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Scelt is a Territory in turmoil and peace is tenuously held together by the Sceltic Queens. Rivalry between the Clans errupted into horror for the Territory that resulted in many dead, on both sides, and culimated in Clan Sheane being outlawed in the Territory. Further troubles plague the Territory in a variety of manners - Landen villages are raided, Courts are attacked, and no one seems to be safe.
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Author Topic: Pressure, pushing down on me  (Read 904 times)

Description: 192, spring: The Hammer and Anvil; Epona confesses. Attn: Dug, Niall

Offline Epona Corcoran

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Pressure, pushing down on me
« on: Oct 01, 17, 12:11:57 PM »
Spring, 192: The Hammer and Anvil theatre presents
the Taming of the Shrew, featuring Dug and Epona, and Witch's Price, written and co-directed by Padean Falkirk.



Epona Corcoran walked slowly through the Hammer and Anvil Theatre. The last year had been filled with such wild ups and downs, she felt as if she could not catch her balance. Each blessing had been accompanied by a trial, as if some demonic power were a born accountant with no more sense of poetry or justice than a slug. She glanced guiltily over her shoulder, and knocked on a sturdy (new) wood door as she passed into her office.

The furniture here was new, or at least new to her; Dug had a keen sense of where to get a good price on furniture, and her own people had sanded and stained the assorted pieces to match. She could only hope it would not go the way of her last two sets of office furniture. Epona coudn’t quite stop a wince of pain at the thought. It had hurt more than she’d expected, to see those old friends go. But they were proper heirlooms, and their sacrifice had paid the Price for her people’s safety over the winter.

The short, sharp note in her hand burned with anger and fear; despair threatened the wings of her soul. How, if every success was followed by a new demand, was she ever supposed to get ahead enough to protect her people properly? She crumpled the note tossing it behind her, a brief, defiant smile flaring. She was endlessly inventive, right? Creative, brilliant, and ...

And the paper hadn’t hit the ground behind her.

Trained to each nuance of movement and sound, of voice and presence, recently hunted in her own home, she turned slowly, gracefully, very much on stage as her soft brown eyes collided with Niall Burne’s curious ones. Tension fled out of her, along with sweet laughter. Her heart beat slowed, and her breathing eased. She’d been more distracted than she realized; both Arthfael and Dug were due to meet her in her office. Either of them catching her note were entirely reasonable. She had to stop jumping at shadows, and expecting ambush. She shook her head to banish such thoughts

“Niall! You’re early.”


Offline Dubhghall Moriarty

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      Sol

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Re: Pressure, pushing down on me
« Reply #1 on: Oct 30, 17, 07:48:39 PM »
Dug could not be happier about their new production.  Not because he was one of the stars, no, Epona would outshine him on the stage.  She would be the name on the lips and in the breath of the audience and the city beyond the walls of their theater.  He was excited because he loved the scripted, adored it, in fact.  He enjoyed the comedy, and the subtlety of that comedy.  Satire and political commentary were occasionally dangerous, and while The Taming of the Shrew was perhaps the mildest form of such art, those he look for something to be insulting will often find it so.  Dug just hoped that did not happen, though the criminal instincts that stalked the back of his mind these days warned him that it was a possibility, if a small one.

Being that he was the Lead, and Epona ran the theater, he had taken it upon himself to shepherd the production.  He had checked on set design, costumes, and especially the advertising.  People knew their work around the theater, so rather than make a nuisance of himself with his fretting, he checked on progress, asked what was needed, and then left the theater on those errands and to hand out as many leaflets and playbills as he possibly could.  Dug had even managed to procure glue and rough parchment to make some plain but serviceable posters that he stuck to the walls of various businesses around the City.

Dug was returning from just such a run, his arms loaded with necessary bolts of fabric and other items he had been tasked to find and purchase.  He thought he purchased most of them.  The small items, it was possible, that he merely acquired them, but surely those people wanted to give to the fine arts of Scelt?  Right?  He pushed his way into the Hammer and Anvil, and noticed Epona right away.  He always did, and someone that he did not immediately recognize from behind, until she said his name.  ”Good day!  Epona!  Niall!”  He grinned and walked over to offer Niall his open hand, and dropped a package or two.

Offline Epona Corcoran

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Re: Pressure, pushing down on me
« Reply #2 on: Nov 12, 17, 06:01:56 PM »
Spring, 192: The Hammer and Anvil theatre presents
the Taming of the Shrew, featuring Dug and Epona, and Witch's Price, written and co-directed by Padean Falkirk.



And right on cue, saving Epona from answering any uncomfortable questions from Niall, was Dug. The young actor had been an amazing support during the framing, blocking, and rehearsing of their show; such a help that their very own Dhemlanese director was thinking seriously of training him in directing. He seemed to have a mind that saw how all of the different bits and pieces worked together to frame the illusion they brought to their audiences.

