[OPEN] Open for Business

Benton takes on the disguise of a medicine vendor and doctor.

Open for Play
A large forest in Central Anaxas, the once-thriving mostly human town of Dorhaven is recovering from a bombing in 2719 at its edge.

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Benton Borteillo
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Joined: Mon Jul 09, 2018 11:15 pm
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Race: Human
Occupation: Mr. Drug Dealer Drug Man- retiring.
: aka EON, Roswell Godfrey
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Writer: Quix
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Thu Jan 03, 2019 11:16 am

Achtus 2, 2718
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T
hirteen Anaxas winters, and Benton’s Bastian body could still barely withstand the cold under the multitude of thick, dark layers he wore. He was thankful for the lack of wind to blow the snow around, thankful that the barely-freezing weather made snowflakes that were soft and lazy, not painful and belligerent, thankful that the thickly feathered moa below him was warm under the saddle and blanket she was protected in. Pigeon, the scraggly, pre-owned moa, crunched loyally through the thin layer of snow blanketing and silencing the Viendan streets. She pulled behind her the small wooden cart Mordecai and Benton had spent autumn making, and it was a surprisingly a decently handy little thing. The wheels rode straight, the cover of the selling window stayed closed, and the roof stayed secure. That was all he could ask for.

Benton was entirely not Benton. It was a confusing thing to think altogether, but, truly, Benton was in disguise. He had let his signature stubble lengthen into a beard, then created a hideous monster on his face- a mustache alone without a beard or sideburns. He had cut his hair to thin it, trained his part to flip, and trained his hair to lay flat which he happily disguised under a brown top hat. He had erased a good few years away from his age with the coloring of his hair to dark brown. Too, he wore a pair of thin, wiry spectacles perched on his nose. Though covered by the thick wool winter coat, he wore an outfit of chocolate brown- a milk chocolate coat, a dark chocolate, double-breasted waist coat, hot chocolate button fly pants, and a powdered-cocoa ascot. Godfrey’s Celebrated Medicines read the golden letters pasted onto the cart.

Benton was a man of alter-egos, and today he was debuting his latest to Vienda as Doctor Roswell Godfrey, a brilliant young medicine man of Gior, who had come to Vienda with a cart of miraculous medicines and cures to ailments like melancholy, sore throats, and arthritis ready to be tried and used and loved by any and all customers. Benton, however, knew what he could potentially be selling in those bottles. Benton could be selling addictions, and addictions to his opium-based “medicines” meant business.

Roswell Godfrey pulled at Pigeon’s reins, and the moa slowed as they entered a quiet market. He slid off of her back, pulling her to an empty market lot and coaxing her to lay down on her long legs. He unhooked the cart from her and locked its wheels, allowing it to stand freely in place as he opened the wooden shutter on the side of the cart. Here, a glass display window waited, bottles labelled as his products but filled safely and disappointingly to a thief with water advertising remedies and cures for anything. The interior of the cart, barely big enough for Benton to stand hunched over, was lined with the real deal. Laudanum droppers for aid with sleep and fussy babies, cocaine toothache drops, morphine cough syrup, and chew tobacco asthma solutions were all present on his shelf, and all, he knew, present in the shelves of many other apothecaries. Though he understood the dangers of such drugs, the public could easily ignore it, especially when he named and marketed them well. Besides, they truly worked as they were supposed to. They just could come with an extra price.

The drug business had slowed every so noticeably in the last month. Perhaps it was fear. The Seventen was pressing closer and closer, and Silas Hawke was good at keeping loyalty. With the slowing of business came the lowering of temperatures, which discouraged travel even more. Yet, it also encouraged disease to fester and brew, and enough disease would bring people looking for any kind of cure.

Godfrey pulled the wooden sign out of the cart and set it on its own legs slightly away from the cart where it could advertise the very first sales of his time in Vienda.

Doctor Roswell Godfrey had arrived in Vienda, and he was ready for business.
Last edited by Benton Borteillo on Sun Jan 13, 2019 3:46 pm, edited 4 times in total.
In hell I'll be in good company.

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Tom Cooke
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Thu Jan 03, 2019 2:53 pm

Achtus 2nd, 2718 · Afternoon · Vienda

Achtus – it was Achtus, for the Lady’s sake, and he still wasn’t gone to wherever he was planning on going. Still in Vienda and hating every ticking second that went by.

