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 Posted: Wed Aug 03, 2011 6:37 pm
"No way but forward," Wickwright agreed, grabbing his book bag, where Hopkin had not yet stirred. Batting at what hair he had left and adjusting his robes, he glanced at Dragomir. "Straighten yourself up, bone's sake, it's a lady who has to deal with us this morning. Or a woman, at least." He had never heard of a lady who did the work of men, after all.
His mind flashed to the plague Bunting from earlier in the spring despite himself. Almost never.
In a slightly more sour mood what with the unbidden memory, he went out into the alehouse, and glanced around until he found their help. Not difficult, at the early hour of the morning there weren't many customers, and she was just where they had left her. "Good morning," he greeted politely, occupying a seat. "Or just morning, depending on how well you slept." Wickwright's morning was shaping up to be more 'just' than 'good'. In the light of day, the girl looked even less reliable than before. Wondering what kind of an age it was where the only help to be had was a one-armed woman, Wickwright rubbed his face sleepily with a bony hand and waved for the inkeep's attention. "Ale," he croaked. Hopkin was too asleep to copy him, and he was damned if he was drinking tea before this ridiculous chore. "Now then, my ox may have bolted, but he's normally a steady animal. If we can find the wagon, we'll find him, and that's a small blessing. It's finding and moving the wagon that's the thing, and finding out what survived from our little mishap. Are you still up for the venture?" Even if it meant working alone, half of him hoped the woman had come to her senses.
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Posted: Sun Aug 14, 2011 9:59 pm
"Of course." Dragomir nodded lightly, yawning with a covered hand as he stretched a little more. Lazily, when repirmanded to straighten himself, he combed his hair with his hands and rolled his shoulders around a little to limber up his spine. Feeling awake, finally, he nodded. "Of course, yes, Father." He murmured the title with a bit of amusement to the idea he had concocted so randomly the night before. He followed Wickwright out of the kitchen a few steps behind - though before he took even a single step, he made sure Chayele was still tucked into his pocket and unmoving. When he was pleased and sure that she wouldn't come flying out of her pocket, he caught up quickly and took a seat on the other side of Wickwright.
"Good m-morning, ma'am," he echoed Wickwright, though didn't add the statement his "father" appended - nor the order for ale. He wanted no drink; he wanted no food. What was important was how much money she'd want - and thus how much money she'd want in total. His role as a meek son, however, left him little room to ask such questions without his father's approval; his silence was bolstered by the fact that he also had no idea about the ox that had bolted, save for the fact that it was a damnable creature that Dragomir hated with an intense passion for leaving him cold and wet.
He was starting to slip into his role - a little, at least. He felt like a small child next to Wickwright, aimlessly dicking around next to his father... He pulled the coins from his pocket simply for something to do.
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Posted: Wed Aug 17, 2011 9:04 am
"Morning," replied Maeve quickly. She looked up from the bar and there was Wickwright. And after the small exchange of 'morning's, he had ordered some ale. Maybe with some ale in him he'd relax some, or continue to be strange. How Maeve hoped it'd be the former. Before she could speak again, she was caught by a yawn. The mercenary lifted her hand up to cover her mouth and blinked up at the older man. Yawning was not exactly polite, but it was a rather sleepless night.
He went on about the situation. Oxen, wagons, moving things. That shouldn't be too bad, Maeve thought. No thieves, no protecting things, no grand 'adventure' as her mercenary buddies liked to say... just simple tasks. Simple things were lovely things.
"Are you still up for the venture?"
"Are you still up for paying me?" Maeve stood up from her stool, using the table as leverage. She was staring steadily at Wickwright, but there popped up his boy Dragomir. Her eyes wandered to his after hearing the greeting, but she did not return the sentiment. He was quirky and strange last night, but he seemed much more quiet this morning (which was already a feat).
And what was he doing? Oh, the money. "What a good lad." Maeve held out her hand to Dragomir. "It seems that you are still up for paying me."
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Posted: Thu Aug 18, 2011 12:10 am
Wickwright was surprised at the retort, for a second his sleepy eyes widened, then he laughed. There was a pit in his stomach though, as a Jawbone Man he felt the pressure to keep his word, and there wasn't much help to be had but her, but he couldn't help but feel that he and Meschke were wasting their money. They had little enough of that to be getting on with, and though Wickwright had never been in a pinch he couldn't pull himself out of for lack of coin, it was nice to have funds available at least. He didn't know what had possessed him last night. Perhaps walking miles in the accursed Shyregoadian cold, not that sleeping on a kitchen floor had done much to revive his wits. Just enough to make him regret the whole blasted venture.
"Very well!" he exclaimed instead, finishing his ale. "Son, half the amount to Miss Maeve, as promised." He would let Meschke decide how much to pay her. Wickwright was too cautious at the moment to drop hints about giving her less than half of what they had. "Come along now, hard work ahead of us."
Hopkin awoke to the sounds of said hard work, shaking his head for a moment and clutching sleepily at his bandages to see if they needed adjusting. For him, the night had been no less restless, but for different reasons than Wickwright's. Unlike his Grimm, his bed had come with him, but he had spent his night in the flat world, talking to Finch about Wickwright's proclamation, this notion that Dragomir Meschke was his son. Finch, who knew neither Meschke, nor the flat woman, had only one answer, and it hadn't been very satisfying. Hopkin determined to ask Wickwright himself, peering out of the bag to find himself face to face with Tristram the ox, who greeted him by blowing hot breath into his bronze face, fogging up his skin. There was a tinny little squeak and Hopkin let go, falling back into his hideaway. From above, he could hear Wickwright calling to someone, presumably the flat woman. "I found the ox, what sort of state is the wagon in?"
