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@orville-deighton
(David Jonsson / 23 (268) / male+he/him) Orville Deighton has been in Eden Ros for two years, and is from London, England. He is 23 (268) and works as a freelance art conservator & artist. Rumor has it, he’s a vampire associated with Albedo. He is affable and creative, but also fanatical and vindictive. (Bec / 24 / CST / none)
About ✍︎ Bio ✍︎ Look Book ✍︎ Pinterest ✍︎ Wanted Connections
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credit not needed. recoloring welcomed. feel free to edit as you need! *from the new york public library!
REGULAR
LARGE
The pieces were connecting.
Orville was the same temperature as Metzli, and he lacked a drum in his chest. With their new connection to the Ducayne, they had to tread carefully.
"Thank you, Mr. Deighton." They smiled politely, releasing Orville's hand with a quiet nod as he spoke. "I'm always considering new artists, but forgive my being frank." Metzli leaned in, assessing Orville's expression while their tone became firm but not threatening.
"I must ensure any and all of my associates are aligned with my business partners. Any foe of the Ducayne is unfortunately not welcome to become a partner of mine. I'm sure you understand."
Orville raised an eyebrow as they spoke, curious to hear what this condition was. Galleries had always been particular, though thankfully their reasons for selectivity had improved throughout the years.
"Ah!" He let out a small laugh. "Oui, the local politics. You have no reason to worry, then, to my knowledge. The Clan Albedo has no ill will for Ducayne. I certainly hope that is still the case from your end, as well." There wasn't a shred of offense or incredulity in his expression; he was amused, if anything. Each supernatural kind had its own capacity for infighting, with no end in sight. No wonder the hunters still ran this town.
who: @sunlitartistry where: harvest gold when: late july
True to his promise, he was coming by Harvest Gold more frequently. It was a fun, happening spot full of fresh & interesting people. It wasn’t a place for a hunt, but hunger was to be sated another night. Tonight was about enjoying life, and losing himself in the world long enough to (hopefully) return home with a spark of inspiration.
Orville had played lately with adorning one of his more real-looking prosthetics: first had been the ‘nails’, artfully bedazzled with stones to catch the light; now he was experimenting with paint, having drawn elegant gold patterns over the surface. It glinted in the light, his sleeve cuffed just under the elbow. In a quieter venue, it would be too much; but it fit in rather well to the glitz and the glamour of Harvest Gold.
"Non, put it on my tab," he interjected, before the man next to him could get his wallet out. "My treat. And for me..." he lolled his head to the side, contemplating. "Surprise me. Your favorite, or something fun. Merci."
Call it unconventional, bold, over-the-top; Orville saw little point in playing coy in his friendly overtures. There were a great deal of things he went about gradually, but introductions weren't one of them. He offered his hand to the man. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance. I hope you do not mind my interruption to your night."
The morning was Metzli's favorite part of their work day. Slow as it may be, it was quiet. Eden Ros was never really boisterous, but then again, it didn't take much for the vampire's sensitive senses to overwhelm their already sensitive limit. Even their loops didn't always help.
But mornings? They were sanctuary. They were refuge. Interruption was never bad, but did mean the start of something worse. Socializing. Metzli was just glad their new guest had an air of calm about him.
"Actually, I own it." Metzli, adjusted their suit vest and closed the distance to shake the man's hand. "Metzli Bernal. Owner, curator, artist, and restorer. And when needed, I make the frames for pieces hung in the gallery." They paused for a moment, adding, "How can I help you?"
He grinned and shook their hand. “Ah, even more fortunate to meet you then, Metzli Bernal. I am Orville Deighton, artist et restorationist. You have a lovely gallery.”
There was always the question of how to present himself. He’d heard tell this was a vampire-run gallery, although not an Albedo spot like other art spots in town; that, at least, saved the question of how so much experience lay behind a young face. “I am enquiring with galleries and sellers in the area,” he said. “I have only been back a few years, so… I have not built up too much art, yet, but if I do not connect with curators and sellers and such, I will come home one day to no room left for me.” He laughed lightly. “I would like to know if you are open to considering new artists. If not, I understand entirely.”
