#eva ballard

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Some updated screenshots of Eva’s Laughing Magpie bar with my newer shaders. 

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Prompt #19: Radiant (Eva)

This little drabble and the scent described within is inspired by an actual perfume that I own, which can be found here. It smells every bit as delicious as you think. 

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One drop is more than enough. 

There truly is an irony to how similar perfume and poison is. Both take a steady hand, a sharp eye, precise measurement. Both are born from the beauty of flowers and plants and resins cultivated carefully over long periods of time. Both are the very soul, the essence of what they came from, condensed to the tiniest and purest amount. 

And both can kill, wicked sisters made from the same ingredients. 

That’s probably why no one’s ever really come down on her, or at least, nobody who’d matter. Any investigation would yield little to no results, authorities turning up mere perfume bottles and flower buds. Oh, she’s sure it’s just a matter of time. Someone will wise up, put two and two together, and cart her off to rot somewhere for the rest of her days. Honestly, it doesn’t matter to her. Such an end is inevitable. It’s not like she’s got much to cling to.

She’s making a new perfume anyway, a personal project of sorts. Every woman ought to have a signature scent, or so her mother had said. Hers had been a clean, citrus scent with notes that Eva had never been able to identify. It was a scent that the daughter kept close for many moons following her death, the tiny vial keeping her clinging to daily life until it ran out, vapors of a life’s worth of memories dried up. 

Eva’s is not the clean, citrus scent her mother bore, the womanly heart chord it faded into once hours had passed. Instead, it is something uniquely her own, a mark of her very existence. 

The crisp scent of apple paints a picture, vivid and bright, of an abandoned orchard. It sweetens into the aroma of apples gone forgotten, left to ripen in leaf litter and pick up the overripe, cloying note of something close to decay. The intoxicating trace of the perfume is opium and hemlock, something dark and almost smoky without being heavy or choking. It’s enticing, mature. A polished, beautiful, deep red apple left to soak in a narcotic swirl. 

The right perfume can add an invisible pull to one’s natural charm. The irony that hers tells others exactly who she is...that’s something which is not lost on her. 

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Character Features: Eva

♢  EMOTIONS / FEELINGS:

Cocky - Flirtatious  - Smug -  Chatty

♢ GREETINGS:

A wave - A tip of the head - A grip to the shoulder

♢ COLORS:

Blues - Yellows - Reds - Greys

♢ SCENTS:

Crisp Apples - Hemlock - Oleander - Perfume Oil

♢ CLOTHING:

Corsetry - Short Skirts - Stockings - Luxurious Fabrics

♢ OBJECTS:

Poison Vials - Perfume Bottles - Chipped Mugs - Fresh Flowers

♢ VICES & BAD HABITS:

Manipulation - Overindulgence - Alcohol - Repressed Emotions

♢ BODY LANGUAGE:

Casual - Relaxed - Leaning Back - Playing With Hair

♢ AESTHETIC:

Dim Taverns - Summer Forests - Riversides 

Tagged by: @carmen-ffxiv. Following up from the one I did for Okuni earlier. 

Tagging: Whoever wants to do the thing

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Prompt #17: Obeisant (Eva)

Cw: Talk of poisons and mentions of drugs. 

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It never fails to amuse her when patrons learn what’s in the drink, when it truly sinks in that they’ve been deliberately sucking down droplets of poison with each glass. Even though she’s careful every time, there’s always that one person who likes to ruin things, the stick-in-the-mud among a group who reacts as though she’d personally tried to stab them in the throat. It’s deception, they say, unnatural. Who the hell would purposely drink poison? 

They do so enjoy acting high and mighty.

She wants to educate them on their hypocrisy. It’s no different from the powders and phials and needles she sees in their hands anywhere else she goes. 

Nightshade, with her beautiful berries shining like black pearls. So fickle even in tiny dosages, a diva among toxins. She beckons forth paralysis, hallucinations, a powerful delirium that lives in the minds of those who consume her. 

