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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.
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.
no subject
[ 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.
no subject
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.]