He had the day off for once, and as much as he wanted to be relieved, he couldn’t make himself feel anything other than dread and impatience; he’d had another bout of nightmares that morning and woke up hurling out his guts. By early afternoon, he’d already smoked through a couple of packs, and he still couldn’t get his hands to stop shaking. In his brain, images floated like corpses just underneath the lip of the water: bloated, pale faces, billowing hair like reeds. He kept dreaming of drowning – not in water, but in magic. In chicken-scratch, half-forgotten memories. Guilt chained around his ankle like sandbags.

His whole apartment smelled like sick and must. Mold, too, from the attic, which, on account of the rent, he couldn’t hardly complain about. He needed fresh, cold air, despite his joints’ and bones’ protest.

So he decided to take his day off at the market.

Rather than panicked, the press of the crowd made him feel safe; there was something comforting about all those faces and bodies, tall and short and thin and fat, some even with the weak, flickering fields of wicks. He’d swathed himself in a coat and scarf, tied his hair back and put on a hat to hide the red, and he couldn’t imagine that anybody’d look at him and see anything other than another down-on-his-luck, tired old wick. So he felt anonymous, and he almost forgot who he was in the frosty, bustling market – wandering through the stalls and carts, weaving through the crowd, keeping an eye out for pickpockets. Looking at the wares, for once amused and almost content.

He saw the moa before he saw the cart, and then he saw the cart before he saw the man, and what he saw didn’t altogether impress him. Still, beggars couldn’t be choosers. He shuddered and pulled his coat tighter around him, made sure the money he’d brought was still in one of his inside pockets. There were rows of bottles on the counter, filled with water, of course – Tom knew this trade, if Tom knew anything from working the Vein for most of his life – but if he ducked and squinted against the white winter light, he could see more in the cart’s musty, cramped insides.

Pausing a moment to huff against the inside of his scarf, trying to put some life into his numb face, he read the sign. It took him a mighty effort not to snort. Godfrey’s fuckin’ Celebrated Medicines? Sounds like the kind of medicines I need right about now. Celebrated. Great Lady. He approached the counter, shouldering his way past a couple that was just leaving.

“Far’ye?” he asked absently, frowning and dipping his head to peer closely at the display window. He tapped it with one fingertip, watching the light from the sun – filtering in through the narrow strips of sky between rooftops and awnings and laundry-lines – catch on the wobbling glass. ‘SLEEP,’ read one little bottle succinctly, the liquid inside tremoring just enough to make an air bubble split into two. “Doctor, uh – Godfrey, is it? What’ve you got for a man with sleep troubles, bad dreams? Fair clockin’ bad dreams, mate. I think I’ll be needin’ somethin’ a little, uh, strong –”

He glanced over at the peddler – the celebrated Dr. Godfrey in question – and stopped, stumbling over his words. A nerve in his face jumped, making his right eyelid flutter something fierce. He studied Godfrey, studied his godsawful mustache-sans-beard and his hat, wondering what was setting him off so much about this man. He didn’t think he knew anybody who looked like this, although he’d known a lot of folks in Old Rose. Still, this was specific.

“Sorry, friend, but have we met? You, uh” – he fumbled, gesturing at Godfrey’s face – “you always worn those glasses? I’d swear…” He rubbed his hands together, shivering a little. “Like a goose walked over my grave. But then I know lots of kovs, from back when I lived in Old Rose. You know.”

Tom knew he wasn’t doing himself any favors, playing at recognizing some third-rate drug peddler in the Dives who was probably off the path – and maybe in trouble with the King, too, if Tom recognized him from old times. Still, it wasn’t every day that Tom saw somebody he knew, and suddenly the world felt a little less alien. He tried to smile reassuringly, but he wasn’t sure if he’d succeeded; Vauquelin’s face hadn’t had a lot of practice with genuine smiles, and whenever Tom tried to make one, he tended to look like a shark that had just spotted a bleeding leg.

“Might also need somethin’ for arthritis. This winter, eh? Feels like I aged two decades overnight.”
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Benton Borteillo
Posts: 99
Joined: Mon Jul 09, 2018 11:15 pm
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Race: Human
Occupation: Mr. Drug Dealer Drug Man- retiring.
: aka EON, Roswell Godfrey
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Fri Jan 04, 2019 1:07 pm

Achtus 2, 2718
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A customer. His first customer, the first to test the wiles of Roswell Godfrey. With the aid of his heels, Benton towered nearly six inches above this man, an older, thinner, and more tired man than Benton ever wanted to live to be. He studied the man as he browsed the display, grubby fingers slipping out of dirty pockets to tap the glass, and Benton itched to clean the spots of fingerprints away glass immediately. He smiled, however, and listened to the ramblings of the man as he grumbled over the bottles.