Hemlock, delicate white blossoms whose toxins make it hard to focus on anything but how one’s breath is slowly stolen away, blood pumping harder to compensate. In the proper minuscule dosage, she likens this to the feeling of a potent, heady, all-consuming lust, and it’s a favorite mix-in of hers. 

Azaleas, arum, and a thousand other everyday flowers. Beauty crafted by the gentle hand of nature which, when mixed with clumsy hands, becomes an instrument of agony. 

How is this any different from the things they do to themselves? 

In the hands of an amateur, their powders and tinctures are as deadly as any poison, a bad formula and bad reaction guaranteed. Just as how in the hands of an artisan, her poisons can reproduce those coveted sensations in short bursts, snapshots of time. The difference, she supposes, comes in at the edges, where the two overlap. Usually those with the powders and phials are already in so deep, mired up to their eyeballs in other problems that they can hardly remember the day anymore, desperate and hungry for more and more. But those seeking the poisons are the inquisitive types, intrigued enough to merely dip their toes in to see what such waters are like. It’s somewhat uncommon to see regulars coming back for the toxins, but that is something she has come to accept as the nature of it all. 

A man will come in and order Ambrosia, then return the next sennight with a pair of ruffians in tow, spilling liquid and tablets everywhere in his excitement because he “liked the atmosphere.” Or maybe a girl will come in, try the Neroli, and reappear with a client on her arm some days later, asking if she can use the room downstairs. 

Eva might refer to herself as a gateway, of sorts, if she absolutely had to put a name to it. She knows that the sensations from her cocktails aren’t as potent as what they’d get from their favored drug. But they’re a taste, just a tiny sample to whet one’s appetite. The way that newcomers act, as though they’ve never had such a singular experience, is enough. It does not matter that her work is not the sort that can compete with the real thing. She’s never pretended otherwise, and if anyone coming in thinks otherwise, that’s a personal problem. 

Take Reese, for instance. Knowing him from her Monarch days apparently doesn’t amount to much, because after an evening of catching up he hits her with the confession that he’s heard about what she does. He knows exactly what sort of business she’s running. 

“Well aren’t ye smart?” she teases. “Ye want a prize for figurin’ it out?”

He frets and fusses a bit, questions her on why she’d get herself entangled in something like this (but it’s only her, no shining web to ensnare but her). In the end, his intimidation tactics are only about as frightful as a kitten’s paws. What is he really after, she asks, and he confesses that her work is useful to him. He’s here on behalf of Crooked Crow. Ahh, now this was interesting.

A recently hired actor got a little too cocky, swiped something from Crow’s wagon, and the man either wants it back or wants remuneration. Simple enough. In fact, it’s too simple, so delightfully mundane that just for a moment, Eva thinks Reese must be stupid. But things are never simple in Monarch. That’s a fact she wishes she’d known all those years ago before Zheya could get her claws in her. Eva almost wishes the woman were still alive, just so she could wring the truth from her lips before wringing the life from her neck. 

“Well, must’ve been important for ye to come to me of all people. What is it that went missin’ from the ol’ Crow’s nest?”

“It’s expensive and--”

“Aye, I can guess it is, or ye wouldn’t be botherin’ with me. Try again, dove.”

There’s hesitance in Reese’s stance, a shift of the spine so minute as to go unnoticed if not for the fact that she has her serpent’s gaze on him. 

“Very expensive. Crow’s newest supplemental scheme.” 

An eyebrow raises. Newest? He’s done this before? Other methods, other ways to supplement the troupe’s income? Had the pick-pocketing been his idea too, then? Or was Zheya his slippery little muse? 

“He calls it...” More hesitation. Eva makes a gesture with her hands, wrists rotating in a ‘go on’ sort of motion. “Pixie Dust.”

She laughs out loud, a sharp peal of mirth tripping over her teeth and tongue to land in his lap. 

