Camille made her way to The Blind Eye in the dark, later after the more discerning clientele would have already left for the night, long after anyone who would recognize her as the modiste had left, and only those who would allow her ample space to be whom she really was were left in the gaming house. She needed away from the indignities of the day, ones that had already had her drinking a rather rare vintage, a gift from a client, the lyrium infused mix smooth on the way down, but from experience, was not as kind on the way back up. She had taken care to space her drinking out so as to not have that happen on this night.
No, she needed Quinn, needed to bitch to him about the way her day went, because he truly would understand, provided that he wasn't with someone important this evening. That or off on some ... Initiative that made no sense in the slightest. Even so, she tipped the appropriate palms at the door and got pointed out to where her longest friend was that evening. Thankfully she hadn't pissed him off enough to be revoked access to his little play ground. Her path stopped at the bar as she crooked a finger for her private stash there, an old bottle of whisky that was older than her mother. For when nessecity called. And having it kept here for hereant she didn't find herself lost in it, and wake to an empty bottle in the morning.
Mounting the stairs two at a time in her bustle coat and slacks, finding the indicated room,and letting herself in. With a dramatic sigh, she flung herself down, face first into the fainting couch, and screamed into the velvet pillow, the pent up anger of the day almost gone. Her moment spent, she turned up on her side and put a hand to her forehead, I hate all these Maker damned rich people, do you what what this fool asked me today? "But is this purple too purple-ish?" Non, ma chere, it is the same shade of purple you will be when I strangle you! Taking a deep breath, she slouched into the plushness of the couch. Please tell me you have some form of messy gossip to share that will make my night much better..
Quintilian was in his office, bent over the books. In his absence, Lady Junia had a steady hand with the clientele – but her penmanship left much to be desired. He found himself chasing a few errant aurums from column to column. It was, oddly, a surplus. More suspicious than a shortfall, in its way.
Of course, there were over a month of records to comb through. Hopefully someone would tell him no next time he proposed to leave Minrathous on an adventure.
Though it had not all been bad. An old acquaintance, long assumed dead, had turned up to join the expedition. (And it was never a bad thing to have a few talented mercenaries one could call on.) The griffon itself was a wonder – though like all infants it required an inordinate amount of care and time. For now, Argos napped on a low, plush bed by the window. No doubt he’d grow out of it in no time.
An unseen chime went off, alerting Quinn to a visitor in the hall and altogether breaking his focus on the books. He scribbled a short note to himself and blew on it to dry the ink before closing it between the pages – just as Madame de Solar swept in. It was always a pleasure to host his dear friend, though he didn’t anticipate her starting off with a muffled scream. Those poor cushions.
“Camille. It’s good to see you, too.” Chuckling, Quinn removed the reading lenses from his nose and tucked them away. He stood and stretched, rolling one shoulder and then the other, studying her slantwise. One could occasionally predict the currents of popular fashion from elements of her attire alone. A fabric or a dye or a particular cut that would be everywhere in a season or two, working its way from experiment to gown to copycat dresses in shop windows.
“What do they say? ‘The customer is always right in matters of taste?’” Perhaps true – it was largely so here, at the Blind Eye.
“Mm. All my gossip’s oh, at least six weeks out of date. That’s practically a lifetime.” He crossed the room in a few short strides, sinking down on the other end of the couch. “She bought the dress in the end, didn’t she?”
Her taste was atrocious, the purple made her look like a bloated corpse, which she'll soon be, if what she was gossiping about with the woman with her is to be believed. Trying to steal spouses usually ends with one being dead, especially the woman who lets herself become so addicted to the rush of love that she has to "steal" anyone. She huffed out a breath as she felt him sink down into the couch with her, turning over so that she could drape her long, leather clad legs over his lap, sighing gently that he had no new gossip about the rich they catered to to share with her. That was disappointing, but Quinn would come through for her in ways that others couldn't, her eyes darting to his face as she smirked.
