Cpt. Halloran Vine (cois_farraige) wrote in fairthreads, @ 2009-09-01 13:37:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, character: julius whitton, location: greenville, player: jeanne, z-character: halloran vine, z-player: andi |
Who: Halloran and Open to one.
What: Headaches.
Where: Greenville Market
When: Early afternoon.
Rating: PG-13 for language, to start?
Status: Threaded, Complete
Halloran, by rule of thumb, disliked traveling into Greenville. He ran into far too many people who did things like clap him on the back and say HA HA CAPTAIN WHERE'S THE NEXT OUTFITTING THEN like they thought they were witty or something. Too many pink-cheeked sons of nobles putting on the Lieutenant Red ready to step onto a ship to act as the Queen's Brace. And, on the whole, the sight of all that polished brass tended to turn his stomach. But when you needed to go to the market, you needed to go to the market. So the horse had been saddled up, arrangements had been made for a night's stay, and if he was very lucky indeed, he'd be able to slip away without being called to audience with the Queen. Lucky indeed, since he hadn't brought a proper coat and his riding boots were in shambles.
Finding himself in the midst of the market, though, tended to soothe his nerves a little. There were things here that he couldn't find at his own stockyard, supplies that had to be ordered or bartered from cantankerous merchants, and there was a good bit of joy in the act of it. He'd filled his order docket with a great deal of necessities and one or two frivolities, and found himself a bit of empty stone wall (kept low, he noted, and was probably intended for his purpose rather than actual walling of anything) to sit upon and peruse his purchases. He'd narrowly avoided an encounter with the Captain of the Queen's Guard, at that, who always wanted to have a chat, and if he had to listen to the man's insipid nattering about his newborn daughter one more time, Halloran was fairly certain he would sick up all over himself.
Which, he was lead to believe, gave a generally negative impression about oneself.
An hour until his tea engagement, and halfway through his cigarette, someone stepped directly into his light. He looked up and squinted at the figure, and frowned. "Pardon me," he said, standing. God damned inconsiderate buggering - "My eyes are not what they once were. Would you mind..."
Well, he wasn't going to say it. It wouldn't be polite.