“Of course,” she says. “Of course he’d name somethin’ like that.” 

She certainly can help, it seems. But before she does, she wants to go and visit Crooked Crow herself. It’s been an awfully long time, after all, and it’s always wise to pay one’s respects before talking shop. 

She’ll decide what else to do when she meets him face to face. 

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-Insert stereotypical Machinist screenshot here-

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Prompt #16: Jitter (Eva)

CW: Implied drug use. 

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If he’s trying to be subtle, he’s pretty much failing at it. 

Even seated among a crowd at the furthest table during the most bustling night of business can’t save him from broadcasting his nerves. His fear is as potent as a pheromone, drawing jeers and laughter from his group and stares from the rest. Even from behind the bar and separated by the partition, Eva can tell he must be bouncing his leg in anxiety. The rhythmic thump thump thump jostles the water within the glass in his hand, the only part of the man visible from her position.  It’s loud, rowdy, hot, and humid, and none of those things are helping his nerves. Eva would stop and feel bad for him, coo over how distraught he looks and offer him a free round, if she wasn’t so busy at the bar. What can she say? Pity to the pathetic. 

But his hesitance is drawing attention, stirring his group into agitation like shark-chummed waters. Their voices rise above the others. 

“Come on then! Stop beatin’ round the bush and out wi’ it!” 

The harsh clap of a Roegadyn’s hand on his back nearly sends the man out of his seat and into a coughing fit. Finally, the line at the bar dies down enough for Eva to make the rounds, plucking up empty glasses and refilling others, suffering a grab or two at her rear before she reaches the back table. His table. She takes his water glass and he fumbles a bit, rooting around in his pockets like a clumsy truffle-hog. He’s trying way too hard, too paranoid to even pretend at subtlety, and finally seems to give up on trying to be suave. A wrapped paper packet comes from his coat pocket, top tab spread open in front of him to show the powder within like he’s showing a hand of cards. 

Already, she can tell where this is going (it isn’t the first time and it won’t be the last), and so Eva squeezes into the space to move the little table out of the corner and in between the group instead. She takes the ashtray away, brushes off a half-used cigar and some ash. Only some. If they don’t care enough to clean the table before they go cutting lines on it, neither does she. She gives them a smile, flounces away with her arms full, and files away the talk that spills forth. What it’s called, where it’s from, what it supposedly does, how much it cost. It’ll all be important information later. Or maybe not. Who knows, really? It’ll be more useful when they finally slip out of the place, stumbling drunk and high and leaving sloppy remnants of their visit on the table and in the couches. This, she will sweep into a paper envelope and stash away, ready and waiting for anyone who comes asking after its buyer. 

They call it Pixie Dust, and it’s such a horrendously concocted name that she can’t even bring herself to laugh about it. They claim it can put them in such a blissful state that they’ll believe they’re in the land of the fairies, in a perfect paradise. She’d love to give whoever the dealer had been advice on naming things, but all she can do at the moment is watch and listen, certain that the group is the hasty and messy kind. They’ll leave traces, she’s sure of it. But until then, she must play the good hostess. She’ll take them a tray of sugar cubes and spoons and a bottle of absinthe for their enjoyment. She always has been fond of wormwood. 

With this, and with their “Pixie Dust,” they’ll be seeing fairies in no time.  

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Prompt #15: Monarch (Eva)

You never forget your first time. 

In the back of a dusty lounge, on the corner of some filthy Ul’dahn street under the cover of an awning, or in the middle of a crowded sea of people. It’s impossible to deny it when it happens, when you feel a tug on your very soul that comes from a song. 

I felt it walking down the path near the Hawthorne Hut with my mum when I was about eight or so. We were heading out to get a fresh batch of honey for this bread she used to make, flaky and golden and sweet and just…perfect. 

