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(no subject)

WHO: Aranea, Ardyn, and perhaps a couple of additional victims.
WHERE: Styx, an alleyway, Tisse.
WHEN: Backdated to the day Retrospec went up, 2/1.
WHAT: Continuation of this thread.
WARNINGS: Unless something goes terribly wrong, none.

[ Morning yawns along an alleyway on Tisse. Styx is the only shop in this background, against a main row of shuttered down night clubs and bars. The shop’s name marks the large glass panes of the front of the store in large, medieval style calligraphy. On the door, ‘Tattoos - Piercings - Gallery’ is written in further advertisement of their services.

Left alone in the shop due to the myriad of excuses her coworkers have provided her in order to abandon her to a certain lonely fate — their sickness, kid’s being sent home due to being sick, no work to do — Aranea proves lackadaisical in her enforcement of better working standards. She doesn’t own the place, nor does she really care, knowing that business will eventually pick up after Founder’s Day, right when Valentine’s Day hits.

After roughly an hour of her phone being assaulted by Retrospec’s unraveling threads of conversation while she sits behind the reception desk, which looks out into a small art gallery with most pieces being there for a least a year, her already wavering concentration is broken by the sound of the entrance bell’s ringing.

Once she sees Ardyn stroll into the tattoo parlor, Aranea stands up from her seat and picks up a stack of papers. ]

Welcome to Styx. [ Rolling them in her hand, she gestures to the two tuffed sofas and the couple of chairs that make up the rectangular waiting room. ] Sit down, I have a lot to show you.

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[His gait is casual, just like everything else about him, as he saunters into Styx, the jingle of the bell announcing his entrance. Ardyn removes his hat, clasped in the fingers of his right hand, and offers Aranea a smile. His hair is as windswept as ever, and it accentuates the very tongue-in-cheek nature of his words.]

I see that today is particularly busy for you.

[But it's less of a jab at the notion of a slow day than it is a passing observation and nothing more. He moves to the gestured sofas, placing his fedora down on the cushion next to where he chooses to sit. Glancing around, it's difficult not to spot the small art gallery across from the reception desk; he finds it curious, but not surprising. He had read the medieval gothic lettering etched onto the glass panes outside. It had said Gallery, as well, and this was apparently why.]

But I'll be glad to monopolize your time for today. More time to pour over your sketches, am I right? Appreciate your artistic skill.

[ Looking him from head to toe, taking a small measure of solace in the fact his appearance never seems to change while killer apps and bad reception are rocking her world. She walks over to the seat opposite of the one he just took. ]

Right. Busy as a funeral.

[ Aranea’s typical brand of dry sardonicism fades away as she takes a seat and places each of her three sketches before him. They’re bare bones as far as detail work goes, but there’s definitely enough shading to make out her intentions. One drawing is of a cerberus, another is a skeletal Grim Reaper figure, and the last one is a demon, figure mostly shrouded, about to embrace an angelic, blonde and almost entirely nude woman from behind.

She regards her once-lawyer, now-customer with an expectant look. There’s one more sketch rolled up in her hand, but for one reason or another, she hasn’t laid it out bare for him to inspect. ]

Well? Any of these bringing your dreams to life?

[Ardyn glances at sketches laid before him. Even in their incomplete form, with gestural linework and graphite shading, they're very good — not that he feels the need to point out the obvious, though despite his posturing, the man does feel a flicker of gratitude at the work she’s put in for his sake. Or at least, for the sake of him paying her to be creative.

There’s something that resonates within him, and it’s otherwise… difficult to pin down an exact emotion. A hand hovers over the cerberus, then the reaper, then the tip of his finger pulls the corner of the nude figure closer. The gesture is noncommittal, strangely indecisive.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, and if it’s because he’s feeling that internal sense of something being off again (far away), he won’t say that much. When he finally lifts his gaze to her, his smile is a little more subdued this time around.]

It’s hard to choose. There’s something inexplicably compelling about all of them.

[Of course, Ardyn isn’t so oblivious to not have noticed the rolled-up paper in her hand. He nods at it, then glances at Aranea again.]

Keeping that one to yourself?