A touch of tension returned, as Epona’s warm brown eyes swept over Dug’s assorted bags and duffles. They were not one whit less stuffed than when he’d left; he seemed always to acquire extra items, from pretty rocks to very expensive and monogrammed mirrors. Or combs. Or knives ... or really, anything. It made her uneasy, given the current .... situation. Though the locals were good natured about coming to her to collect their items, and Dug’s disarming and genuine charm went a long way towards warding off true disaster, she could ill afford more trouble.

Epona’s gaze lingered for a moment, and one eyebrow rose in question. She gestured gracefully towards his packs, and then to her desk. It was a silent invitation for Dug to go through his pockets and make sure he knew whence everything came. But glancing at her desk reminded her of the letter that was meant for him. Her smile turned to pure mischievousness, and she plucked a single, elegant and grand bit of correspondence off of her desk.

“Dug, you’ve got a fan. Your play bills and leaflets are so charming, that one Lady Perth wishes to hire you to do invitations for her daughter’s wedding.” Amusing as it was, it was also a serious business proposition. And things being what they were, Epona was willing to consider it as a revenue stream. “She needs fifty invitations, every single one individualized, but she is willing to cover the cost of ‘paint, inks, ribbons, flourishes and parchment,’ plus sufficient extra of her high quality Parchment to account for up to five errors. What do you think?”

Offline Dubhghall Moriarty

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Re: Pressure, pushing down on me
« Reply #3 on: Nov 12, 17, 09:49:17 PM »
Dubhghall Moriarty was terribly aware of his shortcomings, few as they were.  He understood that he had a problem with loose items and his hands, stemming from a lifetime of crime.  Petty theft had been a survival mechanism that he had not quite shaken, and while he had curtailed his criminal escapades, he knew that loose things did wind up in his pockets.  He was not crazy after all, or at least, not completely.  Dug was always willing to return things, sometimes even before someone noticed they were missing.  He was, some could say, like a walking ‘Lost and Found’.  Someone lost something, and he found it, and put it in his pockets for safekeeping.  Of course, he always meant to return them, but with so many people losing so many things, he sometimes forgot.

He could see how Epona was looking at him, and he was forced to take a mental inventory of what he had on his person.  Dug realized that did him no good, as he usually did not know what he had found until he emptied his pockets.  It was a ritual he often did unasked.  He felt certain that he was about to be asked to do just that.  He thought about his purchased for a moment, counting the coins he had exchanged in his head.  He had made legitimate purchases, he was sure of that, but it was entirely possible that he perceived some of the prices to be a kind of robbery of their own.  Sometimes, one had to even the scales, right?  Dug nodded at her gesture, and toed the dropped parcel over to the waiting desk.

One by one Dug placed the packages on the desk.  The larger parcels and rolls of fabric and so forth were the easy items.  He even picked up the one he had dropped.  Then he had a rucksack to empty out, something he did carefully.  He did not just dump anything out, as some items were seals in ceramic jars and such, and not everything was related to the play.  Then he began with his pockets, pulling over a large wooden tray that he had used for this purpose on more than one occasion, well, almost every night since Epona realized his particular interpretation of personal property.  Dug did so almost eagerly, as these moments were often as much a surprise to him as anyone else.  He had found a number of items; an assortment of pen nibs for a dip pen, very fine ones, several different colors of ribbon, coinage in a wide variety of denominations, one stiletto with a small ruby at its pommel, three small glass jars of different colored paints, two sticks of sculpting clay, and  one bottle of perfume.

Dug looked up with a grin, distracted for a moment by his haul—or rather—his found items.  ”Of course, I do!  A fan of which performance in particular?”  Then he laughed, ”The handbills?  But I do those for fun, that they are also useful to us is a happy coincidence, surely no one really thinks much of my scribbles!”  It was a poor attempt at humility, as he was clearly pleasantly surprised.  ”Oh, that would be wonderful…and if there is anything left over, the theater gets to use it for the set or more handbills!  I think we should do it, if you think it is best Epona…no harm in a new, what did I hear that moneylender call it?”  He was thoughtful for a moment, as he flipped a gold coin, caught it and made it disappear with a flourish.  ”No harm in a new revenue stream!  That’s what he said, and I agree.”

Offline Epona Corcoran

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Re: Pressure, pushing down on me
« Reply #4 on: Nov 13, 17, 12:24:26 AM »
Spring, 192: The Hammer and Anvil theatre presents
the Taming of the Shrew, featuring Dug and Epona, and Witch's Price, written and co-directed by Padean Falkirk.



