RP:Descending Arpeggio
Part of the A Few Fox Tales Arc
This is a Mage's Guild RP.
This is a Rogue's Guild RP.
Summary: Ina needs some new clothes for the upcoming Mage Commencement Ceremony! Where better to get some new threads, than Iintahquohae's shop for some new threads. Afterhours. Don't mind the picked locks. Or the part where she gets caught in the act.
|| It was a pleasant evening in Cenril. After everything that had been done to re-establish order, the city was finally beginning to catch its breath. Enough so, at least, that there was a healthy smattering of vendors dotting the streets and enthusiastically vending their wares. For the first time that evening, the figure striding through the streets took a pause to really take in the city- to bask in the scent of fresh bread, and sea salt mingled harmoniously, as though it might quell the city's sordid underside. It's only when the shadow of a wyvern passes overhead that she breaks free of her trance- leerily staring at the large crate clutched between its claws, and the distracted nature of its rider as it circled above, skimming over the address details.
Better to resume her shopward-bound venture. Sure, the hour was late, and there were -fantastic- odds that the lock was closed, and the owner wasn't present. But, ...when had that -ever- stopped Ina. In fact, even when her brief movement to open the front door aroused the attention of the local guard- the only thing she needed to do was turn around, and shoot an awkward smile, "Locks' stuck." After all, what stared back at the guard wasn't the mischief-laden expression of the foxkin, but a carefully crafted mimicry of the shops' proprietress- one pieced together through several visits spent asking awkward questions about fabrics, adjustments to clothes, and a bout of windowshopping for a sometimes troubles-prone fella. Between the seemingly seamless skinwalking, and the utilitarian clothes that would be right at home for someone toying with dyes- there was little to give Ina away to a casual onlooker. Well, beyond the altogether haughty shift of her hip that ensues after the guard turns away. Still, with him gone, that meant she could entrust the wholeness of her attention to overcoming the lock.
A process that soon sees her stepping into the shop, a small satchel around slipping free of her arm as she looks for a proper addition to her wardrobe. "Now, what'd be right fer tha' occasion?"
Iintahquohae usually locked her shop up when it was closed for the day, but with it being buried beneath the sand on along Cenri's northern coast and her house directly beneath that, sometimes she or her parents forgot. She has the excuse this time around that she's still grieving, still utterly out of sorts, over Odhranos' death. It's frankly pitiful. Pathetic. Perhaps understandable, but she shouldn't be so irresponsible. Mannequins on the shop floor are her family's silent alarm system for intruders, and one of those wooden humanoid-shaped constructs with their beady gemstone eyes has noticed something not quite correct. The sign on the lower set of doors into the shop proper was flipped to indicate that the shop is closed. Said sign is the mannequin's trigger to sense out anything that might be amiss, such as the door opening and closing with that sign on it indicating that it most definitely should not be opening or closing now. It should be locked.
The seamstress, in the floor below the shop in one of the rooms hewn from earth and stone beneath the sand, is working away at a weaving loom since the job never truly ended even if she's locked up (or should have) for the night. The open, subterranean space below the shop that her family call their living room looks like your average living space. The walls are panelled with wood, rugs line the cold stone floor, and an old lumpy couch upholstered in powder pink, floral embroidered fabric with matching chairs and a low table between them all dominate the space, with Inks occupying one of the chairs with her lap loom. The only real oddity is that the walls, though underground, possess curtained windows of paned glass. Behind that glass are paintings of various settings. Rynvale's coastline, the port city itself with a sunset backdrop, Venturil's plains. The most recent addition is a scene of the Xalious Mountain Range, with a tower the seamstress used to enjoy visiting in the distance. Lanterns hang from the ceiling via chains, with one curiously unlit. She passes a wooden boat-shaped shuttle loaded with red thread over its matching warp stretched over heddles, and in the midst of beating down the threads, and it's only then that she notices that unlit lantern illuminated with light. A brilliant red flame. Something is amiss upstairs. With an audible groan of displeasure, she sets her loom down and gets up to head upstairs and see just what caused the problem. There's hope that it's merely Odhranos, miraculously back to life and ambling in after....well, being brought back to life, and that they'll finally have the tearful reunion the seamstress has so often envisioned.
