Path of the Vampire forum

--The following transcript was a live chat roleplay--

<Remington Rothfelder> Remington was a man of many talents, at least that’s what he would have said had you asked him, but amongst those there was no proclivity towards drawing or any form of art. He worked for a tattoo parlour (amongst other things), but his job was janitorial. Aside from having gotten ink himself over the years, he knew little about the trade. It would have been easiest to ask one of the people working at Adrenaline, but that was a little bit too much like admitting some sort of fault in his abilities (which he rarely did unless there was the chance for humor). So instead, he decided it would be best to learn a little bit from one of the local professionals. The plan was to just show up, maybe set up an appointment he may or may not end up keeping, and ask a few questions about the whole process. Masterpiece was the place, and he rolled in right as it was about to close down.

<Jesse Fforde> It gets quieter at night time. The customers are few and far between; Jesse spends the majority of his time cleaning up his space, or sketching. Sometimes he pulls out the sketch pad and draws with charcoals. Most of the time, while at work though, he uses the fine-tipped felt pens, and the specialised watercolours. These are the designs that can more easily be turned into tattoos. They are his way of venting. Some people write journals. Jesse draws. Most of the time his images take on a mythical bent; this time is no different. He is preoccupied with a hydra, four heads and gnashing teeth. His style is influenced by Sailor Jerry. All Jesse has to do to close the shop is lock the door and count the cash. He is in no rush. The bell over the door alerts him to a new customer; he finishes a single stroke, before turning in his chair and standing, sauntering toward the front counter. When he sees who it is, he can't help a smirk. It's not really a mirthful smirk. But he's in a good mood. "Remington," he says by way of greeting.

<Remington Rothfelder> He had not been anticipating seeing Jesse, and his first instinct was to ask what the man was doing there. Had he somehow found a way into Remington's mind? Running into each other twice in a short period seemed outside of the realm of coincidence. But then he recalled having read on the Andras Crow Net that the family had a few tattoo artists. He'd thought originally that had been constrained to the few he already knew about, but it made sense given how much ink was on Jesse that he might work in the profession. "Jesse." He returned politely. He was always polite. His leather jacket stretched across the broad expanse of his back, pulling tight to the powerful muscle underneath. "You work here?" he asked, to confirm before he let his arms slide free of where he'd folded them across his chest at some point, but only so that he could move to take a little look around. He felt less intrusive knowing it was a family location.

<Jesse Fforde> "I do," Jesse says. He, too, glances around. Once upon a time he'd owned his own parlour, but then he'd been turned into a vampire. He lost a lot of his business due to not being able to attend to it during the day; he'd worked by himself, and had hired no one. It was better, in the end, to work for Micah. To give up his own business, though the building still stood. He clasped his hands behind his back; he wore black jeans, black leather docs, and a long-sleeved jumper that looked like it had seen better days, but which was supposed to look that way. "I make pretty pictures," he said, smirk broadening just a little. "Micah owns the place," he adds with a shrug.

<Remington Rothfelder> Micah owned the parlour? That would have been exactly his luck. He goes to one of the other local tattoo places and stumbles upon the other one (or one of the other ones) owned in full by the Andras. He chuckled then, because it was funny, thinking about it that way. "I originally came here to find out a little more about the artistic side of making a good tattoo, had no clue it was family run." The explanation was offered so that Jesse didn't think Remi was laughing at his expense. Hands slid into his jacket pockets as he idly sized the other man up. Under his jacket there was a plain red t-shirt, new in appearance given its lack of fading. He wore jeans, the same variety as always - that looked to be more painted on than worn. "Pretty pictures. I haven't even tried to draw since I was in elementary."

<Jesse Fforde> Jesse shrugs. He saunters closer to the counter and leans against it. Sure, he is a man that is well able to hold grudges, but only to a point. Remington seems a good guy. He seems like the kind of guy that Jesse'd like to know. Given other circumstances, he'd be the kind of guy that he'd have gotten along with. Maybe. Jesse assesses Remington without looking like he's checking the guy out. He might be a bit too clean cut. A bit too... metro. It depends on how deep that goes, Jesse supposes. "There's nothing much more to the artistic side. You just... put ink to paper and draw," he says. There's probably talent involved, but Jesse himself had never gone to any kind of art school. He'd just had nothing to do with his time as a child and spent much of it drawing. "Why do you want to know? You want to learn how to tattoo?" he asks.

<Remington Rothfelder> But it wasn't just that simple. He lacked the ability to make what he visualized come to life on a page. He'd gone to the requisite art classes when he had been younger. He technically knew how to shade, how to form the images. He just had no talent for it; so the whole thing seemed a lot like magic to him. He supposed that was how some people felt about his talents though. The things he could do with his body, his ability to fight. "Nah. I figure if I work at a tattoo place, I should learn a little more about the things I don't know about. Want to show me some of your work?" He asked, even as he took another step into the parlour, bringing his heavy boots into view. They gave him added height (which he didn't need), but were worn mainly because they were solid enough to let him kick through the bones of just about anything he happened to be hunting.

<Jesse Fforde> Where Remington is built solid - a body that most women would probably kill for - Jesse's frame is thinner, wirier. It doesn't mean that he doesn't have his own strengths; he just works out in different ways. Parkour, mostly, the twists and turns and flips lending his body a more sinewy texture. Whatever the case, Grey doesn't seem to mind. And Jesse's never been one to envy the looks of others. He is who he is and everyone else can go **** themselves. He himself bordered the six foot range. Jesse reaches for one of the nearby folders, the corner of it marked with his name. Inside, are copies of all his work. From the desk he retrieves the sketch book, with the grey washes inside. The charcoals, mostly of Grey. Quite a few of owls. A few different black and white landscapes - the city at night. A few darker ones, inspired by his trip to the shadow realm. His fingers are stained in ink; charcoal beneath his fingernails. He pushes the work over toward Remington silently.