Dug’s pockets were always fascinating. No one, not even Dug knew what might be found when going through them. Epona studied each item that appeared, as curious as to why a certain item caught his attention as to how to figure out to whom they belonged. It was always rendered more difficult, when he’d been on a legitimate shopping expedition as well. The Ritual of Dug ought to be its own scene in a play, or bit of Craft.

Jars, fabric, pen nubs were carefully displayed, Dug’s joy and surprise in each item as genuine as any child’s might be. He was always so good about returning things, so earnest about it all.

Ribbons, coins from all over the Territory, and clay in several colors soon filled the wooden tray. Each item was carefully placed, for Dug respected the things he found, rather than scattering them about like an angry child. Epona spared a painful, longingly look for the coins. They were either things he must return, or he’d been purchasing things at his own expense again.

“Be sure you leave me a receipt for the items you’ve purchased, Dug. You’ve been working as hard on production and direction as acting; you oughtn’t to pay for the items we need. If anything, I owe you a raise.” the last was said with amusement; profits from the show were split amongst the cast and crew, according to a traditional system. He’d get a raise only if more patrons came to the theatre for his show.

It was the exquisitely expensive stiletto, complete with a ruby gem in the hilt, and expensive perfume that made Epona bite her lip in concern. Her finger traced over the stiletto, hoping to find a seal or mark that tell her who the owner was. “Do you recall where you found this, Dug? I have a feeling the owner will miss it, desperately.”

But even Epona could not continue to worry, when Dug looked so thrilled at having a fan, even of his penmanship. Epona’s tense shoulders eased, and her smile flared. Dug seemed genuinely pleased with the idea of penning out the invitations, or at least with having a fan.

“I do think its a good idea, Dug. Building good will is excellent, and because you’ve got to deliver the finished items, we’ve a chance to tempt her into choosing the inn for the wedding reception. Think what that would do for our quarterly budget!”



Offline Dubhghall Moriarty

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Re: Pressure, pushing down on me
« Reply #5 on: Nov 13, 17, 01:34:29 PM »
Dug had, in fact, taken a bit of a shine to writing.  Not so much creative writing, though he figured that it was a matter of time before he began to test the waters of that particular stream.  it was more the artistry of writing itself, the form and shape and artistry of it.  The place where the bibs had come from had called it Calligraphy, a word Dug had heard before, but had never really considered the meaning of.  Dug was, apparently, doing his own version of it, and it was something he enjoyed.  Making a picture of words was fun.  The letters had to still be letters, but if they could also infer a particular subject, that was wonderful.  It never occured to  him that it could be a thing, since acting was already his thing, and the love of his life.

At the mention of receipts, Dug began to pat himself down, his expression thoughtful.  He was sure he had receipts, but he would have put them somewhere safe from fast hands like his own.  Then his eyes brightened, and he reached own to his belt, loosened it, and pulled a section by his hip from his body.  One by one he pulled out carefully folded bits of rag parchment, and placed them on the desk with the purchased items.  Dug had a pocket behind his belt for his own coins, and cinched his belt too tightly for most pickpockets to get to.  He could have, but he did not believe most street thieves were of hs caliber, not that he was a thief anymore, but pride for his work still lingered.  He began to check over the receipts, leaning over them as Epona spoke to him.

The pen nibs were not among the itemized items, and he frowned slightly.  That shop was overcharging by a large amount, committing a kind of public theft that Dug's hands must have sought to balance.  "Oh, please, Epona...I consider myself lucky to be paid at all for this.  You give me my shows, a bed, and food.  Anything I can do is a pleasure, i assure you."  Dug turned his attention to her, and noticed her eyes straying to the desk.  She referenced the lovely little stiletto specifically, and he turned to his take once again, his eyebrows rising.  "The stilleto?"  His fingertips ran over it, and he frowned slightly.  "Oh.  Yes."  He said, his frown becoming a slight scowl.  "I do remember.  He was beating a girl child.  A pretty thing, dressed well--she had taken offense to something the man wished her to do, and he struck her.  No one did anything."  He paused a moment, "Until another man came along and intervened, big fellow, red of beard and hair.  This must have been loosed in the scuffle--I dinnae think they'll miss it, whichever one it was that dropped it."  No one had intervened, and when the man reached for that little blade, he found it was missing, and when he turned about to seek it--he eventually found that the girl was missing to.  Screened by Dug, given coin from the bastard's purse, and told to run away to the next village or to someone better.

Dug forgot all of that quickly in light of making money with his little hobbyl, and the idea that some woman enjoyed them.  He wondered if she was  pretty woman, or if she was a member of the Jeweled Blood.   He would have to be careful about Protocol if so, but he could certainly do that for more coin.  "Oh, please make the arrangements, or let me make them.  I'd be happy to do it for usl, and maybe this Lady will tell her friends, and get more people in to see the shows!"