Instead what she finds once she's up the stairs and pushed through the door at the far end of the shop, is an actual intruder, a thief. ...One of Hudson's people? She squints, not recognizing the foxkin at all, but she catches the tail end of what's been said. Inks could fly into a rage here and boot the person out, but there was the whole...trying to be honourable among thieves deal she tried to abide by, given she smuggled and this shop was somewhat of a cover for it. She's got options here, and flying into a rage in her shop with all its valuables in the line of fire didn't sound smart. So she switches tactics. Inks was already downstairs working anyway, so maybe she can switch gears and work some more on a newer project. “What's the occasion?” She asks, after shutting the door behind her so the sound of wood scraping wood in its frame is too audible to miss. Inks wasn't much for sneaking after all.
Ina's hooliganism was already on the verge of beginning by the time Inks had crept up the stairs, the fox having left her proverbial hair down- with the reappearance of her twin tails, and charming ears. Additions which may look a bit uncanny, given that when Ina turns around to face the source of the voice, she's still wearing Iintahquohae's face. It's about this point, that Ina realizes the terrible flaw in her 'fantastic' plan, and firmly veers into the wide, and wild realms of improvisation. And in this case, surrendering sounds like a start. Without a second thought, her hands are up- heedless of the fact that there's already a pointed hat being clutched in one. Well, maybe a little heedful, since she makes a furtive attempt at sliding it behind her back, "Uh." What -is- the occasion? She gawps for a second, realizing that just about anything she might answer with could, and likely would be used against her in a court of law. Or as justification to just gank her.
"S' my..." Her non-hat toting hand shifts to awkwardly scratch at the side of her head, before she flops forward in an exaggerated hunch that has her hand practically eaten by the sleeve of her shirt. "It's jus' a whole thing. Very short notice. Very unbirthday like 'n I jus'," The increasing tempo of her words are abruptly cut short as her hand slithers back out of her sleeve, a full-sized cast iron pan somehow produced from within, and sent hurtling up towards the seamstress's skull. Which, might have been a threat if she was...not an elder vampire. Made all the more insulting by Ina's general lack of muscle. ...Not that Ina's really going to register this immediately. She's still too busy trying to finish the swing so she can get the pan up to her shoulder and then pose dramatically- as though this were somehow a 'Fait accompli' and she can go back to burglarizing the joint.
The sight of her own face on another person's body has Iintahquohae initially stunned, then confusedly blinking, and finally ending with a suspicious squint of her eyes. ...Then she's mentally making guesses. Who is this? The only illusionist that she's ever known was Lanlan, so...
“Ha-ha, funny Lan. I know you want your jacket done -” She steps forward, wondering silently to herself why in the world the illusionist didn't just bang on the door and yell for her to come out. He paid her well, so the seamstress had absolutely no problem with dropping some personal work in her free time to the side for a client like him. But that hat in his hand? Not really his style, and he looks thoroughly mortified. This isn't Lan, is it? Is he drunk? Playing a game? “You wanna...You wanna change your face back and sit down? I can pull the jacket out so you can have a lo-” A whole thing. Very short notice. Huh? So he changed his voice as well. Ah. Took a minute, but now Inks understands. With the way Sal harasses him, he probably chose a disguise to pay a visit. Clever. But he's still keeping up the act, and her brows narrow. “Lan, it's fine. You know you're always welcome her-” The sight of that cast iron pan pulled from a sleeve has Inks blinking confusedly yet again. “Dammit, Lan-” She decides to use her rarely revealed vampiric speed and moves toward the foxkin at a speed that she probably couldn't match, just so she can simply pluck the kitchenware-turned-weapon from her. Inks still hasn't figured out this isn't Lanlan, and even if she strove to be nice to the guy, she lowers a glare at him. What the hell, dude.
