open / back from that soul vacation

[nicodemus artison]

I MEANT EVERY WORD I SAID. I NEVER WAYS LYING WHEN
WE TALKED IN BED.

,-- he stepped down from the sidewalk, surveying the scene without much interest. the slush under his feet made disgusting sounds when he trudged through it, causing the man to decorate his already scowling face with a look of pure outrage. good god, why did he have to come all the way into town for the simplest of things? then he remembered: it was the middle of fucking Alaska. he couldn't just grow his own food anymore, raise his own chickens and things. or ... well ... raise his food and have a person he paid slaughter it. instead, he had to subject himself to stares and bemused smiles and waves. did anybody know him here? no. but they still thought it their duty to wave to him as if they did. "freaks." he muttered, eyes closing as he finally felt warmth enclose him much the way a glove does a hand.
,--shoving his hands in his pockets, Nicodemus held a tight grip on his wallet. his days of business and politics in England had kept him well in order when it came to money, though he could tell he needed to finish and publish his book soon if he wanted to keep living his life the way he was. though he knew he'd never, ever go back to any job he had "enjoyed" before moving to Alaska, it was nice to be able and spend money like it was water. Italy and england were so much different than America, and it was a nice change, though he couldn't help but miss Italy and it's vineyards and fine food. not to mention the Mediterranean diet he had highly appreciated. closing his eyes, he allowed the aroma of the store fill him; calm him. opening his eyes again, Nicodemus let out a sharp yelp and jumped backward, almost falling. "can i help you?" the person asked who had happened to step out in front of him. "yes, you can! by getting the bloody hell out of my way!" he snarled, surging forward and by the storekeeper, who seemed a bit perturbed by his statement.
,-- damn Alaskans .. always getting in your way then wondering why you get so upset at them ... bunch of small town freaks .. they could learn a lesson from a high class man like myself .. he thought these things loosely, letting them drift through his mind as whispers without really noticing their presence. he'd thought them so many times before, it seemed they were almost constant companions that didn't need a proper introduction to his mind anymore, for they were always lurking somewhere in his subconscious. he rolled his eyes at their "vast selection" of "fine imported" wines, shaking his head slightly. it wasn't what he was used to; a man of his taste needed something a little more exotic, a little more sweet, a little more ... well, more. Alaska was proving to be a town harboring only what he didn't want, and so many things he could live without.
,-- turning, and realizing he almost stepped into another person, Nicodemus bent his head in acknowledgment and muttered "sorry 'bout that. didn't see you there." as if to show the world of Alaskan freaks that he had manners, in fact his manners were polished and perfected compared to theirs. he wasn't about to almost slam into a person and let it go without any note of his wrong doing. noticing his thick British accent, he wondered if it would ever fade. he was born and raised in Italy, but spent a good portion of his years in England studying business and law, so he'd adapted an English accent.

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[Beatrice Quail]

she makes the city seem like home

The woman behind the counter was perched atop a wooden stool, a book clutched in one hand whilst the other cupped her neck. A pair of thick glasses perched atop her nose, beneath the bridge and rather low. Obviously for reading, which, judging by the speed with which she turned the pages of the novel, was a common hobby for the young woman. With the hand touching her neck, Beatrice pushed back her thick mane of auburn that had somehow wrestled its way out of a temporary ponytail low on her back. Damn hair had a mind of its own, and it wasn’t about to settle for being tamed.

A disturbance caught her interest. Some man shouting at an employee? Not again. She eyed the brooding man with vague disapproval. Did no one uphold the ideas of common courtesy anymore? Was the present day really too modern to include classic etiquette? Manners were, of course, what gave the person receiving your patronage their first impression of yours and, well, you know the saying. First impressions can’t be altered.

Was he emotionally unstable or what? She contemplated the possibility as the man hastened to apologize to another customer after scowling openly at the racks of alcohol, a change of expression so swift that one would not believe it unless they were to absorb it with their own eyes. She heaved a sigh; this one might need some kind of…extra assistance. Mr. Marmaduke, the store owner, had warned her that some customers needed a little nudging here and there, but this man didn’t quite look like he wanted to be nudged.

Beatrice reluctantly set down her book and slid off of the stool, tentatively walking out from behind the desk and towards the man. She opened her mouth to offer the customary “may I help you, sir” but then immediately questioned her choice of words; was that not the stereotypical phrase that had set him off in the first place? She settled on a different tactic. “Everything all right, sir?” She tried to sound as chipper as possible, though was inwardly cowering before him.

