A Magical Roleplaying Experience 

 #30604  by Kirill Federov
 
Nimble, slender fingers worked tirelessly and dutifully at one particularly stubborn piece of ornate work. The wood had been crafted carefully; the gems selected cautiously. Now, it was a matter of creating a perfect piece of art, but all by hand. Many measuring tools were strewn about, they were the young man’s only guiding beacons. An unusually bright light stood upon an old wooden desk that he sat leaned over.

He had been this way for many hours, and the tips of his fingers had turned red from the persistent measuring of the gem and refitting of it. Red and irritated, like his homeland. A few beads of sweat had turned up without warrant upon his forehead, but they had stuck to locks of dark hair making it appear as if he had dew upon his hair. As if those strands were blades of grass.

Outside he could hear the constant bustling of magical streets, but they were faint sounds, ones drowned out by the constant ticking of a nearby clock that had been placed on the floor. It was so large that it looked as if it belonged on Big Ben instead of the floor of a jeweler’s workshop.

Thusly the world was mostly silent for the lazy youth, who wanted nothing more than for the ticking to stop, and for the clock to strike loudly six times. But last, he had heard, it had only been three and he still had three more hours to go. His father sent him more than enough money; he didn’t even know why he bothered with this line of work.

”Find something useful to do, I will not have you lounging about like a lazy pig all day.”

His father’s words rang clear and true, and his fingertips turned slightly numb just thinking about the man. Sweaty palms would lose control in a fitful moment of anger, the ruby and wood clattering to the floor unceremoniously. The ruby rolling under his desk into a dark corner. The wood somehow managing to bounce all the way behind the clock. There had been a rather large spider behind the clock last, he had seen.

A slight shiver as he stood almost diligently to retrieve both items.

Then, came his savior a gentle bell at the front of the shop where the real daylight filtered into a separated front room. He found the excuse to depart from his work and wander out into the front to see who it was that had chosen to visit him today.
 #30606  by Nola Fitzralph
 
Nothing much quite ever changed about the rickety old store, which operated from the corner of a squat and unassuming building mostly containing of trade stores just as old as it with owners who practiced the same trade as their fathers, and grandfathers, and great-grandfathers. The wooden door, although pliant to her push, still creaked as it inched open, and Nola might swear that the bell tinkling overhead had not been changed or polished since the last time she came. Reine had wrinkled his nose in disdain when she brought him once. He preferred to do his shopping in gleaming, spotless malls and high street boutiques, when he deigned to do his shopping at all.

Nola liked those, but she liked this, too. She liked to think that the jewellery master was simply too engrossed in his art to remember mundane tasks like dusting the glass counters, though they did look reasonably clean today. Perhaps Monsieur Favre had dusted them down recently after all.

The man that stepped out beneath the archway from behind the counter was several inches taller, more than one handful of decades younger, and some undeterminable number of degrees handsomer than the ancient, leather-skinned French jeweller.

Slightly taken aback, Nola tilted her head.

"You are... not the maître."
 #30607  by Kirill Federov
 
Green eyes scanned excitedly at the woman who entered the humble shop. She was far younger, and a great deal more attractive than the majority of those who walked in here. The majority either being older men wanting something ‘nice’ for their wife so that she might let them sleep in the same bed again. Or older women who wanted something ‘delightful’ and ‘perfect’ but for the most reasonable price possible. They were always older, because of how old the shop was, and the owner of the shop was not necessarily pulling in a younger crowd.

Her opening statement caused annoyance to bristle all throughout Kirill’s body. It was not as if his boss could possibly always be here. Not at that age. His nose scrunched for a brief second, feelings without a shadow of a doubt imprinted upon his very flesh. Not temporary like a sleeve, but permanent.

“No, were you looking for someone older and more irritating?”

It was entirely possible for him to be fired from this job, but he was hardly holding onto it with a desperate clutch. If he got fired, he would get another one but as it currently stood the owner could not remotely afford to fire Kirill for, he had a knack for trinkets, and a strangely detailed set of eyes. Either way he found his own comment quite amusing as a fiery smirk played upon his features, tugging at each other corner of his lips like a spark.

Kirill would lean forward against the counter, shoulders rising and elbows folding to rest comfortably now right hand moving up to tousle and brush some dust from his hair that had settled in the hours of immobility over some wood and a ruby. He seemed at ease with the space, as if he had occupied it on a multitude of occasions. His body was relaxed despite the woman. He searched her for a hint of what kind of person she might be, what reaction she might have had to his unceremonious comment.
 #30608  by Nola Fitzralph
 
She really shouldn't. Monsieur Favre could well be in the workroom right behind, but still Nola could not help the brief laugh that bubbled from her. There was surprise in the sound, as if she had not quite expected the falter. Her fingers flew to her mouth, but her baby blue eyes were bright with amusement as they followed the way he moved with certain assuredness behind the counter.

He worked here, she decided.

Lowering her hand after a heartbeat, Nola retorted with little bite in her lilting, honeyed voice, "Isn't it a little bold to assume you are less irritating?"
 #30624  by Kirill Federov
 
The laugh was music to his ears, there was a sense of humor to her. It warmed his heart, and his searching gaze seemed to settle upon her features deciding that it was quite alright to speak more candidly with this stranger. In truth, Kirill was always happy to see a customer walk through those doors because it meant a break from the most strenuous of work. Talking and leaning against a counter was almost always preferred.