"It's always good to know we meet the standards of my favorite artist." She remarked glancing around the room, pride in her eyes and a smile on her lips. Fiadh's grin only grew as the bartender making her drink hesitated, making a face into her glass before raising his eyebrows at her waiting for her response. He knew where she had told him she was supposed to spend her night, otherwise locked away in her office filling out their order forms. "Orville, my love, I never work."
She met the eyes of her bartender as he handed her her drink and they both burst into laughter, "At least not while the party is going. I'd much rather the company of my guests to the stale boredom of paperwork. Especially when that guest does not frequent enough."
While he wasn't particularly prone to egotism, there was a lovely rush at hearing favorite artist. It was meaningful praise, coming from a respected friend. “Oh,” he scoffed, as if the concept of working were entirely ridiculous. “The paperwork can wait, there is always time for it later. Our lives are meant to be enjoyed."
Guilty as charged, though. Orville grinned and took a sip of his drink. "Désolé, mon ange, I have been dealing with galleries as of late. See who will want to show my work, before I have too much to store away. And now these summer nights are far too short to get everything done.” He paused. “Perhaps I should take my own advice,” he admitted. “It’s been too long since I last came by my favorite bar.”
For nights out like these, he preferred a more realistic-looking arm. Less function, usually, but less questions too. That didn’t mean he couldn’t still have fun with it, though— Orville sat his glass down on the counter. “I’ve been experimenting,” he said, and bent his prosthetic at the elbow to point his hand up, revealing gleaming, bedazzled ‘nails’. “Is it not fun?? I thought it would look very nice for tonight. I would have painted mine to match, but…” he tapped the back of his prosthetic.
If the man who had barged his way around had a modicum of respect for other Bowen may have felt sorry for what would be coming his way. But it was odd to him was that the other hadn't noticed the liquid that had been split on his arm in the first place.
Bo wasn't going to refuse a free drink and it helped him blend in with the crowds around him if he was drinking with other patrons. "Thanks, I'll take a beer if that's okay." it was cheap and it didn't look like he was taking advantage of the others generosity. Bo looked flummoxed at the others statement "There is?" he didn't need to speak French to know what that last word was "Oh, no, I'm not part of funeral reception"
Orville let out a laugh as he caught the brief confusion flickering across his companion’s face. “Only a joke, all in good humor. You are so stiff, perhaps a beer will help you there.” He gestured for the bartender, and leaned in to be heard over the music. “Put this one on my tab,” he told them, then looked to Bowen. “Order your beer, then. I cannot help you there, my tastes do not go that way.”
Though the damp sleeve had no impact on him, he didn’t want that to transfer to the body of his shirt. Orville unbuttoned the cuff buttons and rolled the sleeve up as they talked. It landed just above the elbow, showing off the obvious joint of the prosthetic. “It’s a nice suit, only…” he glanced out at the crowd on the dance floor. “I would say a little too much class for here, non? Date gone wrong? Afterparty?” He leaned in, almost conspiratorial. “Or you are some… James Bond, Kingsman type?” He laughed, again, amused by his own joke.
who: @errantesadas where: muertarte when: mid-july, after sunset
Creating art was one thing. Finding a place for it was quite another, and a part of the process he'd always loathed. Back in the day, when money had meant far more to him, he had put a great deal more effort into the search for a buyer. He had little worry for money in the present, though, so selling & advertising his works was forever more of a nuisance. He knew, though, that if he waited too long, he'd have more works than he knew what to do with.
He was intrigued by the potential of online platforms for selling, but galleries had been a reliable means of displaying his work for those looking to acquire some art. Some of his previous stops had disappeared over the last few decades; Orville had made rounds to those left running in town. It was a gradual process, often meeting several times with the new generation of gallery owners before all arrangements were settled. Despite his aims to sell and keep his personal inventory of art low, he really was in no hurry.
