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 Posted: Tue Nov 03, 2009 1:47 pm
If there was one thing Caspian Elliot Merreau had, it was a keen eye. You needed these sorts of things when you were in business. At least, if you were going to be successful, and Merreau was successful. You had to be able to catch the best deals, the lowest prices, the quality, the value, the texture and complexity. The eye, he knew, was a tool to be harnessed to the best of its ability. Many didn't, many let their eyes grow glossy and heavy with sleep. They were the ignorant fools of the world, blissfully drifting, detached and accepting of whatever life threw at it. They were idiots. Idiots who never stopped to harness the power they could obtain. It sat in their hands, longing, wanting, eager to be used. It whispered in the depths of their minds, but such minds are so hollow and empty even echoes wither into meaningless jumbles. They fancied themselves happy, but they were poor, they were stupid, they were needed. Merreau had no pity for them, they had not opened their own eyes and he was not going to open theirs for them. What kind of businessman would he be if he did so?
So he walked through busy markets ever Saturday, looking for trinkets of value, steals and deals. Caspian Merreau took careful care in his walk, for a walk presented the man. He had perfected the powerful stride, his shoulders tilted in the right manner, swayed only slightly as Merreau was a rigid man one full of sharp lines and angles. His steps were light, though there was forceful impact behind them. He made little noise; that was essential. If he made noise, everyone would hear him, where was the element of surprise? Where was the power of the unknown? A walk defined the man, from a teenager's lazy, sloping gait, to a naïve girl's bouncy flits and twirls. Some accepted their natural swagger, let life be what it was, they were fools, every single one. Who let some unknown force describe them, to pinpoint them? Fools, fools who had neither the sense nor the will to take on the world, to take matters into their own hands, to think for themselves.
He was a tall man, stretched further by the fact that he never slouched, his back a "perfect" ninety degrees. It was just a further reflection of who he was, he thought. And so, armed with a hat, today a long one of the top hat variety, the wiry man gazed over most heads in the crowd, scanning the stalls over the chatter and chuckles, the wisps of hair and glints of smiles. His lips pursed and tightened into a thin line. Hands grasped the collar of his black suit, tailored specifically for him. A few bony, thin fingers played with the tie – purple – knotted around his neck. Merreau looked put-together, well if you asked him anyways, in a sea of silly, unprofessional.
To his left he could see glimmers of wet apple skins; to his right there were cheap, wooden toys, cars on square, shabby wheels. However, right before him there was a thicket of fools, one so dense he couldn't see through it or over it. He adjusted his hat and giving a sharp, quick sigh he began to elbow his way through the crowd. If there was a commotion, Merreau would not be left uninformed. He jabbed his shoulders, left, right, left, right. There were a few grunts as he moved, a few "Hey!"s or "Jerk!"s, but it wasn't as if he cared. If they knew better they would part for him, not wait for him to jab his way through.
The stall was unimpressive, to say the least.
Shabby, broken and falling apart, Merreau was sure that if he stuck his hand in one of the many holes in the planks he would come up with a handful of worms. There were, however, gold chains, strings of pearls and extravagant pocket-watches draped lazily over the stall's knobs. There were a few rings, a few brooches and other scattered, shiny bits. Well, they were pretty. He flipped open one watch, to reveal its face. Four hands hummed and whirled to a rhythm of their own. His face tightening, lines running into each other as his face crumpled, it certainly wasn't the right time. Curiously, quickly, he inspected the other treasures. There was a dent in this pearl; the gold was peeling off the chain, a jagged crack in the brooches. They were fakes, he sniffed, jutting his chin to the sky, he was above such low quality. He swatted clammy hands, grabby, reaching just to touch the disgusting gems and jewels. Disdainfully he pivoted, attempting to weave away from the tangled web of saucer-eyed idiots.
But then something caught his eye.
Something that was much better than any cheap merchant's wares. Something that radiated an exotic tingle, it ran down his spine, excited his brain. He had to have it. Eyes darted left, and feverishly scanned to his right. No one else seemed to see this true treasure, this strange bottle wedged between two stones, sheltered by a maze of legs. It was a find only someone as grand as himself was worthy of seeing. It would be his.