Offline Naia Garcia

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      Haloriel

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    • "Make them love you, but only upon the stage."

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Re: Pressure, pushing down on me
« Reply #6 on: Dec 19, 17, 06:06:08 AM »
Locale: 192, Spring. Hammer and Anvil; Practise Room, then Epona Corcoran's Office.


Tuathal was certainly no Amdarh, but it had its absolutely worthy charms; for the last several hours the Blood Female had spent time wandering where she could before returning to the Hammer and Anvil. Truly, even in the capital she stood out sharply, at least until parting her lips to speak. It was that one trait, the hint of shared tones in speech that most allowed themselves to be settled by. With another hour and some passing, the half Long Lived Blood Female had tucked herself into a practise room, where until there was work, she could haunt for a full day or more, making use of delicate Aural Shields amplified by a handy item or two, for her own were as light as one could expect from Basic Craft; good for a little while, but not hours on end. That, was good for the amplification. A dreamy smile softened the look of deep concentration upon Celes' face.

Even if she did not at all look like a Scelt and almost entirely appeared Dhemlanese, with soft eyes more hazel than true gold, brown skin and ink black hair which held a hint of auburn fire in her wild curls inherited from her father, open knowledge and interest in anything she could get her hands on belonging to the history of the ferocious people of the isle, helped indeed it did. Once and if one did arrive upon the fact that the Lady Garcia was belonging by direct lineage to one of the very few Sceltic composers considered equal to the gift and skill of a Dhemlanese one - Lord Brennan Connors - claimed even by several Lowland and Highland Clans - often, she was practically family by then. Celes' father was famous enough that everyone wanted a piece of the Bard that had been dead long enough now that his work could be heard upon any tongue, whether in a Red Moon House, or a fine estate.

Never had the actress and musician bothered to research just where the Connor line ended up beyond her father, but truly, all that mattered to Celes was his memory; thanks to memory crystals, she'd never forget the thoughtful presence in his face. It meant that she was lucky enough to be able to hide behind her mother's very not-Scelt name, when needed, for didn't every Ingenue seek to make her own fortune by her own hands and not by those that preceded them?

As of yet, Naia Celestine Garcia had yet to complete her year long trial as was generally customary of most playhouses that she had ever taken work within. The Landen woman, Epona Corcoran had not insisted upon it, particularly after an assistant spilled the beans so to speak of the range of her talents. Yet, given her very professional presence and tutelage; it wasn't just anyone that managed to study the Dramatic and Theatre Arts, not to speak of Operatics at Salamanca University, but she had for more than half of her arguably short life.

Well, short by the standards of her Dhemlanese kin. Lean, long fingered golden brown hands plucked at the strings of the small harp in Celes' hands as they had been for the last pair of hours, peacefully and at ease. "One pleasant summer's morning, when all the flowers were springing oh," she murmured with a rich middle soprano fleshed through with a pretty middle-Highlander accent kissed by Dhemlanese vowels and rolled r's, with the gently plucked chords. It was only just past her first two months here at the Hammer and Anvil, and thus far, she had relegated herself to stage hand, again, insisting that despite her ability, she would not truly learn the house, those that tended the stage, the audience, and the primary players that brought the audience forth. It was a romantic part that often stole her senses fully, the mysterious, the strong and most idealistic character. Her father had written many a piece for the archetype originally for her mother, but eventually, for his children.

Swift hands closed the harp into its case, swung very slowly into a vanishing cabinet; the harp itself and its case imbued with Craft from their creation, and as such, made ever so much easier to tuck away. Both were one of the last gifts from her father, yet, Celes' attention shifted already to the sounds heading in the direction of the Lady Corcoran's Office. Smoothing her attire, she glanced about and straightened the practise room before stepping outside of it, and following the voices she heard, which once she was near to the doorway were clear to be the Blood Male that held the place of the Leading Male, calling himself Dug. She however had no intentions of addressing him as that very odd moniker, and for several moments, gently agonized over turning back from whence she had come, but after a thought or two, she suspected a neatly murmured 'my Lord' would do well enough if the point was pressed.

As such, she lightly knocked upon the doorjamb. "Lady Corcoran? Lord, forgive the interruption. Do tell, what is the schedule for today backstage? Any particular parts needing motion? I daresay my control over my Basic Telekinesis is almost as fair as any White Jewelled witch, if you've a need." She stressed backstage, making it clear she had no intention of being shifted around from it to any other place as yet, even if Celes' every motion all but shouted Ingenue. Though she had a full wardrobe at her flat of far lovelier pieces, the black trousers and front-open dark grey riding skirt paired well with the cream shirt and matching black vest, all of it flowing happily into the tall pure black riding and walking boots.

 

 

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