Entry tags:

#day 002/02 may, locan

Who: Locan and Various NPCs (Narrative)
When: Very late morning
Where: The Silverling Estate
OOC Note: Rupert is The Last Emperor-era Peter O'Toole. Because reasons.

Locan couldn't quite remember the the words to the song he hummed as one hand pulled the wide sleeve of his fine silk robe back from his forearm, the other drawing the paintbrush in a fine line. It was an old song, that much he knew, fallen out of favor centuries before, if it had ever been popular at all. Maybe he'd heard it from a long-dead villager, or a tavern that might even still be standing today. All he knew was that it perfectly timed the strokes of paint across the canvas, and his mind and body both felt entirely centered.

He heard the footsteps as they entered the great ballroom-well, the second great ballroom in the Silverling Estate. Fine shoes echoing off of the marble mosaic floor, the clicks of heels timed so evenly Locan's inner orchestra shifted beat to match. When he began to hum low and form words, old elvish popped out, which only made him even more confused.

"My lord," came the proper, controlled, patient call a heartbeat after the footsteps ceased. Locan could almost feel the tall, wiry, regal old man standing at respectful attention only a few feet away.

Instead of looking, Locan tugged the collar of his robe up over his bare shoulder, only for it to slip down once again and expose half of his back as he continued to paint. The entirety of the garment barely clung to him, loosely tied at the wait, exposing his chest and hanging down beyond his feet and across the floor. It really was too lovely of a garment to be treated in such a way, but he supposed the fact that there was already splotches of paint on it from his last foray, and the fact that it was the easiest thing to slip on overruled practically everything else. "Rupert," he chirped plainly in acknowledgement, as if he were almost bothered by his aging steward's presence while he was exercising his creativity. He took a smooth, dramatic step back to admire his handiwork, then swooped back in again to continue.

Rupert, for his part, waited a few heartbeats before continuing in that way of his. That way that spoke of respect, trust, and long service, and at the same time wondered how the old wizard had gotten roped into a century of service to an ostentatious prat of a dragon in the first place. Locan liked to imagine that part was more affection than anything. "My lord. Is that the three-hundred-year-old Seniyo Makhati painting of Lord Lipton Hasherford the Sixth?" The man sounded almost afraid to ask.

"It was, yes," Locan sighed, his hip jutting thoughtfully and a length of bare leg showing from the folds of the robe, indicating that, as usual, he'd put nothing on under it. "I woke up from my nap and just hated it. Still love the frame and the background," he offered, as if those were both perfectly reasonable things to point out despite the horrors he was unleashing on the main subject. "But Hasherford's jowly little face bothers me."

"The man's been dead for three centuries. You've...had the painting for two," Rupert reminded him without derision. It was a simple fact, and the question there was clear. Why now? No judgment. Rupert new better.

"Woke up and hated it," Locan replied in a disturbed whisper, his bare shoulders shuddering for effect before going right back to painting. He thought he could faintly hear the entirely not surprised breath of the man behind him saying something about eight thousand gold pieces but he ignored it. Besides, the frame was worth a thousand on its own. Either way, he hadn't really known why he'd bothered to purchase a picture of the man whose greatest compliment had been to call Locan the Eighth a "Dubious Eccentric". Not wrong, but still. "Anyway, this subject appeals to me far more than a man with a pug face," he continued almost jovially as he leaned in to add a few more gems to the cluster he'd been working on a few moments earlier.

"Is that the king?" Rupert's question sounded either genuinely curious, plaintively seeking confirmation, or slightly disturbed. It was hard to tell.

"You can tell?" Locan notably perked up, twisting his lithe form around to finally look at the man, a proud grin stretching his paint speckled face.

Disturbed. Definitely disturbed. Rupert's brows rose, and for a few seconds it appeared as if he, for once, had no idea what to say to his lord. His gaze never left the painting, one eye twitching slightly as his fingers tapped against his own thigh. "Well, the crown is...fairly indicative, my lord."

"It could have been any of the Leavold's. You knew it was Cuthy, which means I've accomplished precisely what I meant to, and I'm the finest artist in Arcadie." Locan flourished his brush, as if it were formally decided, sending a streak of blue across the marble and inciting a barely stifled groan from his servant.

"You meant to give the king breasts?" Rupert asked. Plaintively seeking confirmation.

"Women are easier to paint," Locan handwaved, shaking his head a bit. "Besides, he looks fantastic. His hips are glorious. Should I give it to him? Sort of a....jubilation gift?"

"No, my lord." Skipping right over genuinely curious and going right back to disturbed.

Locan notably soured, moving to return to his work before pausing. "Did you need something, Rupert? Obviously no one's asked you to be a critic."

"You've a guest, my lord." Rupert straightened back into his work-ready pose.

"Who?" Locan frowned thoughtfully, trying to recall if he'd scheduled anything for....hell, what time of the day was it anyway? He'd barely gotten the word out when a scuffle from the long hall just outside of the ballroom drew his attention. He pretended not to notice Rupert tense as he gracefully turned, continuing to stand poised even as one hand subtly drew back, curling into a fist and began to glow. Locan knew the sort of power the wizard had at his disposal, and while it touched him that his old friend was so willing to put himself at risk for his lord, and made him a little giddy at how impressive the old coot still was, he didn't think there was any danger. At least, they both knew that the chances of it being a danger a dragon couldn't hande were slim to none. That proved to be true when a split second later, a young serving girl practically bounced into the room with three of the Silverling Estate's house guards in pursuit.

