#duard patternost

[honorfallen]

Wanted to join up with the summer doodle fun following @theparkhurstalchemists ‘s post here

[lesathoart]

A pic of Duard for @rathwald A good worgen who maybe makes questionable friends ;)

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[rathwald]

I’ve been having a very very bad week. Doodling these two will cheer me up.

[honorfallen]

I’m just happy the Gilnean grouch has a monocle and his new jacket in-game now.

[honorfallen]

The need for a draught

A few swings of his broom and the goose finally began to vacate the doorway of the haberdashery, giving a final rebellious honk until another tap from the brush warded it off for good. Duard cleared his throat as the white-feathered beast waddled away towards the Lion’s Rest or wherever it saw fit. 

The door slammed behind him after he re-entered the small shop. He shoved the broom next to the doorway, the loud wooden thump sounding off the man’s frustration knowing that he would need to fetch it again because of that goose. His fingers scratched at the side of his face, agitated. There was no itching feeling, but he just needed to scratch--

The damned thing is just going to come back. I should just kill it. Just grab the knife next time... or better yet, the daggers~ 

Duard’s left hand tilted towards his face and he glared carefully at his palm. Fingers began to flex a few times to estimate the strength of his grip. He brushed his palm with his right finger to feel where the calluses would be: softening up. These hands were forgetting what it felt like to hold daggers. They quivered, begging for the action once more.  Please, for old time’s sake--

No. Now in place of the daggers were quills and paper, cloth and leather. The careful precision that once targeted hearts, spines, throats, and arteries now focused on more delicate crafts. More productivity and legitimate work, but the distractions were worsening. A tiresome issue, but one he shouldn’t have to deal with for long. He would receive his much-delayed draughts soon enough, and then things would be better, again. Until then, just deal with it...

Duard approached the counter, leather furs, and buckles strewed into several messy piles. In the middle of the table was a half-assembled handbag; it’s partially sewn edge patiently waiting to be finished, hopefully with no further disturbances. Taking the crafting awl into his hand, he ran the needled tip across the bag, browsing for the ideal place to puncture...

A bead of sweat began to form on the side of his forehead as he readied himself to cleanly gouge a vital area-- just like a kill spot. 

Hmm.. the Jugular, heart, or the kidney...? 

With a quick thrust, the pop from piercing the leather was satisfying. Lips turned into a frown. 

The memory of the taste of blood made him wince. It was guilt.

The sweet buttery flavor. The nectarous scent.

This awl would still do great for a single jab in a throat; a fountain of candied red is so easy to create. All that also came with the melody of adrenaline-filled hearts beating faster combined with the wailing screams of the poor creature: music to his ears. 

Prestissimo.  Prestissimo.

His own heart beat harder and faster as it sank into his chest. The bead of sweat finally sliding down his cheek. His hands first clenched the side of his head to squeeze the horrible thoughts away, then they moved to cover his face in shame for having them in the first place.

This is not me. I’m better, now. I’m better. 

Suddenly, a footstep creaked the store’s old floorboards-- a change in the air snapped him from his suffering. The smell of someone else was in the room. But where? His back tightened, feeling the presence of the intruder directly behind him.

Duard twisted backwards and grabbed the shirt collar of the intruder, slamming him into the wall. He held the awl at the man’s throat.

An angry voice yelled out. “Firelord’s flaming farts-- what are ye doin’?! Put me down!” Large beard, weird expletives being shouted about, bald as sin-- it was not just any man or stranger. Oddly enough, a friend; one he was waiting for who was very, very late.

Duard took a deep breath and held it, trying to kill his adrenaline by suffocating it. With one hand, he realized had his associate lifted up entirely off the ground, pinned to the wall. The other hand was ready to take another life. 

Human-limited strength returned to Duard at the same rate as his clarity, dropping Bordus onto the ground. 

“You know not to sneak up on me,” Duard said and he rolled his eyes.

“Sneakin’?!” The dwarf clenched both of his fists and released them into the air as he exclaimed, “How coulda ye missed me walkin’ in, even if ye been screwin’ around chasin’ that bird I’m nae that small that ye dinna see m--” 

“Do you have it?” Duard interrupted. Pacing the floor helped continue recollecting himself. Patience was a virtue that was becoming unaffordable. 

“-- if ya told me ya were good as huntin’ as ya claim, I’d never believe ye! Ye got tha instincts of a thousand year ol’ geriatric swine whose senses ben dulled from smellin’ Deathwin’s arse all day!” It felt like at least a minute of Bordus going on with a performative outrage.

“For fuck’s sake!” Such vulgarity rarely spilled from Duard’s lips. He turned around and swung his arm in a wide arc, throwing the awl across the room. The needle burrowed into the side of the wall, inches from the dwarf’s face, humming like a spring doorstop before slowly quieting down.

Now that he had his attention Duard marched towards Bordus, feet eerily quiet on the wooden floor. His suppressed anger was hidden by a polite grace. Face to face, his eyes seeming more amber than usual, Duard spoke.  “Do you have it?” Each syllable was heavily accentuated so there would be no misunderstanding.

Anger, and some color, drained from Bordus’s face, but the dwarf managed to speak out. “Yer a fool tae doubt Bordus!” He shouted. The dwarf’s tone quickly changed to whimsically talkative. “‘Bout tha timin’, though. Tha witch says she’s been strugglin’ tae make tha stuff. Not much supplies since tha night elves lost everythin’. Not like we can go beggin’ door tae door fer poisons n’ crap.” 