The man began to explain is ailments, and Benton stepped up to the window to direct. Trouble sleeping was one thing, but to have trouble sleeping because of bad dreams? He had heard of soldiers and authors plagued by bad dreams using laudanum to ease them into sleep and give more benevolent dreams. “Good morrow, sir. Something strong for bad dreams, hm?” He feigned deep thought, looking deep into the bottles for some epiphany. Yet, as he turned to the customer to outline the options he could offer, the man had trailed off and became rather like a gaping, twitching fish attempting to flop its way back to the water.

Recognition. Benton merely raised a dark brow, turning his body towards the man to allow him full view. Internally, though, his mind was whirring as fast as it could go. This was not something he had prepared for. This had been the reason he had come to Vienda and at length attempted to disguise himself. Here, however, he was recognized by his first customer, recognized by-

By someone he didn’t recognize. And so, Benton merely tilted his head, squinted his eyes slightly, and thought about who the in the clockmaker’s hell this could be. He would be better off playing into the commonality of perhaps looking like someone else (who was, in this case, someone who he both simultaneously was and wasn’t).

Sorry, sir, but I can’t say I recognize you more ‘n I recognize anyone else in this crowd,” he explained, and that, by gods, was perhaps the only absolute truth the man would speak today.

Glasses? I’ve worn glasses since I was a wee little one in Gior, sir,” Benton crafted the story, but, still, he reached his left hand to remove his glasses and his right hand into his pocket to take out a faded kerchief, and he cleaned his glasses to humor the man. He was comfortable now, shaking away any action that would cause suspicion to fall upon his ploy and plot.

S'pose that doesn't mean we haven't crossed paths before, hm? I've been selling medicines in Old Rose before- perhaps you saw me then. What matters, though, is the here and now, and you, sir, need a bit of medication to ease your painful days and troublesome nights," Benton steered the conversation away from his own whereabouts. Gods help me if I ever become an old, nosy chap, he thought, remembering the old men in Bastia who would sit on their front stoops in the summer months and chat endlessly with whoever was stupid enough to listen.

Now, there is, as you can read, a sleeping solution there," he directed attention back to the bottle that read SLEEP, a bottle he knew to contain a diluted solution of morphine. It worked to put people to sleep, but, no, it wouldn't stop bad dreams. “However, that will only put you to sleep. By the sound of it, you're not having trouble falling asleep, but rather staying asleep because of your dreams? If so, I'd like to direct your attention here." His thickly-gloved fingers trailed the glass to a small red bottle reading CREATIVITY. He slid the glass back, and retrieved the stoppered bottle from inside.

Now, I realize creativity isn't exactly what you're looking for, but the other effects of this solution may be. This is a solution used by artists and authors to help their creativity flourish," he twisted the rubber-gum top off of the bottle, and pinched it to fill the glass dropper with liquid. He extracted the dropper, now filled with the faked solution- water. “If you take a few drops of this solution before you lay down to sleep, it'll not only help you fall asleep but stimulate your brain to enter a more pleasant dream state," he explained, then restoppered the bottle and replaced it in the cabinet window.

If you're still not convinced on this one, through specific dosage, it can also alleviate the pain of your arthritis throughout the day. Of course, there are other options for you, too. The other sleeping solution, for example, or simple pain relief... All up to the customer." Benton smiled and awaited his customer's wish.
In hell I'll be in good company.
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Tom Cooke
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Fri Jan 04, 2019 11:27 pm

2 Achtus, 2718 · Afternoon · The Dives

The kov was treating him like a doddering old man, but he was getting used to that by now, and he couldn’t see as he could do anything about it. The longer he spent like this, the more he could see the advantages in it. You saw Tom Cooke on the street in Old Rose, you knew he was trouble, and you might even recognize him as one of Hawke’s men; now, though, if you didn’t recognize him as an incumbent or a golly, you might not think anything of him, and there were a whole lot of advantages went along with that. He might not be able to use his fists to get him out of trouble, but maybe he’d gotten tired of that a long time ago. He was starting to realize he had other things going for him, like his head, when he wasn’t too drunk to use it.