[ Caught between wanting to roll her eyes or laughing out loud, both insensitive acts considering the apparent gravity of the situation, Aranea admits to herself that this is indeed a sobering experience. For one reason or another, the pressing gravity of choosing the imagery of his tattoo was removing Ardyn out of his usual habits, though only slightly. Or was that presumption true? Aranea hardly knew the guy on a truly professional level, and how he typically behaves in such an environment, actually.

She only smiles slightly, an attempt to brighten the mood. Or make it less awkward, whichever it is. ]

Don’t worry about it. These things take time and money. Wouldn’t go blowing off either if I didn’t know exactly what I wanted.

[ Pausing, she wonders if she should profess that the drawings she’s showing him are mainly based on her own dreams, or rather, her childhood nightmares that became less frequent when she started to grow up. It isn’t the fact that Aranea’s imprinted her own self-centered nature on his project that perturbs her, but the personal nature of it. Personally, she doesn’t want to ink them on her body…

Not that she can pinpoint why.

His question about the last sketch in her hand breaks her out of the reverie. Smile widening, she explains — ]

A reminder that you can always pussy out. [ Slapping the last sketch on the table, ‘KICK ME’ is written in big, frantically scrawled letters. ] Get that if the peer pressure is too much.

[When the "art" scrawled on the fourth piece of paper is revealed, Ardyn blinks in surprise and then-

And then he just laughs, straightening in his seat after having been leaning forward. It's a sound that's rare in how genuine it is, open and sincere. Chalk it up to the fact that Aranea completely surprised him with that one.]

You remembered my "Kick Me" sign! I take back what I said before. You really do have a knack for wondrous customer service.

[But then he shakes his head, fingers moving to rub at the back of his neck. His smile settles into lopsidedness once more.]

But- [He picks up the Kick Me paper with one hand, waving it in her direction.] Don't worry. I won't be choosing this one; I've made up my mind on the matter of fully committing to the ink. [His other hand, however, straightens the sketches proper; he lines them up at straight angles, facing him, as if it'd be easier to decide if they were looking at him head-on.]

Perhaps you can help me decide by answering me this question: what inspired these?

[ Reclining against the sofa and done layout out all the goods, she throws one arm over the top of the furniture behind her. Aranea shrugs, being neither particularly good or bad at taking compliments, even when they rarely come in a genuine manner from the law professor. ]

What can I say, you left a mark. Proves that if you say something interesting enough, everyone will start paying attention. So if you have a napper in class, tell them the tale of Aranea Highwind.

[ Can’t be said that a lack of confidence is her strong suit. Rather, it may be that she has way too much. ]

Figured it out? [ Still not a question she wants to answer, Aranea tries to figure out a way to get out of this one. Artists, or anyone really, seeks personal inspiration in the face of little else to offer.

Her attention strays to look at the building opposite Styx — an abandoned dive bar, unmissed and unloved. After a few moments, she gives up and opts for an easier, simpler truth over a complicated lie. The other hand that’s not tracing patterns on the back of the leather sofa gestures at the drawings he’s straightened out. ]

I used to have dreams about demons when I was younger. That’s where all this comes from.

I'm certain that if I told them that tale, I would leave them traumatized for life. I'm trying to toughen them up, not frighten them out of my class.

[It's another joke, of course, edged with sarcasm. Ardyn feels he's allowed to make such commentary, given their past. But it's a fleeting remark, as his attention is already poised to focus on the tattoo designs instead. And as a consequence, her explanation of where the inpsiration came from.

He listens, and while Aranea oozes a sense of detachment, his gaze is unwavering as it takes in her expression. He leans forward again, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasping together.]

Sounds more along the lines of a nightmares, rather than dreams. [Dreams about demons? If this imagery came from her head, why did it reverberate in such a way with him? Even Ardyn couldn't be sure what that implied, other than cruel fate conspiring to laugh at the both of them.

His eyes move down towards the drawings again.] The gatekeeper of hell, death itself, and an ethereal woman come to whisk you way... Do you still have dreams like that? [He thinks of his own, the sort that were reoccurring, but they're filled with an inky black. A darkness stretching forever onward; nothing quite as interesting as this, or so he thinks.]

