Visla Eraclaire
04-27-10, 10:28 PM
Closed to Olver
Scarabrian tea was, by and large, cheap and generic. Visla found it left a film in the mouth and tasted of little more than the low quality water used to brew it. Still, it filled the stomach and served as a means to deliver caffeine. Since taking up residence in her extradimensional sanctum, Visla’s appetite for the stimulant had grown steadily. Without daylight to direct her, her days could be as long or as short as she desired. Where in years past she had tried to cut every day short by drowning it in wine, she now savored each jittery moment as she perused alchemical formulae and perfected her arts.
One discovery she had made quickly was that whatever she conjured to eat within her hideaway was indeed real, in some sense. She would not starve eating it, but neither would she truly feel full or satisfied. The sugar provided no rush and the tea failed to fuel her timelessly long nights. It was this need that brought her to a rickety little café in the less well-to-do district of Scara Brae. For the discerning alchemist on a budget, it was the cheapest tea that was still potable. She sipped a cup while the proprietor loaded a crate for her to take back to her little corner of the multiverse.
The other service the café provided was the sound of human voices. While Visla took care to speak aloud even as she spent weeks on end alone, there was something dehumanizing about hearing no one but herself and she craved even the crass voices of old women and their lascivious gossip. Glancing down at her cup and across at the packing crate, she saw that both were about half full and took another sip, leaning back precariously on a fragile wooden stool.
“Devilry, I say,” one old crone wheezed.
Visla sometimes tried to guess the rest of the story before she heard it. On this account, she predicted someone’s grandson was sneaking around on someone else’s niece. As the tale unfolded she found she was far off base.
“The ol’ pastor says there’s somfin’ foul down Lombard Street,” an oafish man chimed in with his almost drooling words.
“I wager ‘ees right on there. An’ that man’d know him some foulness,” the batty woman replied.
The conversation grew less interesting for several minutes, detailing the various infidelities of the local clerics from the parish priests to the abbots. Visla ceased to listen, disappointed that it had taken a turn for the mundane and finished her tea. It was only as a pair of noblemen arrived to retrieve the two chatty geriatrics that things piqued her interest once again.
“Come along mother, enough talk of this. I’m sorry about this Winston, you do know how she gets,” said one to the other, doffing his hat and trying desperately to pry the old woman from her stool.
“Quite alright, Chester, my uncle is no better, you see. He drones on at length about necromancers and dark magic all through dinner. It surely spoils the appetites of my guests,” the gentleman replied with a bow and a tug at his own charge’s dirty old coat.
Visla set her cup down on the table, empty and heard the call from inside that her crate was ready. She rose from her seat and pulled a few coins from her pouch to slide on the counter.
“Hold it for me a while, if you wouldn’t mind,” she requested and walked off toward the two nobles and their bedraggled elders as the shopkeeper grinned and pocketed the extra gold.
“Pardon me, sirs,” she interjected with what she could muster of her old noblewoman’s cadence. “Might I inquire the way to Lombard Street?”
The men looked her over and one took his cane in hand, a fine piece of artisanship clearly intended entirely for fashion unlike the practical walking stick Visla used. He gestured to his right and replied with some unease, “You’ll come straight upon it if you venture that way—“
He was surely about to add some polite dalliance, but his uncle interjected before he could finish his niceties.
“Ye’ll only find death down thar, l’il miss,” he chided.
“I’m quite sorry about—“
Before the gentleman could finish his apology Visla had taken her leave of them toward whatever grim goings on awaited on Lombard Street. She expected a prankster at best, more likely simple senility on the part of her informants, but it was a possibility worth looking into. She had met enough demons and devils to know that if any truly were afoot, it would behoove her to see what their business was, for good or ill..
Scarabrian tea was, by and large, cheap and generic. Visla found it left a film in the mouth and tasted of little more than the low quality water used to brew it. Still, it filled the stomach and served as a means to deliver caffeine. Since taking up residence in her extradimensional sanctum, Visla’s appetite for the stimulant had grown steadily. Without daylight to direct her, her days could be as long or as short as she desired. Where in years past she had tried to cut every day short by drowning it in wine, she now savored each jittery moment as she perused alchemical formulae and perfected her arts.
One discovery she had made quickly was that whatever she conjured to eat within her hideaway was indeed real, in some sense. She would not starve eating it, but neither would she truly feel full or satisfied. The sugar provided no rush and the tea failed to fuel her timelessly long nights. It was this need that brought her to a rickety little café in the less well-to-do district of Scara Brae. For the discerning alchemist on a budget, it was the cheapest tea that was still potable. She sipped a cup while the proprietor loaded a crate for her to take back to her little corner of the multiverse.
The other service the café provided was the sound of human voices. While Visla took care to speak aloud even as she spent weeks on end alone, there was something dehumanizing about hearing no one but herself and she craved even the crass voices of old women and their lascivious gossip. Glancing down at her cup and across at the packing crate, she saw that both were about half full and took another sip, leaning back precariously on a fragile wooden stool.
“Devilry, I say,” one old crone wheezed.
Visla sometimes tried to guess the rest of the story before she heard it. On this account, she predicted someone’s grandson was sneaking around on someone else’s niece. As the tale unfolded she found she was far off base.
“The ol’ pastor says there’s somfin’ foul down Lombard Street,” an oafish man chimed in with his almost drooling words.
“I wager ‘ees right on there. An’ that man’d know him some foulness,” the batty woman replied.
The conversation grew less interesting for several minutes, detailing the various infidelities of the local clerics from the parish priests to the abbots. Visla ceased to listen, disappointed that it had taken a turn for the mundane and finished her tea. It was only as a pair of noblemen arrived to retrieve the two chatty geriatrics that things piqued her interest once again.
“Come along mother, enough talk of this. I’m sorry about this Winston, you do know how she gets,” said one to the other, doffing his hat and trying desperately to pry the old woman from her stool.
“Quite alright, Chester, my uncle is no better, you see. He drones on at length about necromancers and dark magic all through dinner. It surely spoils the appetites of my guests,” the gentleman replied with a bow and a tug at his own charge’s dirty old coat.
Visla set her cup down on the table, empty and heard the call from inside that her crate was ready. She rose from her seat and pulled a few coins from her pouch to slide on the counter.
“Hold it for me a while, if you wouldn’t mind,” she requested and walked off toward the two nobles and their bedraggled elders as the shopkeeper grinned and pocketed the extra gold.
“Pardon me, sirs,” she interjected with what she could muster of her old noblewoman’s cadence. “Might I inquire the way to Lombard Street?”
The men looked her over and one took his cane in hand, a fine piece of artisanship clearly intended entirely for fashion unlike the practical walking stick Visla used. He gestured to his right and replied with some unease, “You’ll come straight upon it if you venture that way—“
He was surely about to add some polite dalliance, but his uncle interjected before he could finish his niceties.
“Ye’ll only find death down thar, l’il miss,” he chided.
“I’m quite sorry about—“
Before the gentleman could finish his apology Visla had taken her leave of them toward whatever grim goings on awaited on Lombard Street. She expected a prankster at best, more likely simple senility on the part of her informants, but it was a possibility worth looking into. She had met enough demons and devils to know that if any truly were afoot, it would behoove her to see what their business was, for good or ill..