Contrary to his expectations, the good doctor turned toward him, even humored him by taking off his glasses. That was smart: if you didn’t want to be recognized, you sure as hell didn’t act like it. The more Tom looked at him, though, the more conflicted his impressions got; he still felt that ghost of familiarity, but the more he looked at Godfrey’s mustache and his clothes and his thin brown hair, the less confident he was that he knew him.

Then, in Cooke’s mind, the mustache melted away, and the hat came off, and –

Fuckin’ EON. What in Alioe’s name – is that him? Here? He remembered the dealer in scrambled snapshots, snippets of a whole image like hazy reflections in broken glass: tense conversations in dark places, that scruffy, dimpled, mischievous face; he remembered shouting something – couldn’t remember what – and bloodying himself. He remembered a flail and the tang of blood in his mouth. A flail? A gods-damned flail. I may not remember much, these days, but I remember that. Most importantly, he remembered towering over the shifty fuck. That was something he’d never do again.

He hadn’t liked Eon, that was true – but when he was alive, Tom hadn’t really liked anybody. Hadn’t really liked anything; his attitude toward life had been a grit-toothed tolerance, with flashes of violence and rage and drunken contentedness. Nowadays, life was catching him in mellower moods, and he couldn’t say he wasn’t a little tickled to see the Bastian toft here. A little island of familiarity. They were both clock-stoppers, and Tom wasn’t Hawke’s dog anymore.

But what was he supposed to say? Of course you don’t recognize me, he imagined himself saying, leaning over the counter to speak at a conspiratorial distance. See, I died, an’ now I’m a ghost – you still with me? – and I strangled the life out of this nancy, and now I’m wearin’ his skin like a fuckin’ hat. But it’s me, Tom “Knife-in-the-Guts” Cooke – ain’t you happy to see me?

Terrifying. And entirely unbelievable.

Strange, the things that perked Tom up now. Show him a guy from Old Rose who’d beaten the living shit out of him, and he’d be pleased as punch to see a familiar face.

He tore his mind away from his thoughts and squinted at the dropper in the Bastian’s hands. “Creativity, eh?” He reckoned his nightmares were creative enough without help. But he knew his pharmaceuticals well enough to guess which ones were laudanum, morphine, cocaine, belladonna extract – in life, nightshade had been a particular favorite of his, when he’d had the chance to take it recreationally. (Those were some trips, he thought, although he wasn’t in too much of a hurry to repeat the experience. He also recalled poisoning some folks with it, which helped. Versatile plant.) His favorites had been the ones that slowed you down, spaced out the seconds by yards instead of inches, made you feel like tomorrow couldn’t be as bad as you thought it’d be when you were sober.

“Well,” he said after a moment, as if deliberating, “nobody’s ever accused me of being creative.” He whistled, lifting his eyebrows. “But before I decide, maybe you’d be so kind as to show me your other, uh – tincture – for sleep? And what’ve you got for pain relief? You know, my back’s not as good as it used to be…”

He was stalling for time, wondering how best to tick with the celebrated Dr. Godfrey before he paid up and took his leave. Wasn’t every day you ran into somebody you recognized – somebody who couldn’t possibly recognize you. Tom had never played this game before.

He swept the display case again with his eyes, tapping it next to one labeled ‘MUSCLE TONIC’. “I’m familiar with the coca leaf – comes from Naulanon, don’t it? Worked for me once when I got dizzy, too.” In truth, he’d taken that recreationally, too. He snorted. “Good to see a familiar face from Old Rose doing business here in the capital, by the way. D’you like it here? I reckon it all blends together for you doctors, though. Different places, same ailments, eh? Arthritis is the same even in, uh... Gior.

“Modern medicine.” He whistled again. “Though some things” – and he pointed to another bottle, one labeled ‘COSMETIC’ that he knew was belladonna – “have worked for eons, ain’t they?”
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Benton Borteillo
Posts: 99
Joined: Mon Jul 09, 2018 11:15 pm
Topics: 8
Race: Human
Occupation: Mr. Drug Dealer Drug Man- retiring.
: aka EON, Roswell Godfrey
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Tue Feb 19, 2019 9:57 pm

Achtus 2, 2718
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Eons. Had he-? There was no way he had-?