<Remington Rothfelder> While Jesse grabbed the sketchbook, Remington had the chance to leaf through some of the images in the folder. The artistry was nostalgic, like it had been taken out of a different, but familiar era. He liked that about it; had more 'character' than the hyper-realistic images he saw some people walking around with on their skin. It reminded him more of an expression of something in the mind and less a crass imitation of the living. That made it better to him. And once the sketchbook was handed over he began to flip through slowly. There was a woman he recognized a little. He had seen her at an Andras meeting in the past. There were several of her, so Remington assumed it was Jesse's intended. Grey, her name had been? "See, I can't make anything come to life." He said after a long series of silent seconds. "I'm lucky if I can get a stick figure to look like a stick figure." He muttered. "A friend did most of my work, former student at the dojo."

<Jesse Fforde> Jesse is proud of his work. Of course he would be. He wouldn't be an artist in a trade that's so out there if he doesn't want his work to be seen. He has no qualms about showing his work to family; he doesn't expect compliments, either. It is his job. Jesse peers down at his own work. His eyes narrow; Remington had already said he wasn't looking for lessons, but wanted to know more about the artistry. And Jesse doesn't really know what to say. He doesn't know how to articulate it. In the end, he just shrugs again. "Some people have music. Some people have writing. I have this," he says, gesturing to the sketch book. He shakes his head. "What exactly is it that you want to know?" he asks, peering up at Remington, the question, and his tone along with it, patient.

<Remington Rothfelder> His fingers continued to turn pages. Some of the images in the sketchbook resembled scenes from nature, but were dark, like a mockery of what the world was. "I don't want to take up too much of your time. The shop was about to close?" He asked. It made sense though; it was all about expression, and finding a way to do that, that a person enjoyed. For Remington, that was working out, pushing himself as far as he could. "At least, I'd feel bad asking you questions without giving you the opportunity to ask some of your own."

<Jesse Fforde> Jesse stares at Remington for a long couple of seconds. Silently, he leaves his side of the counter. He saunters over to the front door - he turns a dead bolt at the top of the door, and another at the bottom, before fishing a key from his pocket and locking the middle lock. Over beside the door he flicks off the switch that powers the neon 'open' sign. After which, he returns to his side of the counter. He arches a brow. "What questions do you think I have?" Jesse asks. Because, he doesn't have any. Not right now. His interest in other people's pasts told like a monologue is pretty damned slim. He prefers to learn about people through their actions. Through every day interaction.

<Remington Rothfelder> Remington watched as the other man went through the motions of closing up the shop, his gaze briefly following after Jesse, following the way he moved. "Not the inquisitive type?" He asked. When Remington was not working for Velveteen, he had to maintain his dojo, and often consulted for fight scene choreography, which meant that he ended up working with a lot of theatre groups and film crews. He had also been fairly vague in explaining why he had been gone for four months, though he supposed Jesse was the sort to prefer an interest be taken in his own views than the other way around. "I suppose if you'd like though, you could answer a little for me about how you come up with the ideas for what you draw. I think that would be the hardest for me."

<Jesse Fforde> Jesse can answer that question without giving away much about himself. It's easy. He doesn't have to admit that in a lot of those pictures are hidden his deepest and darkest desires. His fears. His woes. His regrets. The things that he loathes. This is where his grudges come to stay. First, he shakes his head. No, he's never been the inquisitive type. He's never been one for idle chit-chat. It doesn't suit him much. He takes a breath that he does not need. "Mythology, mainly. Stories written by humanity hundreds of years ago. It's fascinating," he says; he gestures to the folder full of the patterns. There's a lot of mythology in there. When he gestures to the sketch book, his tone changes. "Or I get my inspiration from real life. From wildlife. From the world how I perceive it to be. The things that I find beautiful," he says. He lifts his gaze again to Remington. Would the answer suffice?

<Remington Rothfelder> Remington had always found mythology fascinating, just not the Western variety. If one were to look at his tattoos, they could easily make out the influence - the waters that could have come from a Japanese painting from another era. The geisha. The lotus. His own ink was a testament to another culture. "You find some dark thing beautiful." He commented. Not an insult, and not judgment. There was divinity in accepting that even he worst aspects of the world could be beautiful. "I like your style, though. It must be a good way to free yourself of your demons." And he knew all too well about that. There had been a point in Remi's life when he had been consumed by hatred. Rage. Time had tempered that from him, time and the acquisition of a certain set of skills.

<Jesse Fforde> A maelstrom moves momentarily through the ice-blue of Jesse's eyes; though they didn't literally change colour, there is something in the way they narrow, in the way they glint or twitch. But that's the only sign he gives that hints at something other than calm. Again, he shrugs his shoulders. He shrugs a lot. It's a habit from the past, when he had no voice to fall back on. Easiest to shrug when people asked him questions; normally they'd leave him alone afterwards. "I don't like to free myself of my demons. I like to leash them," he says. His smile is slow, and he doesn't take his eyes away from Remington. They stay staring. "Things are only considered dark due to popular culture. Due to societal agreement. Death is a natural thing. It is as beautiful as life," he says.

--The following transcript was a live chat roleplay--