recolle | (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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[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.]