“Settle down,” Inks murmurs. She tries to make light of this hilarious, ridiculous misunderstanding by making a playful swat just above Ina's head with the pan. “C'mon, let's get you something better than that hat,” said, while she makes the likely foolish decision to turn her back on Ina and head for her desk. “How's the jerkin I made for you doing? Does it need any alterations?” Once at the desk, she flops down into a seat and sets the pan on top of the desktop, then starts searching through drawers. Eventually, she frees a clay teapot from a drawer (already filled with water, hopefully not stale), and a box of tea. It's a habit and a trick picked up from Odhranos bit with her twist to it since she didn't keep river rocks hand to heat up. Instead, she lets magicked heat gather into her palms and holds them up against the teapot to in turn heat the vessel and water within it, all while dipping her chin toward the empty chair directly across from her. “I'd ask Mom to bring something up but she's probably sleeping...” and wasn't Lanlan picky or typically refuse things like this? Something tells her that her mother's snacks might be subpar for him, and it probably didn't help that Inks' family lived right under the sand. He might think their food is dirty.
Oh. Oh, No. It had started to sink in during her less-than-genuine surrenderings, but it only really has time to -truly- solidify as a thought when she's deprived of her improvised armament in a surreal display of speed. She was in danger. The worst part of it all, however, was not the physical component of the situation- even if the motion had been smooth enough to leave a lingering warmth in her hand from a friction burn. No, the crack in her near perpetual giddiness was the simple fact that she'd found herself inadvertently stepping into Lanlan's shoes- and making a mess of his business within -seconds-. Endangering the things he'd been working on. That they'd been- Her introspection was starting to drag on now, and it's all she can do to keep her composure as the frying pan whooshes in an arc above her head- a casual jest that probably held enough power to paint her brains across the wall, if it had been lower. She purses her lips at the thought, and at the simple manic notion that this would at -least- be a funny situation to explain to the archmage in a seance session.
And then she starts to lie. It starts simple enough, her breath, once caught in her throat, coming out in a sigh of exasperation that sounds acutely familiar to her memories of the drow. Her right hand draws up next, sliding across her face in a measured motion that obscures her eyes long enough to focus them into that distinctly uncanny shade of red that marked the man as a resident of the Underdark, though perhaps a little bit brighter. She can't quite hide the mirth within, even as it mingles with a sense of uncertainty. "You didn't have to retrieve it like that." Whilst Ina has, in past, practiced Lanlan's voice as she enacted dramatically exaggerated stories of herself and the Magus- there's a distinct uncanniness in how accurate it sounds here. The peevishness in his voice floats to the surface a bit too sharply, carrying the admonishment she feared he'd harbour later. "I knew you'd catch it. I wanted to show you what I'd been working on." How had their argument gone? Abrupt. Mercurial. It had been her fault, but, then- he'd recovered, adeptly. His voice had brought them back to the present, to what needed to be done. But the lie. The lie was important now, and she needed one tailored to the vampire- who expected her to be someone familiar to them both, "It's part of a system." That doesn't need to be explained, and now to amplify it. Make it grandiose. Make it his. Make it something others had to recognize, "A storage system. Safe. Secure. No lock or item needed to access it, but still personalized." The look that's levelled at Inks may still carry her face, but the expression on it, marked with luminescent red eyes- had been levelled at Ina more than a number of times, when she caught him peering at her. Caught between some sense of pensiveness, ready to say something else, but, "-It's not finished." And thus, does it warrant further conversation?
Ina thinks not, at least- which means she can focus on the fact that she's no closer to her intended goal. And the small talk. Each moment provides her another opportunity to mess up her attempts at falsifying her identity. And so, Ina offers what she hopes passes as a non-committal hum of approval, before sliding into the seat she'd been offered. "I wasn't looking for clothes for myself." The closest thing to the truth she'd said all day. And it left the foxkin hesitating again, because of the very real risk of inconveniencing Lanlan. Worse, it left her in the precarious position of trying to view herself from Lan's viewpoint. To- ... Ina starts to bring her right hand up to her face, but catches herself before she can start chewing on her thumb. Instead, her left hand comes up, and with a faint whisper, she invokes one of the small spells she'd picked up in the midst of her tutelage with Lanlan. The simple fabrication of an image- a set of gloves that she can 'put on', in a show of her distaste for the table she's obliged to settle her hands on. "To find something suitable for one of my apprentices."Neutral is, adequate, but maybe, "Someone has to make sure she's presentable." Backhanded attention to detail? It would have to suffice. Still, if the seamstress is the mercantile sort- the foxkin isn't going to say no to providing her the time to run through a pitch meant to introduce new ways to spend money that isn't hers. It'd buy time for the water to boil. Until then, she's going to try and coast through the conversation with the requisite number of 'Mm', "Ohs', and requisite overly-animate eyebrow wiggles that she feels are necessary.