There was a girl on the side of the road, resting in the shade while she played a green reed pipe with a shrill, chirpy tune. I really did think she was a bird at first, singing her sprightly staccato. I’m not sure what it was, exactly, but she had this energy and cheer to her, a sort of charm that made her seem almost like she belonged among the sylphs known to live nearby. 

I was so utterly taken with her whole appearance, with her song and the little pipes that I tripped over a root and busted my face open. Split the skin on the bridge of my nose right across and gave myself a neat little scar. It was worth it for the enchantment. Once we got our honey and went home and I was cleaned up, I begged mum for a little set of pipes of my own. I never did get them, but the brief encounter was the start of an obsession. 

Summers passed, and as time wore on I found other pretty little baubles, gems of culture that I’d snatch up and commit to memory as a greedy magpie collects shiny stones. A concert in Gridania here, a play in Limsa there. A strange, horned man in Ul’dah who cast illusions of dancing, curling smoke. I wanted it all and more, from the song in the woods to the burlesque I snuck into when I was but fifteen, a hat crammed over my head to hide the tips of my ears. I felt adrift in a sea of delight, resplendent in light and noise. 

When I was sixteen, I finally found my own wonderland. On the path to the Hawthorne Hut again, I found my way blocked by a crowd, not a single gap through which to squeeze. Standing on my tiptoes didn’t help either. All it accomplished was throwing me off balance and getting myself shoved through the mass of onlookers before stumbling into the front. There was barely time to recover my footing, let alone formulate a lecture for whoever had pushed me. I forgot all about it as soon as I reclaimed my balance. 

Before me was a caravan, a cluster of five little wagons each hooked to a Chocobo with brilliantly colored feathers, charcoal dusting their wing tips. The wagons themselves were broad, heavy, boxy things each painted with advertisements for plays, the lettering distorting ever so slightly over the seams of the doors. Secured atop the flat of each of the wagons were thin wooden panels carved and painted into backdrops, in front of which flitted half a dozen dancing girls in costumes of rainbow tulle and dyed feathers. 

The wagons circled once, twice, three times before breaking formation to drive end to end down the path. The dancers kept their balance perfectly, delicate and lovely as music box ballerinas. Emblazoned on the center wagon was a single word, elaborate lettering that would become my new obsession for many moons to come. 

Monarch, it read. Like the butterfly. 

Like a child led by the pied piper, heedless to the worries of my parents, I followed after the wagons, hoping to become a butterfly myself. 

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Prompt #13: Wax (Eva)

The scents of oil lamps sully

The blossoms in their frame

Left to die so slowly

To give their soul and glory

The flower gives up its name

She has to be cautious when she’s illuminating the distilling room. An errant foot against a table, a stumble over the threshold, and the entire room can go up into flames if the candlestick falls into any of the aromatic oils. 

It would be safer, perhaps, to use a hanging lantern instead of a candle, but too often has she come to check on the enfleurage frames in the night, to exchange the withered blooms for fresh, only to find that the ichor of the lamp’s burning fuel has permeated the tallow, rendering the entire batch worthless for pomade. Only candlelight will do. 

The jittery splatters from an unsteady, sleep-deprived hand mark constellations on the floorboards, dripping in denser clusters before each workstation. White, blue, purple..whichever color of candle is cheapest at the time. Her fingers bear minuscule scorch marks from such scalding splatters, a slight shudder as she waits for the wax to dry before picking it off in dry flakes. The most recent color gives her pause each time she must light the flame again. 

Red. 

All they had had was a massive crate full of a shade of deep carmine candles whose drops are frighteningly similar in color to blood. A scattering of the liquid wax distracts her when she comes to check on a frame of roses one night, the distraction enough to have her snagging a fingertip on a splinter. Crimson falls to the floor, wax and blood both. 

Breath hitching, candleflame wavering, she steadies herself. It’s just a color, she tells herself. Just a bit of color to join the rest of the kaleidoscope upon the floor. 

Red on red.