A few things happened at once, primarily that the girl dropped to her knees and bowed low in a show of fealty so inappropriate it caused Locan's indelicate snort to echo across the massive room even as he worked to straighten and secure his robe. Rupert's hand ceased its glowing and returned to a passive clutch at his front, while the house guards flanked the girl and bowed their heads to their lord.

"Apologies, my lord," the senior guard called, keeping his gaze averted, likely out of embarrassment considering Locan never expected, or wanted, that kind of deference. He sure as hell never got it from Rupert, it was about time the rest of the staff followed suit. "She was told to remain in the foyer, but...."

"Sneaky," Locan grinned before composing himself and striding toward the young woman like the regal noble he was. He pulled it off surprisingly well despite the state of him. Rupert followed along at a suitable distance, and Locan could almost feel the eye daggers of disapproval he was lobbing at the estate's security. "Rise, my dear."

The girl, dressed in familiar serving clothes, did as she was bade, grinning brightly at him. "My lord," she curtsied low, and for a few seconds Locan thought she might end up on the floor again. "I'm so ashamed," the change in the girl's pretty, chubby face was so abrupt that one of Locan's bare feet stepped back, his eyes widening as sobs spluttered from her, and for a few seconds the words that came from her mouth were almost intelligible. "I....woke up this morning in such a terrible state. I've served you so poorly! I was not near as attentive to you as is my duty, my lord! Please forgive me!"

In his peripheral vision, Locan could see Rupert slightly role his eyes as Locan first glanced to his steward for clarification on who this girl even was, then out toward the massive windows that lined the west wall for proof that it was, in fact, morning.

"How long have I been in here?" Locan whispered as the girl continued to blubber and cry, and at Rupert's equally subtle reply of twelve hours, Locan looked shocked, then disgusted as he lifted one oversized sleeve to sniff under his arm. He managed to pull himself back into an elegant pose as the girl's reddened eyes looked back up to him, and sympathy lined his face. Gods or watchers or whoever was listening, he hated it when girls cried. "No no, my dear, I'm certain you did fine," he cooed as he neared, moving his hands to her arms to help her straighten to her full height. "Don't cry. You won't be able to breathe through your nose, and that's horrible."

Through her sniffling she giggled, almost despite herself, and Locan reached out a hand toward one of his guards who was already holding out a cloth handkerchief.

Locan narrowed his gaze before a light seemingly went off in his head. "Ooooh, I know you. You're...Enna, yes? From the castle?" That was a fluke, only because he knew the girl's grandmother, who had been a child serving in the castle herself and had been an absolute delight in her younger years. Enna's face lit up as she nodded, though her brow furrowed as she seemed to zero in on something on his chest. Almost as if she couldn't help it, the handkerchief slowly moved to her mouth so she could wet the corner with her tongue, and with deliberate concentration she began to dab at one of the splotches of old paint on Locan's robes, dangerously close to the opening.

"That's quite alright, my dear," Rupert grasp was swift and firm, but gentle as his fingers found her wrist, prying her off of his lord with careful efficiency. The girl was no danger, they both seemed to realize. Strange and perhaps just innocently stupid, or drunk? But not a danger.

"Apologies, my lord." Enna looked suitably cowed, and as if she might cry again, and Locan couldn't help but toss a blameful look at Rupert, who simply straightened back to his stance as a thin, looming henge nearby.

"Enna," Locan replied carefully, smiling as much as he could now that he knew he needed to bathe quite desperately. "Does anyone from the castle know you're here?"

"Oh no, my lord. I came right here first thing to serve. I have so much to make up for," the girl replied innocently, blinking her wide, brown eyes. Locan released a slow sigh, which he managed to turn back into a tentative smile. "Enna, you're going to get an escort back home before someone's noticed you're gone, alright?" When it appeared that the girl might protest, Locan raised a finger and she submitted. "I'll be at court in a few hours and you may serve me then, alright?"

"But-" The girl looked almost panicked now, and Locan frowned, raising his hand again. She shushed.

"It would serve me if you did your job today to do your very best to serve at the castle until I arrive," he replied carefully and emphatically, leaning down so he was eye level with her, hoping that this time the point would be driven home. He didn't know what was compelling this girl, but he certainly didn't want her in trouble.

"Might-" The girl started in a squeak then stopped, clamping her lips shut and waiting for him to cut her off again, blinking before relaxing her mouth when he didn't. "Might...I help to prepare you breakfast before I part, my lord? I feel it's the very least I can do while I'm here. Please, my lord. I'll be swift and sure, my lord. I swear it."

Locan's eyes shifted to Rupert, who watched the girl with some sort of fond fascination, then nodded subtly. He knew that meant the servants, and likely Rupert himself would keep an eye on her to make sure that whatever this was didn't turn unpleasant or harmful. If there was something unusual going on, better to see if most of it could run its course here before setting her loose on court.

"Very well," Locan replied with a regal nod, and the girl squealed. She raised her arms as if to hug him, but a throat clearing from Rupert and her own propriety seemed to kick into gear at the same time, and she simply clapped her hands together. "Thank you, my lord! Thank you! You won't be sorry!"

Locan straightened and nodded again, this time to the house guard to send the girl down to the kitchens to help with breakfast. Even as the guard took her arm carefully at the elbow, her radiant smile still remained aimed at Locan. "Also, your painting is quite lovely, my lord!" And then she was gone.

"Hire her." Locan emphatically tugged on the lapels of his robe so it draped the same way it had been only a moment earlier, nodding once in the direction of the closing door. He swept around and headed back for his easel, even as Rupert sighed.