A Simple Carriage Ride

[Vixo]

This setting is an old-era fantasy setting, some descriptors of which may be found here.

Looking for someone to play a woman between the ages of 23 and 30 or so. She would be seeking to ride from Celfaire, a peaceful, lawful coastal city, to the Lowcountry, a place of anarchy further south along the coastline. Her race, her personality, what she does for a living, her appearance and so on are up to you, as well as her reason for doing so. The carriage system in Celfaire is such that drivers have districts in which they operate, and are allowed to carry up to four passengers at once (though they normally only do two, as will be the case in this scene).

If things go well, this'll simply be a starter scene for a long-term role play. I am a character based role player, not a story based role player, however. This means that, for me, stories are best created as characters learn about one another and become, in some way, invested in each other's lives. It's advisable, then, to put some 'juicy bits' into your character's history that will resurface after time or otherwise inspire some interesting turn of story. Don't overdo it, though (as in, stray from burned-down hometowns, long-term sexual abuse, murdered parents and so on).

It might be useful to note that you're allowed, even encouraged, to invent a country in the larger world setting for your character to come from if you find the social values and governing system of this area to be too restrictive. Only a small area of the world has been defined (namely, Celfaire, the Lowcountry, the area's capital, Espyn City, a city to the northeast called Vargus, which is full of magical scholars, and a rough equivalent to Italy called Itania, which is an island to the east of the current continent), so there's plenty to work with. Note, however, that Celfaire represents the peak of technological achievement on the planet, so don't move beyond that.

A profile for the character I'm using can be found here.

I'd really prefer a partner that can keep up with me in post size and approach. My writing mostly concerns my character's point of view, with details here and there about what the outside world might see about him, rather than the average RP (it seems) in which writing about thought and emotion would be seen as "pointless" and "spoiling the fun". I like picking my character's brains, and I like seeing other people pick their character's brains.

All that said. . .time for me to post!

The prospect of walking home after the day he'd endured made him feel sick to his stomach with misery. The girl he'd been paid to paint today had been an absolute nightmare, asking him constant personal questions and refusing to stop standing right in his face until he answered them. She seemed to harbor some strange fantasy about the portrait artist and his subject, and kept asking if he found her attractive--she was sixteen, for fuck's sake! The law might've given that relationship a pass, but his conscience certainly wouldn't. After about a half hour of such rubbish, he'd submitted to being stern with her, grabbing her by the wrist--she'd constantly been putting her hand on his arm or chest--staring her straight in the face, and telling her in no uncertain way that he'd be getting paid no matter what he painted, even if it was a green-skinned, acne-ridden, toothless ogre with her name written over it. He could tell that something in his voice, or perhaps his eyes, or even the way his hand held her, had scared her, upset her, for her stillness as he worked was positively eerie, her expression drained of its former life. He doubted this was the portrait her father had been looking for.

At present he was feeling similarly drained, regretful, wishing he had found some other way to handle the situation. He could have taken it in good humor and gone along with her flirtations, perhaps, for that was all she needed--not for anything to actually happen, but to feel as though he wanted her, anyway. He wasn't without a sense of humor, but certain questions had a way of sucking it out of him completely, and she had lighted upon more than one of them.

Sunk in an exhausted posture in the corner of the carriage, he lit a cigarette and drew heavily, needfully, upon it, flicking the snake of ash that had collected at its end into a small tray set into the carriage wall, made of clay and easily removed from its hollow to be cleaned. He wore a suit, pinstriped in black and navy with a long, stylish cut, and was tugging at his tie when he heard the driver shout something. He couldn't understand him through the wood, but assumed it had to do with another passenger, for there was a small change of direction and a slowing of the carriage to a halt.

A neutral expression on his face, he crossed his long legs so as to take up less room (the way one had been tipping aside, he might've filled the entire space between the benches), and let his hand drop from his tie to his lap, his eyes shifting beneath the cover of his dark brow to watch the door. After a moment's hesitation, he popped the cigarette back between his lips and reached over to open the door up from the inside, in a way of welcoming the passenger--or perhaps warning them that someone who looked like he did (entirely too lanky for comfort) already sat inside.

 

[MaraKay]

Laria pulled up her dark dress and stepped into the carriage. It took a moment for her eyes to focus and see the gentleman sitting there, especially as his clothes were dark and the interior dim, after the light of day. She smiled at him in greeting, her hand self consciously brushing a strand of brunette hair out of her face, where it had escaped the bun on the back of her head.