Of course she did, they always buy, even when I protest. The dress will be beautiful, but all anyone will say is how could I let anyone walk out of my shope dressed like that. Maybe I will accidentally make it a little darker than she chose, that way it will match that blackness in her heart. Honestly, why marry if you don't take the vows seriously, do these rich people even pay to ignore their vows? Wouldn't surprise me, they pay for every damn thing else. She sat up then, eyes searching his face once again, as she went to tuck a stray bit of that wavy hair of his back behind an ear, before she noticed the griffon sleeping near the window and she immediately tilted her head to the side, before her eyes went back to his.
Is that what I think it is? Is my dear Quinn a single father now? She teased a little as she put an arm over the back of the couch, taking in the sleeping animal, but making no moves on going to pet. She rather liked her fingers being on her hands, and that beak looked sharp. Later when she felt more adventurous she would ask to pet the griffon, but for now, she had a healthy appreciation to not try and for attention on it. They were like cats, were they not, if she ignored it long enough it would come to investigate her on it's own terms -- she was just fine with that. Tell me about the adventure, I want to hear about how you came across it and now have brought it back with you. What of the others in the expedition? Anyone you now have under your thumb for a later date? She was already feeling better, now that her mind was off her afternoon -- Quinn, as always, able to turn her mercurial moods in a few words and a simple batting of those stunning lashes of his.
As Quinn listened, his fingers slowly traced the laces of the boot flung across his lap. The leather seemed very fine, though perhaps not comfortable for prolonged wear. Even at night, Mintathous was far too warm in the summer. He plucked at the cords slowly, attention wandering. It’d take an eternity to get those shoes free.
“Oh, divorce seems at least as likely as murder, does it not?” He hadn’t expected Camille to care so much for the literal affairs of the highborn. It was valuable to know who was on the outs with whom – or what new alliances might be soon spoken into existence. Beyond that …
Well. In this line of work, broken promises might become broken bones or worse. Did Camille doubt her client’s ability to pay, in future? Certainly possible if the social blunder was large enough to offend a High House. Quinn tilted his head, pressing into the touch as she adjusted his hair. Who was the mystery dress-buyer, and who was she pursuing?
“I’m not sure you can steal a person, Camille. Surely the one your lady has designs on would bear equal blame, if her scheme were to be successful.” He watched her notice the sleeping hatchling, teeth flashing in a bright smile.
“If I am the father, I’m afraid Professor Verax must be the mother. Madame de-Solar, meet Argos.” One of the griffon’s long ears twitched, but he otherwise did not stir. Thank the Maker for that – he didn’t think she’d be quite so charmed if he had to step away to hand feed the baby griffon a plate of chilled raw fish.
“I cannot recommend chartering a trip south right now. Some of the academics and servants had to turn back before we even got there.” He wrinkled his nose, remembering quite a few cold meals on the road – and the unfortunate animals that hadn’t survived the trip. If he had not spent four miserable years as a soldier, he might well have ridden back with the sickly cook no matter his costly investment in the professor’s venture.
“These vints used to make magic that would last – the nest was preserved, in a stasis spell. No one had been there for a thousand years.” Studies on time magic were fringe at best, though Quinn could see a certain throughline of logic to it. The Fade, after all, was timeless. “They began hatching as soon as we meddled. Five of them.”
As to who he had under his thumb … Eh, not quite. Byrne’s mercenaries might well be useful in the future, but even he would think first before ill treating another survivor of Kirkwall’s doomed Circle.
“I reconnected with an old friend, though I believe he’s already headed back to the Marches. Caro, a mage from Kirkwall.” The first boot was now sufficiently loose; Quinn made to slowly work it off. “Let’s see. There was an oxman, and a pair of dwarves. You’d think I’d have gotten to know them better.
“But I’m sure I’ll be seeing more of them. The Society wants to examine the griffons regularly, going forward.”