Traumatized for life? [ Aranea parrots the phrase back to the man she’d definitely never would have thought would ever become her client. ] Spare the hyperbole. My story may be a bit… risque, but I haven’t gotten away with murder.

[ It’s rare, but there are those moments when Aranea indulges sentiment. Because she’s been expecting this, she’s not particularly arrested, but she offers something, which is better than nothing. ]

Never thought of them as nightmares. I only felt fear when that lady would leave me. But, whatever. I was a weird kid.

[ At his question about if these dreams continued, she actually smirks. ] Nah. My dreams grew up with me.

[Come on, Aranea, you know that Ardyn loves his hyperboles; besides, saying such things is enough to get some sort of reaction from her, and that's reason enough for him to be overly dramatic.]

Finding solace in the company of demons? That is quite unusual, but who am I to judge? I'm about to get one permanently etched onto my skin.

[For a fleeting second he had thought about sharing with her the notions of his own dream, the one that never did leave him even in his adult years. But in the end, talking about an endless dark was not conducive to what he was really here for. And Ardyn was never the sort to reveal too much of himself on a complete whim, at least, not something so personal and coated in uncertainty.

And so, instead, another finger lands on a sketch, and he pushes it forward. It's the grim reaper drawing, drenched in black.]

I think I like... this one. It speaks to me.

[Death. Death speaks to him, he means? What an odd thing for a man like him to say.]

Then don’t silence the voices.

[ Straightening up her posture, tilting her head to the side and pressing the palm of her hand against the crook of her neck to rub at a sore, she crouches over the coffee table. Pressing her fingers against the paper, the nails sadly still bare, Aranea pushes the sketch back in his direction. ]

You know what you want more than anyone else. [ Still, does he even know?? Aranea’s not sure, but whatever, it ends up in her getting paid regardless. ] Take death here to bed with you. Dig into your inner artist, mark it up a bit.

And, yes. [ She sounds particularly exasperated over a statement he hasn’t even said yet, if Ardyn’ll say it at all. ] Do it even if you can’t even draw a stick figure.

[Ardyn was about to make a remark about how he’s studied law, not art, but he’s cut off by her exasperation. He takes the paper pushed in his direction, picking it up lightly between his fingers.]

If you say so. Don’t laugh at the result, however, when I show it to you. Pretend it’s a Picasso.

[But a small part of him looks forward to making the design more personal, even if he’s not sure where to start. Ardyn chuckles at his own words (as he’s prone to do), and shifts his weight in his seat, digging into his pants pocket for something.]

Oh, by the way, I did bring you something.

[Out of his pocket comes a little vial of black nail polish. He tosses it lightly to her, and it sweeps in a gentle arc, aiming for her lap if she isn’t quick enough to catch it.]

For you and your nails, as requested. [He grins, looking utterly pleased with himself, the smarmy bastard.]

A Picasso? [ Now it’s her turn to laugh. ] No, let me just see what you can actually draw. Less disappointment that way.

[ That can either be interpreted as her poking more fun at his artistic skill, the opinion of an actual Picasso fan or a more obscure reference as to just how much Picassos were worth.

Considering Ardyn’s knowledge of her past life, it wouldn't be hard to think of the former reason. But Aranea is a reformed thief, right?

She does manage to catch the black nail polish in one hand. ]

You shouldn’t have. [ Placing the bottle on the table, she raises both her eyebrow. ] Keep this up, and I might start expecting my every whim to be fulfilled on demand.

[And Ardyn is quick to wave that thought away with a hand.]

You've a long way to go if that's a goal of yours, Aranea. I'm not the sort of man who wraps so easily around anyone's pinky finger; the odd gesture of gratitude, here or there, shouldn't be interpreted as such.

[But he says it all with that cocky expression of his, even as his clothing rustles as he stands to his feet, sketch of the reaper in hand. The other scoops up his hat and plants it back on his head, right where it belongs.]

Time to flee before you get the wrong idea.

[Translation: I'll get out of your hair for now, thanks for the drawing.]

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