As she sat, she pulled her grey shawl around her. It wasn’t quite approved mourning attire, and she knew her brother, when she met him, would no doubt lecture her, but the look on his face would be priceless and she felt the need for a laugh. For a brother who ran a bar, it seemed odd that he kept certain traditions, but he had been insistent in his letter of apology and condolence to her.

The last few days had been depressing to say the least. Her Father’s funeral had been a dull affair and would have infuriated him, not the end he would have wanted. And all the concerned looks and relatives patting her on the back had driven her to distraction, especially as she knew they were thinking ‘28 and no husband to care for her’. Now she regretted her father turning away her suitors and the two that he had approved of, she had turned away as ‘detestable old men’. And now she was on her way, to her brother, whom she had never got on with, and would be dependent upon him until such times as she could work out how to become independent.

She suddenly realised that the carriage had begun moving. Moving towards a place she did not want to go, where if all reports were to be believed, then her life would become very different, and to a brother who she would no doubt try to escape at the first possible opportunity.

 

[Vixo]

The artit's posture relaxed a measure as the woman entered the cab, as a part of him had feared someone closer to his own size, who would of course be crowding him at the moment. Still, this didn't afford him a massive amount of liberty; he simply settled both feet down to the carriage floor, close together, and commenced smoking his cigarette whilst studying the new entry.

Appropriate or not, he didn't fail to see her attire for what it was, though this was perhaps only because he was making assumptions about her for simple little features. She didn't strike him as the sort to dress so gloomily--and who should know what that entailed much better than he? The artist forever dressed as though he were off to some formal affair, but arguably he never had been, instead inventing such things for himself to attend. The public would almost be more comfortable with him if he wore simpler clothing.

After some time of searching words, he decided upon this attempt at sympathy, inquiring quietly, "It hasn't been the best time for you, has it?", his voice possessed of a soothing depth--or perhaps it was simply mournful, and fell in line with her experience by default.

 

[MaraKay]

"It hasn't been the best time for you, has it?"

His words brought back memories of the night before, when she’d laid upon her bed, a bed she knew she would never see again, and had so many memories attached to it. She’d cried for the first time since her father’s death, not wishing to give relatives the satisfaction of breaking down before them, or considering her weak, when inside she had been quaking. She’d cried for her father not being there, the house so empty without his presence and she’d cried at the injustice of being sent to a brother she hardly knew, to a place that, by all accounts, would be full of villains, where she had no friends or acquaintances.

Her brother was unable to attend the funeral, leaving it to an Uncle to see to everything, a circumstance she’d found odd. But she hadn’t seen her brother in over five years, so assumed that maybe he had never truly cared for Father or her.

She pulled her thoughts back, seeing the gentleman was waiting patiently for her to respond.

“A death in the family is never easy. My Father died a week past, so now I find myself travelling to my brothers house.” she had meant to say relative, but found the gentleman’s soft voice soothing to her frazzled nerves.

She looked at the gentleman, noticing his well presented clothes and hands, unmarked by hard menial labour. She also noted that he was good looking, when the smoke from the cigarette wasn’t obscuring his features.

“But you are correct. It has not been an easy time for me. Perhaps a fresh start is all that I require?” she tried to sound cheerful, to regain a modicum of who she once was, but the funeral and uncertainty of where life was taking her, made it sound as though she was looking for someone to say ‘don’t worry, things will get better’.

 

[Vixo]

"Mm." It was an effort to drum up sympathy, really, for he could make no link between her situation and anything he'd experienced. Most of his life had been lived absent a father, such that it was normal for him--he had never suffered that sense of loss. His family being very small, he hadn't experienced the death of any really important figure, either, for one expects their grandmother to die at some stage, and his mother hadn't any sisters or anything for him to concern himself with. She'd been alive, when last he had the opportunity to check.

He knew it had to be a significant sense of loss, especially when one was financially dependent upon him (though he really couldn't see why that was the case with this woman--where was she from that she clearly needed a man to take care of her as though she was a child?), but what could he say? He lowered his eyes with a certain respect for her situation, and was quiet a moment, smoking his cigarette.

"A fresh start, sure," he smiled reassuringly, a warm expression that transformed--or perhaps simply redirected--the intensity of his gloomy features. "Sometimes that'll really help you get your bearings, really sink your teeth in--even if you thought they were too weak for it before."

 

[MaraKay]

She couldn’t help but respond to his smile and found herself smiling back.