“Oh yeah? Whatcha working on?” Inks is still fussing with brewing tea while Not-Lan continues. Her focus is less on the odd tone of the illusionist's voice and more on trying to make sure she nails making tea correctly, given her guest's particular standards. When Inks registers his words finally, she does lift her head and gives him a long, very confused look. She doesn't smell alcohol, so he can't be drunk. Did he even drink? Maybe he brewed up some funky potion that has thrown him off. ...Maybe that's what he's talking about. “What are you working on, the-” But her curiosity for that is immediately dashed and replaced with something new. Looking for clothes for someone else? Who? The seamstress's posture immediately shifts, and she's leaning forward at the desk with clear interest as she pours a cup of tea for Ina. The gloves that the foxkin conjures up are such a distinctly Lanlan thing to do, that she hardly bats an eye. He did something similar when he first commissioned his leather jerkin. Her eyes light up. “Apprentice? She must be someone special,” Inks teases. Did Lan ever go out of his way to get something made for apprentices? Given the way her apprenticeship with Odhranos went, maybe... The barrage of questions begins. Poor Ina. “Well, you have to tell me about her, then. What's she like? What does she like? What do you want to see her in?” That last one ends in a bemused snort.
Ina hadn't missed that look, but her only option was to maintain momentum, and pray that she hadn't somehow blown her cover. Maybe if she redirects the attention to her conversation partner. "Huh." She tries to sound disinterested when Iintahquohae is suddenly too close for comfort, but it's hard to suppress the feeling of her heart hammering in her chest, at the acute awareness that the person serving her tea could just as easily make her a meal at the first real misstep. She cannot suppress the brief look of discomfort that flits across her face at the breach of her personal bubble, though she does her best to force it down- instead subtly shifting the chair so she can have just a touch more space. That action also provides the time needed to gather her words, "Promising, but unfocused. Though, she does have a great teacher." Noncommital, but still some time to be vain. And a sort of airy delivery so she can process the rest of the barrage. It's the final question she settles on, if only because it represents a safe spot. "Can you make something similar to the jacket, but- " This is going to be offensive to the seamstress, almost certainly, "Shabbier. I want people to be impressed, but then see me and be even more impressed." Would Lan do something like that? ....Probably.
Independent of this conversation, a board of wood creaks within the grasp of a reptilian courier- an inadvertent flex of claw sending a rapidly spreading cobweb of cracks through the crate it was carrying.
Pride was something she liked to think she understood, though hers centred around her work versus any sort of magical skill. “With you leading the way, I'm certain she'll become second best.” The seamstress grins at Not-Lanlan, but it falters when she notices just how hard his heart is beating. Maybe he didn't want tea. “I promise the cups were washed,” Inks tries to assure him, but maybe that isn't the problem. His request for his apprentice's attire is likely the reason, but when has he ever commissioned something that made him seem nervous like this? “A shabbier jacket, huh.” Distressed clothes were a fad that blew through the fashion world in cycles. Maybe it's on an upswing again, but once Lan clarifies she understands. “So -don't- use the fancier fabric. Gotcha.” Inks could work with the cheap stuff, but she didn't have the heart to only do something shabby. “Tell me more about her. I could make her something a little bit nicer too. Not as nice as anything I've made for you, obviously,” she quickly adds. Whatever is happening outside isn't important, so much so that Inks isn't aware of some impending danger that's likely on its way to her shop. Her best client is sitting in front of her right now. He's priority.