The problem was, he soon found out, how to get it.
He was fighting an uphill battle, with a flood running at him. Every step he took was pushed back again from the hordes of excited people, all greedy and all eager to buy. But he was greedier than they. There was something about that bottle, glinted quietly, secretly, hidden from the unobservant man's view. There was something that called out to Merreau, connected to him, told the man that this bottle was his, or at least, his to take. He swallowed. A man processed by greed will go to many lengths to satisfy himself. Merreau was no exception.
He dived. He was sure he heard the slightest tear in his suit – he might've torn his heart in two, it evoked the same feeling – as he slide across the cobbled floor. He was under their legs, hands stretched as far as they could, fingers ready to seize his prize. Men shouted, ladies squawked, many stared. He didn't care. One hand grasp the neck of the bottle, held it tight, he wasn't going to loose this, not after that. He stood up, dusted off his coat, sniffed slightly and cast a casual glare to his spectator.
Holding the strange bottle up to the sunlight Merreau could not help but cluck with delight. He was quite sure it would fetch a pretty penny, maybe even a pretty little fortune.
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Posted: Sun Nov 08, 2009 11:48 am
Who?| Caspian x Jarett
What?| Caspian heads off to a museum to try and sell this strange bottle of his.
Though Jarett has no price (and the museum no need) for it, the employee
does mention having found a bottle similar to Caspian's... (unfinished)
Where?| link.
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Posted: Wed Nov 11, 2009 5:08 pm
His house was quiet. It was always quiet. When you lived alone, with no pets, no friends, no family, you got used to the silence. And, indeed, Caspian has. He dropped his briefcase – a beautiful, high quality one mind you – and allowed his body to fall down into his chair. It was an expensive chair, a deep, rich wooden frame topped with emerald cushions. It was his throne, the symbol of his success, and the comfiest thing he owned. Hands gripped the armrests, his head submerged itself in layers of emerald, his mind sank into the ocean of silence. Merreau breathed in softly and then, loudly, he exhaled everything inside him. Meditating. Yoga. Whatever. He was relaxing –
There was a knock at his door.
He scowled slightly; something had the nerve to interrupt him while he was just slipping into his afternoon cool-down. How was he supposed to rid himself of all this stress or all the pressure that came with being so successful, so important? Legs guided themselves to the door. Bony hands grasp the doorknob. This time, when he opened it, he wasn’t as happy as he recalled being only moments ago. He adjusted his glasses as he glared down – his height allowed him to participate in this ego-building experience regularly – at his rude visitor.
“Yes?” Disregarding the fact that the man on his doorstep was clearly a senior citizen, Caspian spoke curtly, coldly.
The elderly man looked up at him, eyes but small glimmers of blue hidden under layers of wrinkles and heavy, white brows. He was a short man, and though Merreau considered most to be short, he was vertically challenged in comparison to most people. His back was hunched over in the slightest of arches; his hands – which Caspian guessed were riddled with spots, wrinkles and veins – were shoved into the man’s overall pockets. And a beard, thin, twirled wires of silver reaching past the aging man’s chest. Merreau briefly wondered if this man was a neighbour of his, he didn’t look like one.
Silence engulfed them both.
“Can I help you?”
“Uh yes, suh,” the man’s thin lips parted, they looked brittle and dry – thirsty. Most men of decency would offer such a fellow a drink. Caspian was not a decent fellow. Water cost him money. Besides, if the man was really thirsty he could drink up the rain. “Just poppin’ by suh, to uh tell ya’, suh, that there’s been lots o’ pets an’ animals gone a’missin’, suh. Or others are found dead on th’ streets, suh. Anyways, suh, just sayin’ if ya’ got any of ‘em animals keep ‘em inside. Ya’ suh? Good day t’ya suh.” And with that the man hobbled off to the next store.