“With a fresh start, maybe this time I can pull away from the families suffocating blanket.” Laria thought she’d best explain. “My Father needed a secretary and also someone to make arrangements for his business associates, which is why it made sense to live at home. Unfortunately with the demise of my Father, I find myself homeless and without a job. My Father was old fashioned in that things should be left to his heir, my brother. But I am sure you have no real wish to hear of my affairs.”

In fact, she thought it odd that she had been so open with this stranger. They hadn’t even introduced themselves to each other.

“As this is a lengthy journey, let me introduce myself to you. My name is Laria.” Purposefully she left off her surname, as her Father had been a well known personality, and she had no wish to suddenly find that this man was an acquaintance. She did not think she could take one more ‘I knew your Father and I am sorry for your loss.’

 

[Vixo]

"Mm." He couldn't identify with that in the least, and it hadn't a thing to do with what freedoms his gender might have afforded him. His mother had always been the most encouraging force in his life, no matter what it was he chose to do--it had, in fact, frustrated him as a teenager. What use was rebellion when one's mother never experienced more than a half-second of uncertainty in his work?

He was heartened, nevertheless, to hear that she did not live at home simply because she was a woman and her father thought, in the absence of a husband (who would of course be obligated to shelter her and pay for her every need as a father would), there wasn't any better option. He found that he quite hated that idea, not because he was in love with his money, but because that was, in a way, infantilizing the woman. Pretending that she was not just as much of an independent soul as a man was. His opinions on these matters were ever-changing, for it wasn't as though he ever needed to deal with them directly. He hadn't lived with a woman in years! Nor were they exactly lined around the corner for the opportunity. It was testament to the dignity of Espyn County's people, perhaps; in many other places, he would've had women making eyes at him simply for the majestic house in which he lived.

"No, that isn't true. I wouldn't have said anything if it was," he protested, turning his head faintly and blowing away some more smoke. Given that the windows were shut, it didn't do much to keep the smoke from hanging over her in some way regardless, but it was an effort toward politeness, anyhow. He flicked some ash into the tray set into the carriage's side. "Nicholas. You've got a pretty name, Laria. Rolls nicely off the tongue." It was an idle compliment, spoken without any sort of gravity--the same tone one might use commenting on the weather.

 

[MaraKay]

Laria hated her name and the way everyone told her it was pretty, especially the lecherous old men of her father's acquaintance. She was glad that the light in the carriage was subdued as she knew she had frowned at the comment, though, through years of practice, quickly erased the fleeting expression. It wasn't until afterwards, that she realised he spoke the words without any real maning behind them.

With the windows up, the carriage was becoming warm and she slipped her shawl from her shoulders.

The neckline of her dress was fashionably low, but not so low as to risk anything slipping out, something her friend Amanda had teased her about, the word she had used was 'prude'.

"Now that I have bored you with my history, you have permission to tell me yours." she smiled at him, to show she was joking. "Do you travel on business?" she asked, more for polite conversation than any wish to know, though he had peeked her curiosity, as he had no put upon air or graces.

 

[Vixo]

Indeed, there were many things Nicholas was used to, pretty women's names among them. All the same, he felt a compulsion to say nice things to this woman, consdiering the position she was in. He made a potentially faulty assumption that she'd like to hear nice things in a time like this. It was one of the few situations where he failed to attempt to put himself in another person's position, for if he had. . .well, perhaps it was for the best, as he might not have talked to her at all. He failed to notice her frown, not having so close an eye, really, although this was likely for lack of any particular focus than abnormally poor eyesight.

Unlike her, the warmth of the carriage didn't seem to be a bother; he didn't so much as loosen his tie, which had only been a nervous tugging point earlier, for want of a better terminology. A smile flashed across his face at the prospect of unpeeling his life before her - any of it - and its brevity afforded his teeth a brilliant appearance, far as it was from the truth; it was merely a contrast against the relative darkness of the carriage and the color of his lips which, at least for tonight, seemed of a bright hue, albeit still in the natural spectrum--maybe he'd just peeled them of chapped skin, or something.

"I do, but not tonight," he answered her in a tone that was difficult to read accurately; there was a sense of a double meaning, although it wasn't terribly significant. "I'm an artist, so I'll often travel to. . .paint a mural, or if someone wants their portrait done against a particular backdrop and what have you. My home's down this way, though. I've got a. . .little store in town, it's not really a proper studio." This was a lot of talking for him, and he finished off his cigarette promptly after going quiet, as a means to gaining composure.

 

[MaraKay]

Laria noticed the odd pauses in his speech, as if he was weighing up his words. She wondered if there was more beyond his words, and though she was intrigued, doubted that she would ever find out.

