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.

Threaded | Flat

[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.