Benton, EON, blinked, his smile still plastered to his face as the edges twitched down slightly. He caught them before they fell, though, like a quick move of the hand catching a glass knocked off the table by an elbow, forcing the muscles to tighten again, pull his mouth back into a service-worthy smile. Yet, now Benton felt the prickling of his skin beneath his coat, and it wasn't because of the cold that pushed its way up his sleeves. Twice, Benton had felt the fear of this man recognizing him. Twice, Benton had tried to know who this man was, and he rarely forgot a face, especially not one of a snivelling galdor. Yet, as hard as he tried, this face did not surface in his memory at all. And this, though it served to comfort him before, made him nervous. Had someone sent this man to find him? He attempted to run down a list of all the people who had any motive to kill him, hurt him, or keep tabs on him, but there wasn't time. Cor, Silas, Aziza, and Olin, to name a few, all for different reasons, all to do different things to him: capture, kill, confront, beat.

Benton pushed his- no, Roswell Godfrey's- glasses back up his nose, preparing to jump back into the conversation.

"Options," he began, forcing himself back into the conversation Roswell Godfrey was having without Benton. "Of course." He reached up to the display, pulling the light, foggy blue bottle of SLEEP away and replacing it with CREATIVITY.

Before he could explain the tonic in his best service voice, the man began making small talk. Small talk was a danger. Any slip of the story gave him away, any inconsistency pulled off his disguise. He looked up from the sleeping tonic to where the man pointed, to the purple-bottled MUSCLE TONIC.

"Aye, that's the coca leaf," he confirmed with a nod. "A bitch to get this time of year, what with the weather in Naulanon and the iced trade routes."

"It was always easier to get what I needed in Old Rose, I'll say that. The ports were always open with what I needed, or at least some corner merchant had it," he explained. motioning to the near-empty street around them as the fat snowflakes drifted slowly around.

He turned back to the cart, sliding the window closed with the tips of his gloved fingers. He smirked slightly, his whole body raising with amusement before he turned his head back to his customer. "Don't miss the smell of fish or vomit much."

"To cause sleep, to relieve pain," he explained and pulled the subject back on course, holding up the bottle as the cold glass fogged around the warmth of his hands. He could feel the liquid sloshing about in the bottle, diluted morphine that induced sleep and relieved nearly any physical pain. "Quiets fussy babies, too." He added with a smile, perhaps some grandchild, or, hell, even a child of this man, as the galdor men were with their young wives and families, was too fussy for this old curmudgeon.

"So, what'll it be, Mr.-?" and Benton stopped, his head whipping away to glare over his glasses and into the grey of Achtus. There was a boot crunching in the snow. Another customer. He shivered where he stood, a bit nervous to take on two fiends at once, especially with this one hinting that he was on to him. Oh, well, he thought, calculating the time it would take him to grab the flail inside the wagon, to jump onto Pigeon and hightail it out of there. He'd make it out eventually. He always did.
In hell I'll be in good company.
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Rhys Valentin
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Fri Feb 22, 2019 2:01 pm

2nd of Achtus, 2718
LOW TOWN | AFTERNOON
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"Clocking busywork." Rhys hissed under his breath, fingers straying to fidget with the snaps at his collar, having already set a brisk pace through the city streets. The Sergeant was practically a lanky, buzzing mass of nervous energy, full of pent up anxiety over the trial that awaited him tomorrow—that awaited Mrs. Charity Valentin and himself tomorrow, actually. A list had been left on his desk this morning of streets to investigate, Captain Arthur Haines deciding that the best way to keep the tall blond from getting into trouble was to keep him moving. It was out of ordinary for the Sergeant to be given field work anymore, at least field work that felt suspiciously like some assignment the Patrol Division just didn't want to fuck with. It wasn't a bust or a sting. It wasn't an interview of witnesses. It was simply following up on leads, and very minor looking leads at that.

Only, he'd certainly added his own challenge. Instead of allowing him his usual partner of Constable Pots, the bespectacled galdor having instead to submit his testimony in writing to the court by that afternoon for tomorrow's trial, Constable Monica Delacore was to be his assignment for the day.

Good Lady, what an unnecessarily strange twist of fate.

Not that Rhys ever suspected that Arthur knew of his previous relationship with Monica while contemporaries in Numbrey—did anyone? They'd made attempts at keeping themselves—no, not quiet—hardly given their tempestuous personalities—but at least a little secretive despite being young and training to investigate secrets instead of bury them. Perhaps, ultimately, they'd learned more of one than the other, but the young Valentin had only been hiding from his hurt even then and had left nothing but ashes in his wake for years.