She had also noted a brief smile had crossed his face, making it look less auster and making him appear most handsome. But like the sun on a cludy day, it was a mere fleeting glimps. One of which, she admitted to herself, she would have liked to have seen more.

She returned her attention to his words.

"I alas have no talent with a brush." and unbidden came the thought of this stranger painting a naked portrait of her body, but she suppressed the thought immediately, knowing that the portraits of which he described, would more likely be of Lords and Ladies dressed in their finery, and no doubt a portrait of a naked figure would be beneath his concern. "But I admire greatly anyone with a talent for artistry."

"You must travel much. Is there one place you favour more than any other, for beauty? Or does one place tend to blur into another?"

In the beginning she had started talking, more for conversation, but now she found herself wishing to know more about her travelling companion. She just hoped that he didn't find her questions intrusive.

 

[Vixo]

Largely indifferent to what she did and did not have talent for, a shrug rolled across the artist's shoulders, and he was glad that she didn't speak further on that matter. He was subject, now and again, to what he supposed was envy, and even a bit of angling for assistance, among those who beheld his work or even simply learned that he was able to support an assumedly decadent lifestyle with this as his occupation. Not being anything approaching a teacher, he never knew how to respond to such things; art was something that, once acquainting himself with books on anatomy and so on, he simply did. It poured out of him with a minimal effort, in a way that, for instance, music, did not, although this remained an arguably greater passion of his. He decided to say nothing of her admiration, for fear he would come off badly for it--the words on his tongue, he knew, would seem disrespectful or otherwise rude if he spoke them, even though such was not his intention.

"I don't travel very much, actually; I've only been outside the County once. I do like when I have the opportunity to go to Espyn, though. It seems. . .put together in a way that other places aren't. Refined, I suppose. One has to be on his best behavior." The way a smile curled across his face suggested that this might be a change for him, but there was certainly nothing in his bearing that spoke of this.

Now empty of cigarette, he placed his hands one on top of the other in a grip around his knee, straightening his posture a measure.

 

[MaraKay]

"I have not traveled much beyond Celfaire. I often wished to travel, but my duties as my Father's aid kept me busy and no opportunity presented itself. Though if truth be known, I think it was more lack of a travelling companion. A good companion is hard to find, as there are times when it is best to be silent to take in the view and a time to discuss it's merits."

The one time she had considered travelling with a friend, she suddenly realised that her companions voice was irritating and never knew when to shut up!

"Best behaviour is something I know too much about." she said sourly, in response to his comment. There have been times when she wished to throw 'best behaviour' in her Father's face. Her Father had liked to show her off to his friends as his dutiful obedient daughter. She shuddered at the requests some of her 'socalled' Fathers friends had made to her, expecting her to be 'obedient'. Though luckily for her, not all of his acquaintances had been over weight and over bearing.

She looked out the window, so that Nicholas would not be able to read her face and gave her a chance to clear the memories from her mind.

Composed once more, she turned back and asked, "I have heard that Espyn is a myriad of colours and each house is like a palace. Is that as exaggerated as I assume, or is there a grain of truth?"

Talking of far off cities and places would be safer than talking of her Father she knew.

 

[Vixo]

"Mm." Nick could say nothing to a desire for a traveling companion, for he thought that going to Espyn City surely did not qualify as traveling; it took perhaps three hours from his home on the coast, on the very southern outskirts of Celfaire. Travelling meant a big production, meant taking along most than one change of clothes and so on--quite simply irrelevent to his experiences going to Espyn, which he'd done much more often during that ill-fated marriage to the councilwoman Ayresaelian. "I've never gone anywhere simply to see it, I've always had some other purpose--not much of a traveler, I suppose." This wasn't entirely true, but he was not at liberty to tell the whole truth, to mention where his youth was spent, and how much broader his scope had been in that world. To think of it, it really was strange that he kept to Espyn County in this world, that he did not even consider going north, out of the Council's realm of influence, let alone across the sea or anything. He was a different person here, though, wasn't he?

A smile flicked at the side of his mouth as he somehow caught some of her meaning--that sort of oppressive 'best behavior', anyway. "That's not exactly what I mean. Being in Espyn gives one. . .aspirations, I suppose, to be a better person, to, uhm. . ." He clearly struggled with articulating his meaning, his face twisted in thought a while before he shrugged dismissively, concluding, " I don't know, it's just. . .nice, there, though I wouldn't be able to bear the expectations every day. One needs to feel, every now and again, the freedom to act as he wants to act--even if he isn't going to do so." Like he should be saying this! He hadn't felt that freedom in years. It had been particularly absent ever since he began taking commissions and succeeding in his work. Were he party to her recollections, he might have been shocked, for he never thought such people existed in the County at large. When Ayresaelian had convinced him to be in attendance at certain gatherings, he had never seen men behaving that way--but, perhaps that was the point.

