A Portrait of Words

[Aurelien LeClair]

Hamis 27, 2718
Mid-Morning

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Theraldon was not a name unknown to Aurélien. If one had a like of liquor, namely whisky, they would know of the Theraldons. Aurélien was such man, though he rarely indulged, afraid of the depressing effects that alcohol brought to the person who consumed it. He was a busy man, someone who couldn’t spare more than necessary to sleep, let alone succumb to the influence of drink. Of all the tasks he had on his mind, the one he headed towards now was the one he least wanted to complete. It, however, was necessary. He did not know the price of the commission, though, so he carried a purse gold plated concords with him that morning. After the invoice was received, he would be reimbursed, so he was not worried.

Aurélien was on his way to the house of Khymarah Theraldon, a young woman who had made a name for herself by offering her artisanal skills to the aristocracy of Anaxas, mainly in Vienda from what Aurélien understood. Of all the professional artists listed on the firm’s registry, Khymarah’s name was the one that stood out the most to him - he realized now it was because of a vague sense of familiarity compartmentalized away in the back of mind. He couldn’t lay his finger on where he knew the name from - the given name, not the sur. Curiosity had driven him onward out of the office and into the main thoroughfares of Vienda, where he hailed a carriage and asked to be taken to the address given.

He studied one of the many cases assigned to him while in the back of the carriage; it was something to do with a property dispute between two plantations. Seemingly easy on the outside, there were several nuances that could be easily missed, especially by those not educated in the many complexities of land. Thankfully he was no such person, but even this case befuddled him to a point.

Just as he was entering the trance of concentration, lulled on by the drumming of the carriage’s wheels beneath him and the horse’s hoofbeats before him, his ride came to an end. The driver turned to view him and smiled, tipping his hat in a mixture of so long and farewell. Aurélien produced the driver’s fare then slid from the carriage with his bag in tow. He brought the strap of his bag over his head and hung it off his shoulder as he gazed at the small house in front of him. Much like other houses in the area, while they were quaint in appearance, they held character in all the same aging grace.

He started up to the doorway, adjusting his suit at the breast and pulling his cuffs down on his wrists. His hair had grown at his fringe, washing over his dark brows and hiding the fore of his head. The home’s address was marked on the side of the door, so he brought out a paper from an inside pocket of his coat and made sure they matched up. His firm had made the appointment on his behalf, having sent a runner nearly a week earlier to ensure that Aurélien could get his portrait made in ready time. His last portrait had been painted nearly five years ago, and it needed to be updated. He already knew he would send the old one to his family estate on the outskirts of town. His mother would love it.

Aurélien raised a hand to grasp the knocker, using it to announce his presence to Khymarah - hopefully inside. While he waited, he used another hand to pat down the fly-aways at the crown of his head. Even though this was something he didn’t want to set aside the time for, he still wanted to look nice in his painting.

[Khy Marah]

Hamis 27th, 2718
VIENDA | MID-MORNING

Khymarah sipped her tea, turning the page of her grimoire slowly as she glanced at the clock on the wall. She’d had a messenger last week, requesting an appointment for of all things a law firm. Her subject, one of their employees she could only assume? Accepting the appointment had been easy enough, and so now it was just a matter of waiting for her mystery guest.

Around her studio—a room only just to the left of her quaint living room—the red head had already set herself up for her commission. Pencils, paints, brushes, cloths, thinners and a large stretched canvas all waited patiently and perfectly organised. The galdor herself wore a cleverly patterned brocade dress in blue, the silky weave picking up oranges, greens and pinks in its iridescent sheen. If it were to fall victim to stray paint, both the materials texture and color made it much less obvious.

The sharp rap of her door knock drew the woman from her studies, and even as she closed her grimoire and stood, Florence moved to open the door. The passive, about the same age as Khymarah with strawberry blonde hair pulled into a neat bun curtsied respectfully to Aurélien and opened the door wide.