[nicodemus artison]

I MEANT EVERY WORD I SAID. I NEVER WAYS LYING WHEN
WE TALKED IN BED.

,-- Grimicing as the women stared at him and then turned, walking away and muttering to herself. Was it really all that hard to utter an apology to him, as he had to her? After all, it was obviously her fault that he'd almost run into her. Turning, he sighed and brushed his fingers over the different selections of wine. Drunk Duck wine? He thought skeptically, one eyebrow descending while the other raised itself, his lips twisting, so that his face was the perfect example of the phrase "What the fuck?"

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,--Shaking his platinum blond hair, Nicodemus scanned the other varities. Grumbling to himself, he clasped his hands behind his back and strode forward, toward the frozen food sections. You'd think they'd be able to just keep these outside, with the weather being like it is ... the thought trailed off, however, when he saw something that was actually of interest. Opening the freezer, he picked from the frosted shelves an iced box of hot pockets. While Nicodemus, with his fine and tender palet, could definitely enjoy and appreciate the taste of fine foods and wines, he couldn't help but allow himself one obsession in life: pepperoni pizza hot pockets.[/color]
,--His face had an underdeveloped smile tracing it, now, showing the slight wrinkles he constantly combatted. Today, he was wearing a trench coat that was let open to show his black shirt and pants. One could safely assume that the man enjoyed the dark colour from his attire, which he did. In fact, brighter colours annoyed him, which was the only reason he didn't like the Alaskan wilderness: too much white and green. It was too bright.[/color]
,--His skin stood out as pale and almost pasty, and his hair seemed so much paler as well, with the dark clothing, though. That was the only reason he tended to wear more neutral earth tones, as it looked better on him and didn't cause him to look so pale and ghostly. He grabbed another box of the hot pockets before turning, sensing another person's presence. He hated that feeling, the feeling that you were being watched. The type of feeling that made the hair on the back of your neck stand up straight.
,-- Narrowing his eyes as a women walked towards him, obviously a person who worked at the godforsaken little mart, he let a suspicious smile overtake his face. She was a women, after all, and he was a gentlemen. There was no need for worry about this one. She was a fine specimin, in any case, and Nicodemus could appreciate another person of fine making when he saw one. When she approached him, he bent his head slightly in acknoledgement before saying "No, I'm--" He was cut off, though, but some idiot who walked right into him, knocking his hot pockets out of his hand.[/color]
,-- Snarling at the man, Nicodemus' eyes flashed and his mouth turned sharply down at the corners; he really could be a ferocious site when he wanted to be. "You blasted fool! Watch where you're going! You could've knocked me into the young lady, for all of your clumsiness! I have half a mind to strike you!" He growled the words out at the man, who looked like he was going nearly as pale as Nicodemus was. Nicodemus was a right coward, and he wasn't all that into defending himself because he was so weak, but when all six and nearly a half feet of him were towering over you, there was good enough reason to believe none of it to be true. Especially when he was glaring at you in the most menacing way, and he was dressed from head to toe in black. Turning back to the girl who'd adressed him first, he simply said "I apologize for some people's lack of regard for others. Are you quite alright?" hoping she would be; it would be such a pity if she had gotton hurt during it all. So many clumsy people around ... you'd think they'd lock them up or something! he mumbled mentally.

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[Beatrice Quail]

you know i’ve got a friend up in the atmosphere,
and another reason not to fear the sky,
no, not tonight.

Bee let a small smile touch her lips as she observed the tray of very American food clutched in the man’s hands; so it really was true that everyone had a chink in their armor. This sophisticated man had a taste for hot pockets, eh? Well, she herself had a thing for white cheddar popcorn, so she couldn’t talk. Maybe he wasn’t that intimidating of a person, she considered. That is, until the wandering stranger bumped into the man and set him off again.

Beatrice watched the scene unfold before her with mouth agape, lower jaw dropped somewhat and trembling a fraction of an inch. The gentleman really seemed to be a time bomb, at least in the sense that he switched emotions at the drop of a hat. And there he went again, calming down in an instant after fuming at a random customer who happened to bump into him. Really, it was bad luck that these poor people kept invading this man’s personal space…they ought to know to keep their distance.

She gulped, gazing up at him with wide eyes. She wasn’t afraid of him, really, just wary. “I’m…fine? It sounded like a question. As if she offered the option of him declining the response and encouraging a change if it didn’t suit him. Beatrice stole a glance back towards the sole counter in the mart, longing to return to her beloved and battered collection of Edgar Allan Poe. She was rereading the Read Masque of Death for the umpteenth time and she had been very reluctant to put it down in the first place. Now she wish she never did.