"Well, ah, the mention of colors, I imagine, comes particularly from the residential buildings. . .you know, apartments which, by defintion, certainly are not palaces. They are, from what I can tell, rather nice inside, though. . .spacious and well-outfitted." Finding that his mouth was beginning to feel empty and strange, he reached into his jacket to produce his cigarette case, putting one of them between his lips, but letting it hang there a few moments, unfamiliar thoughts crossing his mind. Did he smoke too much? Would Laria think he smoked too much? Inwardly rolling his eyes--since when did he care about such things?--he took out his oil lighter, with its rather ugly, pungent smell, and torched the habit in short order, taking a grateful, nerve-calming drag.

 

[MaraKay]

"Freedom, I think very few actually find freedom. Rare is the person who has no ties or obligations, even if it is earning money to pay for food. Sometimes I would like to run into the hills and be obliged to no-one, but even then, that would not be true freedom as food does not magically appear on demand. I know of some who enjoy not having to think and have their every move controlled. I suppose that is the nearest one can get to freedom, of sorts, not having to deal directly with life." Laria wondered, would she like to have a man control her life to such an extent, that she would no longer have to contend with life directly. She smiled at the thought, it would be fun for a while, but she knew she would soon be chafing at the restriction, and would want to be her own person once more. She'd had enough of being controlled by her Father, but it had, on occassions been a welcome barrier to having to contend with life.

She watched the way Nicholas lit his cigarette and wondered if he smoked because he was addicted to it, as she knew some of her Father's friends were, or whether he was of a nervous disposition and found it calmed him. Though, it could be in response to the fact that he was an artist and and his hands felt empty when he wasn't holding a paint brush.

She also found that his movements were, to some degree, graceful, the energy conserved. He was obviously a person well suited to being in one place long enough to complete a painting.

"Aspirations to lead a good life is admiral, but I find aspirations usually indicate a man with an over inflated ego, or one who has more concern with money than the welbeing of his fellow man. Though many can hide it beneath charitable works."

"Forgive me, I have spent too long in the company of business men, and so my out look on people with aspirations are somewhat jaded. I have heard that the people of Espyn City are kind and courteous, but I have reason to distrust my sources." she smiled at him, to take the edge off her words, and to indicate, he wasn't the source.

Maybe she was just tired, she was sure that she sounded like an over bearing schoolma'am. Men rarely liked to have anything to do with women who had a brain cell, or opinions.

 

[Vixo]

"That's not exactly what I'm yearning for," he told her, seeming confused himself at this distinction. It was a simple matter of behavior, of being able to conduct oneself in a true way. For instance, not checking his language in certain company, or feeling free to sing when the urge struck him, smoking wherever he'd like, even being able to go somewhere in whatever state of undress felt right. It was often crippling to think that his body especially was one that needed to be hidden, for there were things about it bound to make others uncomfortable. Were he 'free', he wouldn't worry about other people's comfort or feel as though he had to sate whatever curiosity the sight of him would stir up. "I don't think I could appreciate that level of freedom, really. I. . .suppose I want to feel as though I offer something to society at large, as though I contribute, which wouldn't be true if I stole off on my own--or even with you, for instance." The thought had barely entered his mind before he spoke it, and punctuated it with a quick smile to show its intent as a silly, offhanded suggestion--just an example, really, that two people do not constitute a society. "I understand why some might want it that way," he agreed solemnly, as though he had lived through some particularly potent time of wishing for such a life. "At certain times, one feels. . .entirely impotent, as though they haven't got the tools to cope with certain things, or even with simple things, and to put everything into more capable hands seems--dreamlike." All the same, he shook his head. "But I know that I, for instance, could not live that way--and as one becomes dependent on another, not only financially, but in the way of making decisions, the ability to be independent is lost, one. . .forgets, and it can be very difficult to rebuild anything approaching self-sufficiency. And eventually, one will forget who he is, where the will of the, ah. . .the dominant, ends, and his own begins. His identity will be lost." Again, he shakes his head, this time in a more certain way. "It's such a waste."