“Good Morning Sir, I assume you’re Miss Theraldon’s appointment? Please, this way sir.” She would bow, waiting for the man to step inside and closing the door. Moving through the living room, Florence showed the galdor through to the studio, where Khymarah stood pinning the final waves of her thick scarlett hair away from her face. The artist glanced at the man with a warm smile and a slight tilt of her head.

“Thankyou Florence. Please, come in Mister...?” She left his name hanging, waiving her hand at a comfortable high backed chair on the other side of her canvas. After a moment, the galdor made a small laugh.

“Apologies, you look awfully familiar, but I can’t recall painting you before. Perhaps we’ve met in passing some time?” From the mantle of a small fireplace that dominated a wall in her studio, a chirrup of greeting sounded, and if he looked Aurélien would notice a burgundy osta watching him with curious golden eyes. Florence hovered, waiting for his coat and bag if required.

“Would you care for something to drink? Florence can fix you anything you need, just say the word.”

[Aurelien LeClair]

It took but a moment for Aurélien to hear the latch of the door sound off in a faint click, telling him that his knock was to be answered. He composed himself one final time. Aurélien was dressed in a monochromatic way - his frock coat was black and buttoned to cover his chest and came appropriately to the knee of his grey-toned trousers. The cuffs of his dress shirt peeked from under the sleeves of his coat and were white, accenting nicely with the dark colors he wore. There were dark dress shoes on his feet, matching with his tie that showed around his neck, tucked under the collar of his shirt. He was wearing a clean and black waistcoat underneath that, but it was barely noticeable. The bag holding his important documents slung over his shoulder was made of fine dark leather - a gift from his mother. The only thing Aurélien was missing was a hat to tie everything together, but he loathed them and only wore them when absolutely necessary - at the most formal of occasions.

He finished his quick examination of himself just in time for the door to swing open. A woman with light hair appeared and greeted him. It took a moment of examination and feeling, but Aurélien couldn’t detect a strong field around this woman. Her appearance, though, led him to believe that she was passive and not a wick or human. He still was cordial to her despite the suspicion.

“Yes,” he said. Aurélien stepped inside the home and strode a short distance into the entryway, allowing the passive to shut the door behind him. When the passive moved, he did, too, following her. He shrugged off his bag as he tread, choosing to hold it by the handle instead of the straps. Another woman was waiting just past the living room in what he assumed to be a studio by its set up. He also assumed said woman was Khymarah, the artist.

He looked around the studio, taking note of the high-backed chair on the other side of the easel. He supposed that was where he was to sit for the duration of this appointment. Aurélien’s sights fell to Khymarah, noticing her vaguely familiar red locks and even more familiar features. There was no doubt that she was a galdor if the sense of familiarity was that strong.

The passive, Florence, was dismissed and he was waved in by the artist. “Aurélien LeClair,” he filled the void left by Khymarah as he followed her guiding hand. He walked passed the easel to his destined seat and took note of Florence nearby as Khymarah spoke. Used to such service, he extended his bag to the passive when she offered her assistance and then moved to undo his coat and slide that off, too, to give to Florence.

“Thank you,” he said to the passive quietly, though his voice was genuine.

Aurélien turned to sit in the chair, hiking up his trousers just before he sat down then smoothing out his waistcoat and straightening his tie. He shared Khymarah’s laugh with a low chuckle of his own.

“You know, I was thinking the same thing actually,” he said to her. “I saw your name on the registry my firm provided. I know your surname well, given the whiskey your family produces, but your given name also tolls a bell.” A soft smile resided on his plush lips, accenting the lowness of his voice with a subtle sweetness. “Perhaps we attended Brunnhold at the same time?”

Aurélien let his question hang in the air as he honed his attention in on Khymarah’s field, attempting to glean what information he could from the outer layer. His own field was warm and welcoming, reflecting his mood to a washed out degree.