MuertArte was new, in his eyes, at least. The gallery had been in his periphery when he'd settled back into town, and was finally at the top of his list.
He stepped into the gallery, taking a good look around as he entered. It was certainly a charming spot, albeit a bit quiet this evening. Movement caught his eye, and he turned to see a figure walking nearby. "Hello?" He called, trying to catch their attention. "Pardon, do you work here?"
where: orville's flat in downtown eden ros when: early spring
Outside shuttered windows concealed by black-out curtains, the sun crept over the horizon. Orville was settled back in his flat well before the threat of daylight, a to-go shot of espresso in hand. He was forever grateful for the cafes that opened before dawn. Even if it needed a slight modification to satisfy him, it still felt nice to indulge. Just a few drops of blood made all the difference.
With no real need for a bed to sleep in, the bedroom of the flat was more appropriately utilized as a studio. It was really the only even lightly crowded space in the flat — centuries of traveling had kept his personal possessions light. But this room held drying paintings, works in progress, and some of his finished works (the rest had begun stacking up in a closet), and a great deal of supplies.
That wasn’t where he spent all, or even most of his daylight hours. No, too many hours locked in the studio would be enough to drive him mad. He was hardly that sort of zealous workaholic, anyway. He’d seen centuries pass, and hoped to see many more. He had all the time in the world to create.
There was a great deal of human culture to keep up with, anyway. Reading was such an accessible entertainment these days — the ability to access so many things on one small device was astounding. Television shows and films, too, were such intriguing new mediums, and had rapidly become so easy to view in the comfort of his flat. Far more so than his last stay in Eden Ros, to his delight.
By noon, though, he’d had his fill of reading and watching and learning. He opened the studio door and turned the lights on — an assortment of lamps stationed around the room, avoiding the need for the unpleasantly bright overhead light. He’d returned to long-unused sewing skills to re-finish the lampshades to better fit his tastes (interior decor these days was so grey and dull).
One of the paintings set to dry was still a few weeks out from completion — a gift for his love, the first creation for the witch since Orville’s return to Scotland. A few others were experiments; studies of the carefully plotted geometric style he’d encountered in his recent travels, an abrupt change from his usual soft, organic subject matter. He’d done some painting during his time across North Africa (a few decades was too long to go without picking up a brush), but far more of his work in that time had been sketches and observations of the art around him. Now he could let the exploration really sink in, and fully engage with the ideas in his work.
The alarm for sunset was a strict end to his studio time, however engrossed he was. Breaks were essential to the artistic process, and with such a limited time he could be out of his flat, he took every second he got to step out.
That didn’t mean neglect of his materials, of course. He carefully cleaned his brushes, ensuring the harsh chemicals were safely stored before he left for the night. His current work would stay on the easel. Paints found their place in storage, and palette was covered. Then he could change out of his painting clothes, and head out in something far more becoming than paint-splattered overalls.
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Bowen wouldn't come to the crossroads voluntarily alone but to him what was worse would be leaving the letter that had arrive on the train in the yard, that would point to him being a member of the underground if the hunters came knocking.
Part of delivering the letter was to be discreet, he couldn't just walk in pass it to the recipient and walk straight out, that would look to suspicious under review. So he had to bide time in the feeding grounds of vampires.
A non-alcoholic drink in his hand maybe it was his fault that he stood in the way of people coming and going to the bar, but he wasn't going to take the blame when his drink spiled on the other, who knows how much that shirt cost with the wealth that normally came with vampires. "I said it that dickheads fault" Bowen was trying to blend in with his suit that he had wore to a wedding and a funeral once.