"Wickwright," Hopkin offered from the bag as he wiped his face with his tunic hem.
"Ah, Hopkin, good of you to finally join us in the waking world," Wickwright commented, meaning that he was alone. "Did you rest well?"
Hopkin had no concept of rest as Wickwright knew it, but he had better and poorer experiences in the dream world. "I did not rest so well as I would have liked. I have a question I would like to be clarified."
The bag was shaken quickly, a sign that they were no longer alone. Hopkin sighed and scrambled to try to get a better view, swallowing his queries.
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Posted: Sun Sep 11, 2011 2:24 pm
This was Dragomir's money; he was in a rare form indeed to even consider being parted with his currency, but this was a rare time and it called for something rather out of his character - something that fit in with the character he was assuming. Carefully, he handed her one or two coins less than exactly half his money; four coins wouldn't do much, not at all, and he had no illusions that it would. But he wasn't rich to begin with and it was already a rather small amount he was paying her; any less and she might deny, might run off with the portion he just gave her, and then where would he be? Screwed, that was where, screwed in a cold tavern with Wickwright, no wagon, and no ox.
He thought he might rather die, honestly; he slid the coins to her with a meek, "Yes, father.." And then stood to follow him. He trusted she would follow - or, perhaps, he knew if she wouldn't follow, he couldn't do anything to stop her, and he doubted Wickwright could either; he might try to put up a good fight, but it simply wasn't about to happen.
Dragomir followed silently, blue eyes narrowed and searching for the ox as he kept his place about half way between where Wickwright searched and where Maeve searched; he didn't want to lose track of either of them, not while one had his money and one was his only way home - he'd rather be a cautious a** than a foolish p***k. He blinked when the ox was found and smiled faintly, despite his rampant hate of the damn thing for running off.
His attention was diverted to watch Maeve and headed toward her, trying to see if she'd found the wagon or if she needed help; it seemed like the right thing to do. "M-Miss..?" He murmured, biting his lip, adding a flicker of fear into the depths of his eyes. "D-do you require assistance?"
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Posted: Thu Nov 03, 2011 6:29 pm
Maeve would take the laughing as a good sign. She wanted it to be a good sign, anyway. The other direction it pointed to was a rather unsettling one and only lent to the idea that the old man was off in the head. But before she could dwell too long on the thought, Dragomir was handing her money. Finally. It was not much money, but it was money and that was something.
Thus, they were off-- off and into the woods to find an ox and a cart. Maeve almost considered the endeavor relaxing in her often hectic life. Walks were relaxing, and this one just involved some searching. Searching for two very large things would not be too hard, but if they wanted to hire her for something so easy, she was not going to stop them.
Traipsing through the forest, Maeve wandered away from Wickwright, though taking care not to wander from his sight. She didn't need the reputation of a thief following her around. What would be the point of leaving this job anyway? The better questions is why she kept thinking of all these trite things. This was supposed to be relaxing!
As stoic as ever, she continued on. Only stopping briefly when she heard Wickwright to call out to her. Most excellent... the ox was found. The cart couldn't be too far off, then. And no, it was not. Squinting through some pines, she spotted an outline in the distance. Walking to it, she was approached by Dragomir, the timid boy.
"Assistance?" She questioned, not bothering to face Dragomir as she walked to the wagon. "If you are as strong as an ox, you may assist me in retrieving the cart. If you are not," Maeve turned around to face the young man. "Then you should get that ox of yours."
Maeve returned back to her path, meeting up with the wagon, which seemed a tad stuck in the mud. She would wait for Dragomir and his father to come here, give her the rest of the money, and she'd be on her way. Job well done.
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Posted: Thu Dec 22, 2011 3:09 am
The point where it became clear to Wickwright that taking pity on a one armed woman mercenary was a poor idea no matter how little money he might be able to avail himself of made itself clear when faced with the issue of how to move a wagon that was large enough to be a home when it was lodged intractably in mud, snow, and ice. With the one person he hired to move it far less useful than he anticipated, he was forced to attempt to reattach Tristram while the wagon was still overturned, a long and difficult process considering the ox was still skittish from the events of the night before. Hopkin was quite forgotten in the process of the toil, and once he finally righted the wagon, he dared to look inside to find it in an expected but nevertheless unpleasant disarray. There was a distressed noise from his bag, marking that Hopkin had seen as well, and it reminded him of the Plague's presence, which he responded to with a pat before he turned to Maeve, mud splattered and smiling a bit too brightly still.
"Excellent work, thank you for your assistance, Miss. Son?" He motioned for Dragomir to pay her, eager for them to go along their separate ways. As far as he was concerned, this was just another disastrous detour on the increasingly rocky road to seeking his peace of mind, and the sooner it was over, the better. He should have known better than to hire a woman, no Finch would have done it, but Wickwright Finch, he supposed bitterly, was too soft. It was a character trait that he needed to complete his contribution, but what was the use now? He had nearly finished and it had simply chosen to destroy itself and become a talking headache that lived in a book bag.
There was one upside, he supposed, as the thing in his bag made distressed keening noises and his wagon dripped with mud and melting ice. At least he had gotten a drink out of the ordeal.
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