer to his, pure focus written all over her.
"...You're incredible!"
She skipped to the side, grasping at the man's wrist with a lady-like grip, before suddenly yanking at him. "You're coming with me right now!" He dragged the man away with an energetic gait. Leaving Boris right where he stood, alone, wondering just what the fuck was wrong with the artsy folks.
CAMILA GASPARI
SCENE:
Everyone's a Critic
TIME:
Post-Arc 3, July 9th 2022
LOCATION:
Feralia Art Gallery, Central District
PARTICIPANTS:
Camila, Takakazu
Everyone's a Critic
Several minutes had passed since Camila began her scavenging hunt within Hillclad's office, a timeframe that wouldn't sound alarming in most scenarios, but to the silver-tailed woman, every passing second spelled further doom for her. She could only hope that Tak did good on his part of the task, to KEEP HILLCLAD AWAY FROM THE OFFICE, surely an order that simple would be impossible to misinterpret, even for a meathead like him. For every piece of paper she scoured, every other was neatly put back in its place, she wasn't planning to leave the office without making sure it looked as pristine as it was kept the moment she came in, lest she arose unnecessary suspicion in the near future.
"There's no way this bitch's clean." She whispered to herself, fingernails scratching at her snowy locks in frustration. "What do people even see in her? All those paintings are all a buncha bullshit!" She held her arms up, ranting to herself as she made careful steps around the office. "I bet they all just care about her ass, even Tak, I'm sure." She placed a palm against an oak wardrobe, of which she had already checked out inside. She leaned over the piece of furniture, letting the weight of her upper half be held on her arm.
She snapped at the feeling of her balance going off, the wardrobe tilting with a low creak to it. Apparently it was a lot lighter than it seemed originally, the woman throwing herself back to recover her footing, rotating her arms quickly to offset the momentum of her backstep. "All that money and she still gets shitty quality like t- Huh?" Emerald eyes had their attention robbed by an enveloped that danced and swayed in the air, as it slowly fell to the floor. Camila just managed to noticed that it slid off from the top of the wardrobe, immediately making the woman suspicious.
"Alright...This better be good." Her wire-like appendage wiggled in excitement, the envelope now held firmly by the woman's fingertips. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary about the piece of paper, it was blank, no addresses or watermarks of any kind, yet it wasn't empty, as light as it might be. Fingernails tore at the opening, clawing at the paper withing. A crumble envelope bounced twice on the floor before rolling away, ruined by a veteran who's patience had now ran low.
"...Fuck does this mean?" The contents of the paper were both unassuming and surprising at the same time. Names were listed through the length of the sheet, but it was these very names that earned Camila's curiosity: Some of the written names, they were from the people Camila's contact had told her about, the ones claiming Hillclad plagiarized, before they could even have their own originals finished.
The name's were listed by themselves, however. Each one of them was accompanied by a series of words in each row, separated in commas, they seemed to be layed out with no seeming rhyme or reason. Common words like 'Waterfall' or 'Sunset' were written down, seemingly mundane things, but alongside them, at least once per row, there would be something a little more eye-catching, such as 'Will of Humanity' or 'Consequences of uncaring ambition'. The woman squinted at the myriad of words, partly to understand their meaning, and partly because of the darkness she foundherself in.
Her body froze, eardrum catching the faint noise of muffled voices from not too far away. A female voice, no less. She let go of the paper, desperately throwing her arms around to catch the flowing sheet, before both together managed to grasp at it, damaging its delicate smoothness in the process. The voices from afar grew louder and clearer, not quite enough to discern their meaning, but alarming enough to set her fight or flight instinct into gear. She needed to move her ass, and she needed to do it NOW.
"And here we are!" The door of the office burst open with a merciless push of Hillclad's moccha-toned hand, the back slamming against the wall its hinges were drilled at.
"Mi casa es tu casa, Mr. Nayak!" She twirled behind her, standing in the middle of the now well-lit room, extending her arms welcomingly. She headed over to the velvety red couch from across the office, taking a seat on the pillowy furniture. "Now now, come here! We've some talking to do." She chirped, excitedly patting at the empty half of the couch.
At the other end of the room lied a lone wardrobe of curiously low-quality wood, from the slit of its nearly closed door, a faint glint of emerald could be spotted by whoever cared to focus enough on it.
"There's no way this bitch's clean." She whispered to herself, fingernails scratching at her snowy locks in frustration. "What do people even see in her? All those paintings are all a buncha bullshit!" She held her arms up, ranting to herself as she made careful steps around the office. "I bet they all just care about her ass, even Tak, I'm sure." She placed a palm against an oak wardrobe, of which she had already checked out inside. She leaned over the piece of furniture, letting the weight of her upper half be held on her arm.
She snapped at the feeling of her balance going off, the wardrobe tilting with a low creak to it. Apparently it was a lot lighter than it seemed originally, the woman throwing herself back to recover her footing, rotating her arms quickly to offset the momentum of her backstep. "All that money and she still gets shitty quality like t- Huh?" Emerald eyes had their attention robbed by an enveloped that danced and swayed in the air, as it slowly fell to the floor. Camila just managed to noticed that it slid off from the top of the wardrobe, immediately making the woman suspicious.
"Alright...This better be good." Her wire-like appendage wiggled in excitement, the envelope now held firmly by the woman's fingertips. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary about the piece of paper, it was blank, no addresses or watermarks of any kind, yet it wasn't empty, as light as it might be. Fingernails tore at the opening, clawing at the paper withing. A crumble envelope bounced twice on the floor before rolling away, ruined by a veteran who's patience had now ran low.
"...Fuck does this mean?" The contents of the paper were both unassuming and surprising at the same time. Names were listed through the length of the sheet, but it was these very names that earned Camila's curiosity: Some of the written names, they were from the people Camila's contact had told her about, the ones claiming Hillclad plagiarized, before they could even have their own originals finished.
The name's were listed by themselves, however. Each one of them was accompanied by a series of words in each row, separated in commas, they seemed to be layed out with no seeming rhyme or reason. Common words like 'Waterfall' or 'Sunset' were written down, seemingly mundane things, but alongside them, at least once per row, there would be something a little more eye-catching, such as 'Will of Humanity' or 'Consequences of uncaring ambition'. The woman squinted at the myriad of words, partly to understand their meaning, and partly because of the darkness she foundherself in.
Her body froze, eardrum catching the faint noise of muffled voices from not too far away. A female voice, no less. She let go of the paper, desperately throwing her arms around to catch the flowing sheet, before both together managed to grasp at it, damaging its delicate smoothness in the process. The voices from afar grew louder and clearer, not quite enough to discern their meaning, but alarming enough to set her fight or flight instinct into gear. She needed to move her ass, and she needed to do it NOW.
"And here we are!" The door of the office burst open with a merciless push of Hillclad's moccha-toned hand, the back slamming against the wall its hinges were drilled at.
"Mi casa es tu casa, Mr. Nayak!" She twirled behind her, standing in the middle of the now well-lit room, extending her arms welcomingly. She headed over to the velvety red couch from across the office, taking a seat on the pillowy furniture. "Now now, come here! We've some talking to do." She chirped, excitedly patting at the empty half of the couch.
At the other end of the room lied a lone wardrobe of curiously low-quality wood, from the slit of its nearly closed door, a faint glint of emerald could be spotted by whoever cared to focus enough on it.
thebigfella