Constable Delacore was no exception to his self-destructive, shitty choices while pining for the woman he'd finally found himself returned to, the delicate pianist he'd just as secretly made his wife but two days prior, just in time to flaunt the legality of such a scandalous civil union in her father's face on the stand tomorrow.

Not that the blonde Seventen next to him knew a thing, of course, despite how well they'd once known each other ... right? Whatever side she knew, it wasn't his. Aware that she was in her own way like so much of their organization supportive of Co-Captain D'Arthe's methodologies, Rhys very much doubted she knew of the powerful ersehats homelife or of his history of leaving dead family members in his wake, Charity almost included. It was one thing to idolize someone who pretended to be strong, and it was another altogether to feed that monster. Too many had already made a swollen, insatiable beast out of Damen as it was. Tomorrow would surely prove that.

"Two more streets. Then we can just push reports around from our desks. Maybe." The Sergeant grumbled, reaching into his coat to pull out a neatly folded sheet of paper, the names on which he'd meticulously crossed off, "This all feels like a wild goose chase to keep me out of the office, to be honest. Is Haines paying you overtime to spend this whole day with me, Mon—Constable?" He bit his lip, a familiar sarcastic humor in the tones of his voice, jaw clenching because as much as he was desperate for a friend, as much as he longed to unload the burden he'd carried all clocking day around with him, he was aware he'd burned all those bridges years ago and had little hope of rebuilding them, "Clocking hell. There's no sign of any illicit behavior in any of these wards of the Dives. What a joke."

He'd hardly made much conversation all morning, perhaps afraid of saying the wrong thing, perhaps far too lost in his own nervous thoughts, but as the hours crept toward afternoon, he couldn't handle his own self-imposed silence, his head too crowded to keep it all in anymore. Turning another corner and letting his blue eyes wander over the crowd in one of the smaller market squares in the poorer side of town they found themselves in, noting the stalls that were familiar and lingering on the cart and the moa that were not regulars to the area at all,

"Maybe I spoke too soon." Rhys grunted, tucking his list away and tilting his head in the general direction of a man in glasses, his wooden sign, and the small crowd of oogling customers. From this distance, it was hard to tell if anyone was a wick or not, but writs had been revoked and as much as it bothered the very knowing not-galdor officer to do so, he still had the law to uphold when it came to his kind who were in the city illegally without employer sponsorship.

Was that other man in the crowd a galdor? This far into the Dives? Perhaps some factory employee from the Soot District, looking to keep his charges working longer. Or some strung out toffin no longer willing to pay for King's Crop in Uptown. Who knew?

"Won't hurt to say hello. Shall we?"
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Monica Delacore
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: mind is willing, soul remains
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Sun Feb 24, 2019 10:12 pm

ACHTUS 2, 2718
THE DIVES ⋆ AFTERNOON
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This entire day was a tad too ridiculous for Monica to be amused with. Why was it that she, one of the department's best (as far as she was concerned), had to tend to the lower-city streets with a painfully silent partner instead of investigating something important? Those little leads from Captain Haines were hardly worth their time, and the Sergeant walking beside her surely had to feel the same.

It was all just a ruse, she figured, an excuse to keep the man out of the office's tumultuous conditions as of late. None of them were immune to the effects of the trial Valentin had brought upon Captain D'Arthe, certainly not herself - for all the naive little butterflies that had fluttered once at every mention of Sergeant Valentin's name, she was a grown woman now and hardly cared to sympathize with him or his weak accusations. It made it all the more irritating to be thrown so uselessly into this patrol with him; the constable ignoring the silence in favor of focusing on their surroundings. If she couldn't be investigating something useful, she could at least make sure not to miss anything of interest while on this redundant little mission.

The blonde held her arms crossed over her chest, pulled close to her body, her light jacket not providing nearly enough warmth over her uniform as she would've liked on the cold Achtus afternoon. There was a dusting of pink to her pale cheeks, but it didn't dare to rival the red of her lips; painted carefully and with her usual precision. Even if she had to spend her day chasing useless leads, she was going to look presentable doing it.

Her light-blue gaze flicked over to the Sergeant, observing his face for a brief moment before looking back to the streets before them. She offered a nod in response, "I'd be alright with reports for once if it meant getting out of this cold."

Valentin's little, curved attempt at humor wasn't missed by the constable, the woman raising an eyebrow.