From his pack, Bordus drew one small phial from the batch and handed it to the man. “Best tae keep that on yer mind. Might want tae consider talkin’ to her about it. ‘Specially if this is how yer going tae act when yer low-- let me guess: ‘ol’ habits’?”

“Maybe.” Duard’s answer should have been ‘If it wasn’t obvious enough, no shit’. 

With his precious draught in hand, had Duard lost any more of his senses he would have bitten through the glass to get to the precious concoction. Instead, though still with desperation, he bit down on the cork and yanked it out, spit it off to the side, and took a large sip of the contents. 

The effect was immediate, the anger was melting away... as was his vision. Duard stepped backward and had to lean on the counter to balance himself but he slowly slid down and keeled over on the floorboards. He was unmoving for a good ten seconds. Apparently still conscious, he reached out with his index finger and pointed it at Bordus. “You-- stay the hell away... from the money drawer...”

Bordus looked quite offended at the accusation. “Fine, fine, lad.” He folded his arms as if he needed the extra security against temptation.

Another minute passed. Eventually, Duard leaned upward and grabbed his forehead after getting over his brush with clinical death. “I... am fine.” He remarked nonchalantly. “Just too much too soon. Have not had a proper dosage for too long... Ugh.” His hand reached upward and grabbed the counter and he hoisted himself back to his feet. Dusting himself off, he sighed. “I apologize for my previous behavior. That was not like me.”

A familiar dull look returned to his hazel eyes: the boring man was reborn, plagued no longer by pointless urges or troublesome thoughts.

“Sober you is not tha real you, huh.” Bordus scoffed. “Ya sure it ain’t tha other way around?” 

“Of course not.” Duard’s eyes glanced over and focused onto the awl still buried in the wall. It took a strong pull, but he managed to get the tool out in a single try. His thumb brushed over the hole left in the wall, and his face drooped with concern at the damage. Shoulders lifted in a dismissive oh well, he turned to the dwarf. “You can leave the rest of the phials on the counter. I will pay you when everything is done, here. Right now I... I need to finish my work.” He waved the dwarf away.

No more distractions. No more anything. Emptiness.

Just the work at hand, now. 

---

Author’s Note:

Just ideas I had because I never addressed a lot of stuff I have about my merc boys and their stuff going on. Still working on the dwarf accent btw

[honorfallen]

In THat Mood to try a tarot card style WIP and so far I think I did Duard’s faceclaim justice Then an adjustment for his face scar to be bigger (worgen claws big), and I got a nice lip scar, too.

[honorfallen]

Era Aesthetics

Duard

(tagged by @theparkhurstalchemists​)

Bold: Yes Italics: Partially

𝐌𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐄𝐕𝐀𝐋:   tired eyes.   coffee stains on the table.   listening to the bustle of the city. unmade beds.   ponytails.   sunlight seeping through the curtains.   chapped lips.   walking barefoot across the floorboards.   dusty dictionaries.  black and white reruns.   huge sweaters.  the ticking of the clock.   hearing birds in the morning.   fireplaces.  falling asleep during class.

𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐀𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄:   freckled skin.   the sun rising.   watching the sea.  taking shots of the city.   historical museums.   bright eyes.   looking up at the clouds. walls covered in artworks. drawing in the middle of lessons.   tracing your fingers on the sand.  painting for hours.   staying in uncrowded coffee-shops.   worn paperbacks.   messy braids.   going to bed with your kneesocks on.

𝐁𝐀𝐑𝐎𝐐𝐔𝐄:  dark hair.   a little sophisticated.  always observing the world around you. intricate designs.   high ceilings.  extravagant musical pieces.  dim room lights.   colorless photographs.   fancy furniture.   pale skin. hearing soft footfalls coming from outside the room. mischievous looks.   bitten nails.   candlelight dinners.   dark shades of lipstick.  

𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐋:   chandeliers.   the clinking of a teacup mug.   laced clothing.   modern architecture.   light hair.  watching the view from the terrace.  hidden birthmarks.   drinking tea in the morning.   wandering about in an empty building.   botanical gardens.  old films.  ancient marble sculptures.  expensive perfume cologne.   breakfasts in bed.   reading stories about mythology.

𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐂:  compassion.  short writings on scraps of paper.   blushed cheeks.  a bouquet of roses.   reading collections of poetry late at night.   loose hair. carpeted floors.   attending operas.   faint music playing in the background.  staying under the covers until midday. the night sky.  streetlights.   picking flowers.   dancing around in silk dresses.   scented candles.

[honorfallen]

Muse Rollcall

Currently only these four boys. Made quick sketches of them to get to know their faces. Run-down on their name, in-game names, and roles.

Duard A. Patternost

In-game: Ar*bert (*yea screw other popular mmo for taking his name lmao)

Game Class: Rogue

Role(s): Accountant/Bookkeeper, part-time haberdashery assistant, failing author, well-trained assassin and merc. 

(Duard is the De Facto face of this blog)

Tobrecan Shakspere

In-game: Shakspere (sounds like Shakespeare)

Game Class: Shaman

Role(s): Quartermaster of The Happy Harlot (if the Captain would ever decide to sail again), Architect, Discount Tidesage for hire, (or hire for bodyguarding, or building ships, or anything he needs the money).

Bordus Burlybrow

In-game: Bordus

Game Class: Monk

Role(s): Chef (with no boundaries), brawler, brewer. Professional food critic. Unprofessional boxer.

Bernwick Geardawdle

In-game: Bernwick

Game Class: Hunter

Role(s): Obvious Gnome Tinkerer, former toymaker. Did not go to gnome-college. Sniper and saboteur.