Nick normally didn't allow his thoughts to go to such a strange place, and having spoken so much of them, he found himself experiencing no small amount of discomfort. Maybe he didn't realize until now that he'd actually let the thought of living that way cross his mind--of having so many strange things to deal with that he was willing to shove them all off on someone else, at the expense of personal freedom. Thank God he hadn't actually done it! There were horrors about his life, things that woke him up from a deep sleep to throw him into panic and sickness--but he could never unburden himself in such a way. Being his own person was too much a part of himself. Flicking away a measure of ash, he let his eyes fall to his lap as she continued speaking, partially for embarrassment--he knew that, for some people, the idea of men thinking that way was unheard of, whereas it was almost expected of women--and partially to try and put a leash on where those thoughts led.

A disgusted sort of smile crept along his face when she spoke of aspirations that way. "I meant--moral aspirations," he specified, "I'm quite happy with my home and. . .influence, as it is. It feels like too much sometimes, even as it is. I can't imagine much else. I--suppose I'm the sort of person who wants. . .the feeling of worth, as I mentioned, and. . .a woman with whom to share my life. . .as well as financial security, of course, and a home--you know, the rather essential things, I don't need to lord over anyone and can't even imagine doing it." At this, he laughed. "I haven't even hired anyone to look after my shop because I can't imagine having authority over them, it makes me a bit ill."

His laugh soon tapered off into something nervous, and he set to puffing on his cigarette again, worrying that he'd been entirely too honest with this woman tonight. Some of the things he admitted to weren't exactly shining bastions of traditional masculinity--and, well, it depended entirely on what sort of person she was, didn't it? For some reason she struck him as the sort who would be mildly disgusted by these things. He could only hope he was wrong.

 

[MaraKay]

I stole off on my own--or even with you, for instance."

a woman with whom to share my life

She felt her her heart fluttering at the thought of being with this man, a stranger. There was something about him, that drew her to him. No doubt, she told herself, it was a mere flight of fancy, being in close proximity to a man with whom she was having an enjoyable conversation. No doubt in the cold light of morning she would think herself foolish.

As he spoke, she found herself drawn and pulled in by his words.

"I think most people dream of handing responsibilty to another, and it would be fun for a while, but I understand your words, about loosing ones identity. I would happily put my self in the hands of a man I trust, but I would know, that ultimately, I am responsible for myself and must rely upon myself. So would that make me the dominant one, or the submissive?" Her words faultered, would he think that she had just offered herself to him? She momentarily looked down to hide any embarrassement.

"I looked after the staff for my Father." she said, diverting the subject. "There were some that enjoyed the servitude, and others that chaffed at their life. I am sure, should you wish, that there are people out there, who would be willing to look after your shop, and would look after it well. You would only be responsible for paying their wages, you would not be forcing them to work for you, so who would be responsible to who?"

In her head, she realised she was tieing herself up in knots, another image that she quickly removed from her mind. Was there actually a submissive and a dominant one in any relationship, would one ever overcome and over power the other, as Nicholas had said, to loose oneself? Maybe if one were weak minded, but people were rarely weak minded, to her way of thinking. So a relationship based on dominant and submissive, would be mutually beneficial to both, making the roles interchangeable to a certain extent.

The thoughts circulating through her head, had her examining various aspects of her life so far. Many of which, she was seeing in a new light. One thing she knew, when she reached her brothers house, she would not meekly bow down to his orders.

 

[Vixo]

Shaking his head slowly, he told her, "That would make you neither. I don't think many people fit comfortably into such roles." Indeed, he would be the same way--wanting for enough confidence to guide anyone anywhere, let alone taking such an extreme title, yet yearning all the same for indpendence. In many ways he did succeed in supporting himself, for he had a home, and had more than enough money to supply himself with basic needs and so on, yet he always felt there was something missing from it--the obvious answer resting in his near-complete solitude once he got home. Yet relying on another for one's life decisions would likely mean that he hadn't much choice in who shared his life, never mind his bed, wouldn't it? Not that he'd been making all too many choices to begin with!

"Well, the way the economy functions forces them to work for me. . .they wouldn't be tending my store because they've got a passion for wrapping up paintings, sending out orders or anything like that." At this, he flashed a smile; he knew that working with things one enjoyed in any sort of sales context had a way of diminishing one's enjoyment of them. "From what I understand, most artists in need of some help take on apprentices, and that's the appropriate way to get what one needs and encourage another's passion, but. . ." Shaking his head, he took another drag of cigarette before going on, "I'm no teacher. I haven't got the patience for it."