Arlyeon begins to calm again as the distance between herself and Inks is retained- allowing her to instead focus on the guise she was maintaining. Iintahquohae's prompting about the cleanliness of the cup offers an adequate enough distraction, the foxkin producing a handkerchief from her sleeve, if only to run it along the rim of the cup. An obsessive bit of cleanliness, before she deigns to lift up the cup. As the seamstress iterates the request, Ina-as-Lan nods an affirmation, starts to open her mouth- and then thinks better on it. With a small flourish, one pseudo-gloved hand is drawn over her face, holding that position as her features fade from Lanlan's into a more familiar guise. Her own features, now presented to the seamstress, the truth revealed as a cunning falsehood. There's a mischief there now, one highlighted by the pallor of her skin, and the gleaming emerald gaze which locks onto the seamstresses- one framed by bangs of an evenings solemn blue, but which cascade over her shoulders in shades of vivid red. Perhaps most striking, however, is the sharply angled ears which emerge from the mess, red where a foxes ears might be white, and black where they'd normally be red. "I imagine this may suffice. Though, perhaps I should add- durable. She is, unfortunately, prone to trouble. I worry how she might reflect on my image, sometimes." Despite herself, one of the ears twitch- a tick that might seem like a natural extension of the illusion, but carrying with it an acute sense of impending disaster to the foxkin. To say there was impending danger was at this juncture an underestimation, as the threat now was imminent. Specifically, it's in that moment where the crate containing a piano of all things finally -breaks-, sending it's contents plummeting straight down.
While she sort of understood Lanlan's obsession with cleanliness, Iintahquohae wondered if her own super particular behaviours were to the...extreme, for lack of a kinder word, that the Archmage's behaviours were. She learned to tolerate smoking at least, but only in Kasyr's presence. When was the last time she ever tried to pluck a cigarette from his lips to stamp it out even? Better yet, why was her sire on her mind? He's not here. The shift in Lanlan's appearance, as she still hasn't entirely come to the realization that this was not the illusionist but the very apprentice Not Lanlan wanted to make a jacket for, is impressive. “Is this what she looks like? Nice...ears?” The seamstress's mind wanders yet again to Kasyr, and by extension the rest of the Coterie. Theirs were all, or mostly, cat ears, right? These look different, but Inks honestly couldn't differentiate between feline and foxkin ears. They're all a little strange sitting atop a humanoid's head to her. But before she can ask about just what kind of trouble his apprentice gets up to, a terrible sound of a cracking roof and tons of sand falling overhead immediately has her leaping over the table to try shielding Lanlan in disguise from the cave-in. “LAN!” Whether she manages to actually cover him or not, the sound of clanging piano keys and a rush of sand filling her shop has her cursing and frantically trying to shove sand away. Why didn't she leap to terramancy first? Surprisingly, she doesn't fly into a panic about all the stock in her shop that likely got ruined in the cave-in. Fabric can be recovered and made clean again. People, not so much. In her effort to try reaching Lanlan in the sand, Inks fails to notice a very heavy, very thick wooden support beam that hadn't fallen entirely looming directly overhead. The sound of it snapping and falling directly onto her head is the last thing Inks hears before she collapses from the head injury, buried within sand.
Arlyeon had, to some degree, expected her luck to bail her out of this situation. There's a reason she went to such obscene lengths to harvest it- regardless of the cost to others. But, this was a little much, wasn't it? Or was the vampire in front of her that much of a latent threat, that this was the bare minimum? Still, Good fortune or not, getting out unscathed as a ceiling caved in was perhaps too much to hope for, as a board is levered up from the floor due to the downward force of the piano. Something which led to it colliding with her chin with a resounding smack - 'THWACK!' She wobbles, dizzily, a clumsy shuffle that sees her fingers blearily tracing over a still intact table- trying to find something to ground herself with. A process that eventually brings her to a wardrobe that had been partially flung open to the impact. The last thought that passes through her head, is how lovely one of those outfits would look on her for Lanlan's intended ceremony. A happy bit of happenstance that's promptly ruined as it tips over on top of her, the sole saving grace being the wall of fabric that greets her, and the perfect manner in which it collides into the ground around her.