Pettigrew
06-12-14, 01:54 PM
Snotty. Belligerent. Foolish. Not the best words to describe a man, but apt words all the same. Pettigrew Jones was a wayward soul on a winding road. He made mistakes. He was stubborn to a fault. He was almost suffering from some allergy or another. These qualities, however, felt eternally outshone by facts that are more positive. Pettigrew Jones was as loyal a youth as you could meet. He is unfalteringly positive. He is hideously talented.
“This is self-aggrandising bullshit.”
Pete blinked.
“Well, yeah,” he confirmed. He shrugged. There was no use dressing it up. The biography he was writing was a spoof, after all. This sort of self-depredating comedy always had to be over the top, full of hyperbole, and awkward.
“You’re going to lead every battle in the Citadel with me reading this.” Lisa jabbed the parchment with a slender finger. Her eyes, cold and calculating, undid Pettigrew’s resolve. He bit his lip. “You’re going to expect me to do it with sincerity, wisdom, and love.”
Picking apart the fine line between her rhetoric and her discontent, the bard settled for his usual dodge. He turned about to face the thick oak doors and pretended she was not there.
“Pettigrew,” she said. Somehow, the singular word served as putdown and command all at once. He turned, helpless against what amounted to his mother figure, and pouted.
The slap echoed through the tunnel and out into the candlelit boulevards of the Citadel cloisters. Ai’bron monks, shrouded and silent, cried inwardly at the thought. The red cheek of a foolish little man shone like a sun on the borderline between peace out here, and war in there.
“I won’t ask what that was for,” he moaned. He rubbed his cheek, unafraid of showing he was hurt, and tried to think of a response Lisa would want to hear (because his own feelings be damned in a woman’s eyes). “I’ll just go in and get on with it then, shall I?”
She tied back her ringlets and nodded. She put on her spectacles, did up her jacket, and checked she had her plans right for the remainder of the afternoon. The premier tailor of the Restless Fugitive theatre troupe was not going to waste her weekend break in Corone on bloodshed and the consumption of piss weak beer. She had buttons to source, sequins to sell, and thirty metres of chintz silk to track down before sunset.
“I swear to god, Pettigrew…,” she raised her finger once more, a wand charged with magic malefic. “If you are late for dinner, or even dare to turn up to the manor with a bloodied nose or so much as a hair out of place.” She stopped. She did not need to say anymore. In the wake of her warning, the doors opened. Light streamed across blood stained sand.
“Yes Lisa. I would not miss the Marquis’ debut for all the tea in Akashima.” He would miss it for all the gold, sake, and adventurer, but Lisa had the power of persuasion of a Thayne. “Sorry I asked,” he said seditiously as he skipped into the sandy dome. Before she could slap him again, the doors slammed to and sealed away the vagabond with whatever torment and nightmare fate had sent his way as a test.
“He’s exactly like Duffy,” Lisa spat as she strolled back out into the evening’s sunlight.
“This is self-aggrandising bullshit.”
Pete blinked.
“Well, yeah,” he confirmed. He shrugged. There was no use dressing it up. The biography he was writing was a spoof, after all. This sort of self-depredating comedy always had to be over the top, full of hyperbole, and awkward.
“You’re going to lead every battle in the Citadel with me reading this.” Lisa jabbed the parchment with a slender finger. Her eyes, cold and calculating, undid Pettigrew’s resolve. He bit his lip. “You’re going to expect me to do it with sincerity, wisdom, and love.”
Picking apart the fine line between her rhetoric and her discontent, the bard settled for his usual dodge. He turned about to face the thick oak doors and pretended she was not there.
“Pettigrew,” she said. Somehow, the singular word served as putdown and command all at once. He turned, helpless against what amounted to his mother figure, and pouted.
The slap echoed through the tunnel and out into the candlelit boulevards of the Citadel cloisters. Ai’bron monks, shrouded and silent, cried inwardly at the thought. The red cheek of a foolish little man shone like a sun on the borderline between peace out here, and war in there.
“I won’t ask what that was for,” he moaned. He rubbed his cheek, unafraid of showing he was hurt, and tried to think of a response Lisa would want to hear (because his own feelings be damned in a woman’s eyes). “I’ll just go in and get on with it then, shall I?”
She tied back her ringlets and nodded. She put on her spectacles, did up her jacket, and checked she had her plans right for the remainder of the afternoon. The premier tailor of the Restless Fugitive theatre troupe was not going to waste her weekend break in Corone on bloodshed and the consumption of piss weak beer. She had buttons to source, sequins to sell, and thirty metres of chintz silk to track down before sunset.
“I swear to god, Pettigrew…,” she raised her finger once more, a wand charged with magic malefic. “If you are late for dinner, or even dare to turn up to the manor with a bloodied nose or so much as a hair out of place.” She stopped. She did not need to say anymore. In the wake of her warning, the doors opened. Light streamed across blood stained sand.
“Yes Lisa. I would not miss the Marquis’ debut for all the tea in Akashima.” He would miss it for all the gold, sake, and adventurer, but Lisa had the power of persuasion of a Thayne. “Sorry I asked,” he said seditiously as he skipped into the sandy dome. Before she could slap him again, the doors slammed to and sealed away the vagabond with whatever torment and nightmare fate had sent his way as a test.
“He’s exactly like Duffy,” Lisa spat as she strolled back out into the evening’s sunlight.