"I do wish he would. I should get a damned raise for putting up with you for a whole day, Sergeant Valentin," despite her words the tone was light, the blonde clearly not bothered now that her partner had decided to break the irritatingly long silence, "and yes, as much as I love walking around all day doing nothing, I wish it wasn't all so... ordinary. The Dives have never been so boring."

As they turned the corner and the space in front of them opened up a bit, leading to a collection of people and stalls and carts, Monica made a small noise of approval. Finally the constable's expression lightened ever-so-slightly; pleased with the prospect of finding something, anything to do, the corners of her mouth curving upwards in a small smile to the sergeant.

"I think so," she agreed, eyes leaving the taller to look back to the stall in question. The small group surrounding it didn't concern her all that much, her gaze wandering over them as she continued on towards the stall, but one figure almost stopped her in her tracks.

If it wasn't for the officer beside her, Monica might've turned around.

Was that... Incumbent Vauquelin? Their last meeting had went rather poorly, and she certainly hadn't imagined - or hadn't wanted - to run across him again anytime soon. However, the blonde proceeded to approach the stall, her light eyes lingering on the galdor for a moment longer than necessary.

As they grew closer, Monica made her way to the front, narrowed eyes falling upon the curious man running the cart. Not a wick, that was fortunate, but what the hell was he selling to attract someone like the incumbent? Perhaps it was more out of personal curiosity than professional, but Monica couldn't help but wonder why the galdor was still sticking to these parts of town.

"Excuse me, sir. Constable Delacore and Sergeant Valentin; might I inquire as to what you're selling here on such a cold day?"
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Benton Borteillo
Posts: 99
Joined: Mon Jul 09, 2018 11:15 pm
Topics: 8
Race: Human
Occupation: Mr. Drug Dealer Drug Man- retiring.
: aka EON, Roswell Godfrey
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Plot Notes: Plot Notes
Writer: Quix
Post Templates: Post Templates
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Fri Apr 19, 2019 2:47 pm

Achtus 2, 2718
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Gears and gaskets.

Before he could finish even his first transaction, before he could even finish persuading one unfortunate customer, Benton was greeted by the slickly oiled hand of trouble without any semblance of ethereal commiseration. The small crowd of curious rosy cheeks and inquiring lopsided stocking hats that had gathered to watch the spectacle of a foreign vendor and the galdor he had attracted- both interesting sights to the poor human eye- shuffled back and thinned away, the trance they were held in broken and instead caught by the two Seventen that approached, a man and woman clad in their impeccable green winter uniforms. The man, a pale, blonde thing made for the sunlessness of winter, was as tall as Benton, an oddity in a galdor uniform. The woman, her skin a pale wax among the stained and marred skin of the human peasantry around her, was visually the galdor he hated- the galdor who had not fought for her life or livelihood a day in her life. Benton had never been good with charming the Seventen; he hoped Roswell was better. The woman spoke to him first, and there was no hostility he sensed in her, not yet. Good.

"Hallo madam, sir. I'm Roswell Godfrey," Benton greeted them calmly, setting the display bottle back in the case before giving the two his full attention. He kept with him the painful clockwork of Godfrey's movements, and he straightened the front of his coat as he looked them over, watched the language of their manner. "I'm selling affordable and quick-acting remedies to the commonalities of winter and the home- sore throats, coughs, sleeplessness, and aching joints among them- in the interest of a healthier people." He pointed to each of the colored bottles behind him in turn as he announced some of their purposes. An edge pushed its nervous way through his stomach, but his mental narrative quelled it. He was not lying. His motives were questionable, but he knew, for a fact, that the tonics he had crafted did as they were supposed to. Coca eased pain, morphine eased a sleepless man into his bed, and laudanum erased the paranoia of bad dreams. His ethos, however, would be helped by the galdor customer he had before him, a trustworthy, in their eyes, source to vouch for his dealings, he hoped.

"This gentleman has requested a remedy for bad dreams, sleeplessness, and aching joints," Benton motioned gloved hands towards the galdor. "And I so happen to have remedies for all three that he expressed some interest in."

Benton set himself back into sales mode. "And they're wonderfully cheap and effective. If they don't work for you, sir, then you simply need to return to me, and I will return your coins." And this was an offer that a man who knew his medicines were fake wouldn't make, but Benton knew in his thirteen years in the business that they would work wonderfully for his pocket and his patients before addiction struck some of the unfortunate. He smiled back at the two Seventen. "I promise you, Constable, that it is only an honest business I bring to your city today."
In hell I'll be in good company.
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