"What was—" Orville glanced down, and saw his sodden sleeve. "Oh!" He exclaimed, followed by a laugh. It really was amusing to him — at best, he could send the shirt by a dry-cleaners, and at worse would just have the stained sleeve taken off. "Well, mon ami, that dickhead, as you've so called them, would have gotten away with it if not for your observation. How very unfortunate for him."
He caught a glimpse of the likely suspect, and saved that away for later. Even if he held no hard feelings for the spill, the greater offense came in the cover-up. The culprit could stand to lose a couple pints of blood later tonight, no? It was only fair.
Orville stood up straight, and straightened the prosthetic out from its bent positioning with his hand. "Consider your next drink on me, Monsieur...?" He was a bit bemused by the man's appearance; stiff, and what he would consider overly formal for a club like this. "I had not realized there was a funeral reception here tonight," he joked. "Toutes mes condoléances."
— +258 gifs of DAVID JONSSON as GUS SACKEY in INDUSTRY S1 has been added. Follow source link to page. Please do not claim gifs are your own; do not add to gif hunts. DAVID JONSSON is of CREOLE, WEST AFRICAN, CARRIBEAN AND SWEDISH descent born 1993 in London, England, UK.
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˙ ៹ ♡ 𝐃𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐃 𝐉𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐒𝐎𝐍 gif pack ,
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where - Harvest Gold
The music was vibrating the walls of her office and Fiadh tapped her fingers across her desk for a moment considering if it was worth pushing things off until later. There were always the wee hours of the morning to be serious. Her fingers stopped and she stared at her door for the briefest moment before deciding it was in fact worth it.
Flashing lights and a booming song welcomed her into the eternal party she had managed to curate for herself. She smiled at those who met her eyes as she made her way to the bar. Fiadh was hard to miss as the reflections of the disco ball never quite reached her as her own skin emit just enough of it's own light it was almost as she had her own spot light. To create that magic she had her lighting guys play with the levels so it wouldn't be brighter than her when the disco ball spun on it's own. It brought her joy to control reality where she could.
Joining someone at the bar who was just receiving their drink, Fiadh grabbed the attention of the bartender before they could pay and cut in, "put it on my tab with my usual." She turned to the other, "tell me, how's your night?"
Orville was rather fond of Harvest Gold. There was something charming in its time-capsule aesthetic, a reminder of the world when he'd last lived in Eden Ros. Colorful, fun, and downright magical (in more ways than one). What point was there in missing the sun when the party in here shined just as bright?
Speaking of light... a familiar presence glided through the room, quite literally lighting the space up, and cut in before he could get his wallet out. "Ah, mon ange," he said, raising the glass to her. "How could one be any less than wonderful in a place like this? It's very good to see you. Ça va? How are you? I hope you are not working yourself too hard."
who: open! where: crossroads when: early july, sometime after the sun sets
In a way, vampirism hadn't much changed the pattern of his life. Daytime was for working in the studio, maintaining the home, and exploring the latest in human culture; the night was for him, time to live and to roam the city, to socialize and enjoy himself. Restricted for the day, free at night... not all that different from the constraints most had to live with.
The night was his time to indulge in the world, and revel in the life he got to live. Eden Ros was no Paris or Marrakech, but it had plenty enough to entertain if you looked in the right places. Tonight, he was hoping for a quick feed, and that brought him to the floor of the Crossroads. Full of oblivious, intoxicated humans (and a few supernaturals, if he was lucky) that could handle losing a pint or two of blood.
Orville leaned against the bar, watching the party rage out on the dance floor. His drink sat next to him on a napkin, catching beads of condensation from making a mess of the countertop. Despite his hopes for a meal tonight, he'd opted for style over function in prosthetic choice. It didn't quite hold up under close inspection, but no one passing by would give a second glance, and he preferred that in a setting like this.
That, of course, meant he didn't notice a drink splashed onto his sleeve. Instead, his attention moved to the person now next to him as they said... something. He couldn't quite tell over the music. "Apologies," he said, breaking into an easy smile. "What did you say?"
Orville as textposts (pt 1/?)
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