Post by exile on May 6, 2007 14:18:03 GMT -5
A strong scent of burning slaadi ambergris permeated the cluttered studio, enveloping the eclectically appointed furnishings in a pall of beguiling smoke. Unlike the vast majority of exotic incenses to be had across the multiverse, this was an aroma that most resolutely refused to be nailed down. From one moment to the next its texture changed dramatically, subtle nuances of unadulterated bitterness rose fleetingly on the palate only to be replaced in the next instant by vibrant brassy notes and a cacophony of jarring colors. The magnitude of the chaos varied with the source; Hadrian thought this one smelt like a blue. It was an experience for all of the senses, and perhaps even for some unbeknownst to mortal man.
The disorganized flat belonged to Just Remy, a sort of cause celebre in the Hive. Not the Hive, mind. The Hive; with a capital ampersand.
Chaos of house the, one could say.
The chant spoke of the goblin artist arriving in the cage some years back in a whirlwind of disorder. He had all the makings of a boss amongst the Chaosmen, and in the beginning the barmies had flocked to his door in droves. But the truth of the matter was that he didn’t give a fiend’s tears for whoever else got swept up in his waves of lunacy. Invariably the onlookers and well-wishers left disappointed, for Remy never consulted and never explained himself. When a fancy overcame Just Remy, he simply reveled in the moment and let everyone else be damned.
That wasn’t to say Remy lacked for company. Even now a gaggle of the devoted clung to him like moths about an open flame. But patience was not a virtue amongst the Xaositects and the faces often changed.
The golden eyed painter with the charcoal black hide was considered diminutive even by goblin standards. When Remy walked his tobacco stained knuckles brushed the ground. Like all of his faction mates Remy lived in a perpetual state of disarray, and his accommodations were a hodgepodge of unrelated objects acquired by accident or on a whim. On this particular occasion he was perched precariously atop a stack of bulky tomes that sat before a lopsided easel. His muse was a yawning Tiefling, stretched languidly on a threadbare cushion and clad in little more than a diaphanous veil and a set of golden bangles.
“Child’s again was name the what?” Remy’s voice always seemed unexpectedly sonorous to Hadrian. As he spoke the goblin reached for a glass of his preferred libation, Abyssal Absinthe cut with Cocytian sugarcane.
“Aerin.” The Cabalist sat on a wooden chair with flaking green paint, so practical and unassuming it seemed entirely out of place.
Remy grunted noncommittally as he raised his brush to the canvas. The portrait was decidedly unusual, as was the case for most of his works. At the bottom left every detail of the recumbent Tiefling’s feet had been depicted in exacting realism. But as the eye tracked upwards and to the right, the hand grew less certain, the forms less distinct, and above all the quality became childish and unrefined. Remy had resorted to stick figure outlines to depict her head.
Hadrian would never forget how the unlikely pair had met. The goblin had taken it upon himself to quite literally paint the Bleakniks that clustered outside the Gatehouse like an ashen plague. The poets had not taken kindly to his colorful attacks; it was difficult to maintain an air of somber superiority when streaked with a riot of vibrant pastel paints. Had the aasimar not been there to defuse the situation it would almost certainly have come to blows.
“Ears him I’ll park my for.”
It took a moment for Hadrian to decipher the intent behind those words. ”You have my thanks,” he said at last.
Both were quiet for a time, and only the gentle scratch of Remy’s purposeful strokes broke the silence. The aasimar watched in quiet admiration as the goblin fleshed out his masterpiece. But another business had been troubling him and it needed to be aired.
“There is another matter, Remy.”
“Mmm?” The goblin sipped at his foul concoction without turning.
“Some of our wards have gone missing; far too many for comfort. I think you know the type, Remy. Paupers and bubbers who flock to our kitchens. I need to know if you have heard anything.”
The disorganized flat belonged to Just Remy, a sort of cause celebre in the Hive. Not the Hive, mind. The Hive; with a capital ampersand.
Chaos of house the, one could say.
The chant spoke of the goblin artist arriving in the cage some years back in a whirlwind of disorder. He had all the makings of a boss amongst the Chaosmen, and in the beginning the barmies had flocked to his door in droves. But the truth of the matter was that he didn’t give a fiend’s tears for whoever else got swept up in his waves of lunacy. Invariably the onlookers and well-wishers left disappointed, for Remy never consulted and never explained himself. When a fancy overcame Just Remy, he simply reveled in the moment and let everyone else be damned.
That wasn’t to say Remy lacked for company. Even now a gaggle of the devoted clung to him like moths about an open flame. But patience was not a virtue amongst the Xaositects and the faces often changed.
The golden eyed painter with the charcoal black hide was considered diminutive even by goblin standards. When Remy walked his tobacco stained knuckles brushed the ground. Like all of his faction mates Remy lived in a perpetual state of disarray, and his accommodations were a hodgepodge of unrelated objects acquired by accident or on a whim. On this particular occasion he was perched precariously atop a stack of bulky tomes that sat before a lopsided easel. His muse was a yawning Tiefling, stretched languidly on a threadbare cushion and clad in little more than a diaphanous veil and a set of golden bangles.
“Child’s again was name the what?” Remy’s voice always seemed unexpectedly sonorous to Hadrian. As he spoke the goblin reached for a glass of his preferred libation, Abyssal Absinthe cut with Cocytian sugarcane.
“Aerin.” The Cabalist sat on a wooden chair with flaking green paint, so practical and unassuming it seemed entirely out of place.
Remy grunted noncommittally as he raised his brush to the canvas. The portrait was decidedly unusual, as was the case for most of his works. At the bottom left every detail of the recumbent Tiefling’s feet had been depicted in exacting realism. But as the eye tracked upwards and to the right, the hand grew less certain, the forms less distinct, and above all the quality became childish and unrefined. Remy had resorted to stick figure outlines to depict her head.
Hadrian would never forget how the unlikely pair had met. The goblin had taken it upon himself to quite literally paint the Bleakniks that clustered outside the Gatehouse like an ashen plague. The poets had not taken kindly to his colorful attacks; it was difficult to maintain an air of somber superiority when streaked with a riot of vibrant pastel paints. Had the aasimar not been there to defuse the situation it would almost certainly have come to blows.
“Ears him I’ll park my for.”
It took a moment for Hadrian to decipher the intent behind those words. ”You have my thanks,” he said at last.
Both were quiet for a time, and only the gentle scratch of Remy’s purposeful strokes broke the silence. The aasimar watched in quiet admiration as the goblin fleshed out his masterpiece. But another business had been troubling him and it needed to be aired.
“There is another matter, Remy.”
“Mmm?” The goblin sipped at his foul concoction without turning.
“Some of our wards have gone missing; far too many for comfort. I think you know the type, Remy. Paupers and bubbers who flock to our kitchens. I need to know if you have heard anything.”