Thank god. Caspian sniffed as he shut the door firmly behind him, that took much too much of his precious time. He spun on his heels, sharply, pivoting to march, rigidly – as if he was a soldier – back towards his chair. But he didn’t back it that far. Merreau froze in his doorway.
He had placed that bottle on a table opposite where he now stood. A reminder of sorts of his endless quest to figure out where it was from, who made it and how much he could sell it for. So far, it had been a dead end. It was not a museum artifact, despite its haunting appearance. It was not a collector’s item he could track down. It was a nothing. Had no value. He should’ve probably just thrown it out.
Now, however, he was too shocked to do so.
At the foot of the table there were three dead cats. Their jaws were opened, their eyes wide in paralyzed fear. They seemed suspended in time, each of the, a look of terror etched on their faces. One, he noted, as he dragged his feet forward, forcing himself to kneel down next to them, had its claws unsheathed, muscles tense as if ready to swat or pounce. His fingers hovered over one’s face, twitching, he longed to touch it but – but was it sick? How was it even here?
Something whizzed past his eyes. A red dart – His gaze snapped upwards and he caught it. Spiraling quickly around that strange bottle’s neck was a red…thing. It ran loops around his bottle, seeming to stem from its base. And was it hissing? Oh god. It was, wasn’t it? Merreau didn’t remember telling himself to stand, but shaking knees raised him until his eyes matched the height of the bottle.
There was a snake, a something, a cobra or whatever; he really didn’t care, scaring him square in the face. Merreau opened his mouth to scream, but there was no sound. The snake hadn’t been like that before had it? Had it? He was nervous, panicking, a rare moment and one he did not enjoy at the least.
He had to get rid of the bodies. The poor cat bodies –
Ouch! His mind screamed, his body lurched and then jumped backwards. The red dart twirled around his hand, his hand that was stained with red – Had it just bite him? It just bit him! He, or something inside him, snarled slightly at the red… thing, which retreated at his sound. Well, at least it knew his place.
He breathed in.
His hand was bleeding somehow. He had three dead cats at his feet and some screwed up bottle in his house. Maybe he was dreaming. Merreau wasn’t willing to take that chance. His breaths were quick, but his mind went through all this calmly. Calm. He had to be calm.
He stumbled to the bathroom. One lone hand rummaged through the cabinet until it grasped it, he wrapped the roll of bandage around his bleeding hand. There. Good enough. Hurriedly, he drifted downstairs, growling, his better hand wrapped around the bottle’s neck. He was tempted to squeeze harder and break it, let it shatter and spill out over his floor – but who knew what would happen then. Instead, he rushed towards his bedroom, flung open his closet door and stuffed it into the black depths of his door. Would that contain it? He hoped so, at least for now.
That left the cats.
Those freaking dead cats.
How did you clean up cats?
Caspian shoved gloves over his fingers – they were expensive gloves, mind you – and one by one, ushered the frozen cats into a bag. He swallowed slightly, goddammit, where did one put these things? How could one keep them away from his neighbours? He didn’t know. He didn’t care. What he needed to relax. Merreau let the bag drop down the stairs to his lowest floor. He’d deal with it later.
His legs were lead as he dragged them to his bedroom, his body was numb as he lay down and buried himself in mountains of thick, warm blankets.
He was sure he could feel the bottle glare at him as his eyes fluttered to a close.
How in hell was he supposed to sell this thing now?
 [Not sure if this (what my bottle did) is okay, I'll be more than happy to make adjustments]
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Posted: Thu Nov 19, 2009 12:52 am
Careful Bargaining
(Dust Spin --> Child Quest*) The time has come, the bottle must go. The animal toll is rising and there is more than just cats for Merreau to clean up. But selling the bottle will be no easy task. Or will it? Merreau knows how scary it is, but to the average buyer it must look like a gem! Which is perfect since it will make it easier to get rid of. There does seem to be interest, with at least ten people waiting in line to talk money. Can Merreau sell it? Do the customers learn of the bottle's secrets? What is the real value of this bottle?
*Please note, there's a minimum word requirement of 500 words for this quest.
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