“Sir, is there anything I can help you find?” She tried not to sound impatient, but she really wanted this man satisfied and out of here as soon as possible. People were starting to shoot him looks, and she didn’t want to start a scene. Worse than that, she didn’t want to scare off any potential customers. Mr. Marmaduke was cutting down her pay as it was and, if sales dropped any lower than they already had, she could wave goodbye to the prospect of college after senior year. It wasn’t like her parents had the money to afford Northwestern, the university near Chicago that she desperately wanted to attend. If she wanted to pursue a career in writing, she had to earn the money her own. And this man wasn’t helping.

[spellbound ! ™]

I COULD NEVER REALLY LOVE YOU
SIMPLY BECAUSE.

,-- He sniffed lightly at her questioning tone. A bit unnerved was she by his almost eccentric behavior? It really was too bad ... he was beginning to like this one, too. He realized he was clutching the frosted boxes to his chest, and loosened his grip on them; it looked as if he were afraid somebody was going to just run up to him and snatch them from his grip. "QUIET, YOU!" he roared at the man behind him, who was uttering small apologies.

,--allowing himself a small glance backward, he noticed a small crowd staring at him, whispering, huddled together like ducks next to a pond. "Like ducks, all of 'em, y'know? Huddled up and muttering their simple phrases of gossip ... about to waddle off and feed off of the next passer by, stealing his bread ... or maybe his hot pockets .." Clutching his boxes again, he looked at her in such a way that it would have been hard to tell whether he was dead serious about what he'd said, or if he was just joking. Nicodemus seemed to wait for her reaction, though, before displaying his own.

,-- he eyed where she'd been before, and gasped in what seemed to be a show of delight. Chucking his Hot Pockets onto a counter next to him, Nicodemus strode over to the place where she'd been sitting, and grasped the book that lay all alone. Seeming to cradle it as if it were a small, fragile babe instead of an old book, Nicodemus turned and looked at her, seemingly awe struck. "You like ... Edgar Allan Poe?!" Though it was a simple name, he uttered it with complete reverence, as if he were saying the name of some praised god. Flipping the book open, he scanned the pages, and even went as far as to say a verse aloud. Now, after putting it back down, he started laughing in a slightly deranged manner, obviously finding something about the situation deeply amusing, before stopping and looking at her, head cocked to the side, seeming to wait for something from her.

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[Beatrice Quail]

you know i’ve got a friend up in the atmosphere,
and another reason not to fear the sky,
no, not tonight.

Oh. My. God. She had been so close. So freaking close to getting this man checked out and out of her life forever. She made a grab for the book, already anticipating the gleam that had just begun to spawn in the far depths of his eyes. The whole thing happened in a sickly humorous slow-motion view before her; the hot pockets clattered to the counter, he roared with delight, a barely audible moan of frustration was disposed from her downcast lips as she finally gave in.

“Poe is one of my favorites.” She sounded defeated more than anything else. The clipped, exasperated tone that she had previously upheld had completely evaporated. Let the gentleman have his fun. This just wasn’t her day. Beatrice slid behind the counter, lifting the box of hot pockets and examining the bar code. She typed the price into the calculator that Mr. Marmaduke insisted was an alternative to an actual cash register and added the sales tax, the whole time averting her eyes from the guy. “Four ninety-five,” she mumbled, pulling out a paper bag and dropping the box into it. Maybe he would go away now.

[nicodemus artison]

I MEANT EVERY WORD I SAID. I NEVER WAYS LYING WHEN
WE TALKED IN BED.

,Nicodemus curled his lips at the fact that she dismissed him so easily. In fact, she seemed almost annoyed with him. Indignent as ever, Nicodemus wouldn't stand for such horrible treat- oh, was that fudge? Placing the book down carefully, much like a new mother would put a child in it's cradle, Nicodemus walked over to the stand advertising fudge. His eyes seemed to drift back and forth as he hunched over it, poking and prodding little packages before finally making his selection.

"Fudge, fudge, fudge ... " he mummbled, holding two boxes. One was chocolate walnut, while the other was peanut butter. Strutting up to the counter, Nicodemus shoved them over to her, waiting for her to ring them up so that he could pay and be rid of this horrid place. "Do you know if they're looking to hire here?" The first normal sentance spoken by the man, in a somewhat normal way. If it wasn't for the slight paranoia lurking in the depths of his dark eyes, as well as the way he seemed to shift his head around to look at every angle of the store in regular intervals .. well, almost anyways.

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