She was nice to look at, a sight for eyes that had been straining and struggling to see past anything that was not a ruby and piece of ornate wood. The young man would reach up then and rub at the corner of one of his eyes, although he was quick with his response. Which was a shrug, followed by a voice that hinted at his being a foreigner.

"Perhaps, but I will not attempt to sell you on anything in the shop, or follow you around until you do buy something. Better yet, I will not give you the explicit details of my childhood as if you were one of my grand kids."
 #30696  by Danny Fox
 
After a reflective summer in the States, Danny had decided to continue his travels. He was in France now, because England had been too weird last Spring. He'd always wanted to visit France. He even took a couple years of it in school, learning extreme basics, though he wasn't sure he could string together many words. He'd brought a dictionary, which had so far proven itself useful.

He wasn't using it now though. He was lost in thought. He felt betrayed and maybe a little bit jealous of his best friend. Though maybe Zeke wasn't his best friend after all, if he'd kept such a secret from him for so long, knowing that Danny had been struggling with the outward consequences of the same sort. How could the other have kept something like that from him? Danny had been openly gay since they were fourteen years old, and Zeke had always been there for him, accepting him. Being his friend. But hiding the same secret from him. It had been a shock, to say the least, when Danny had visited a beach in the US and ran across the other, playing there with his boyfriend.

Window shopping was taking the edge off. There were so many quaint little shops in all of the places he had been since he graduated. He loved to see the things that people made, especially if they were made by hand. There was just something so eclectic about that. He'd started a small collection of little items that were from all of the different places he'd gone. So far, it still fit neatly into the hiking backpack that he was keeping at the hostel where he was staying, but he still wanted something from here. From a small little shop.

He was staring in through the window of a small jewelry shop now, looking at the small pieces that were on display. He wasn't sure if he should go in, because it didn't look like a very big place and there were already two people in there. But he wanted to see if anything spoke to him, so he pulled open the door and tried to keep to himself and out of their way.

He looked around, noticing how carefully crafted everything was. Some pieces were intricate and some were simple. A simply carved wooden ring caught his eye in the case and he looked up, determining that the lady was a customer and the gentleman was the clerk.

"Excuse-moi," he attempted, his lack of experience with the French language obvious.

[ View OOC Note ]
 #33183  by Nola Fitzralph
 
Her pink-rouged lips deepened in its amused curve, "That makes you a terrible salesman."

Perhaps that was more in her favour. It wasn't that Nola disliked salespersons. They just had a particular knack for inducing her to voluntarily overspend... though it admittedly did not take very much convincing in the first place, which was, perhaps, precisely the problem. In other words, she had oftentimes a complicated relationship with salespersons.

Granted, they admittedly were not usually as handsome as this one.

And Nola was usually very good with handsome men, if not with salespersons.

"And that also makes you a terrible storyteller. The scandalous details are what makes a story."
 #33186  by Kirill Federov
 
"Me? A terrible salesman?" Kirill's nose scrunched and he waved his hand around in the air in front of his face, somewhere between waving away a fly and the notion that he was in fact a terrible salesman. He was not terrible, he was lazy. An easy distinction to make if one asked the Russian boy, but no one ever asked him for his opinion mostly because his opinion usually erred on the side of being absurd.

"No, no, it makes you a bad buyer.. If people were not so bad at spending money, then salespeople would not exist!" It seemed like such sound logic, that absolutely no one could ever fall for it. Somehow, Kirill had made it this far in life - even if he was just a humble jewelry maker. Although there was close to nothing humble about Kirill, not the way he spoke, gestured or stood.

"And, if you listen to my stories, will you buy something? Or two somethings?"
 #33187  by Nola Fitzralph
 
If the goodness of a buyer was determined by a willingness to spend, Nola's name would be under the VIP section of Heaven's guest list.

But the handsome salesman did not need to know that.

The blonde British tilted her head, briefly lifting a coquettish brow as she smiled.

"Maybe. How scandalous are your stories?"
 #33188  by Kirill Federov
 
Kirill's gaze moved with certainty to the corner of the shop just over Nola's head, he seemed distant for a moment, as if attempting to be mysterious. But he accomplished neither most likely as those very eyes would flicker back towards Nola, slightly raised brows and a smile.

"Depends on what you're buying~" Of course two could play at this game and he enjoyed being playful just as much as the next young man who was trying to woo a young woman.
 #33223  by Nola Fitzralph
 
His was not completely unexpected a response, but the challenge in it still exhilarated Nola.

"Maybe I'm not buying."

It wasn't exactly a lie. Certainly something about her answer suggested that the witch was not intending on leaving without spending a couple of Galleons.
 #33225  by Kirill Federov
 
"Maybe I'm not telling scandalous stories," He could tell that there was something playful about the way she spoke to him now. Her guard felt like it was ever so slightly lowered from when she had first entered the shop.

Kirill leaned forward against the counter top, bringing himself closer to the maiden, finding that her face was nicer to look at when closer.

"One time, I stole markers from one of my year mates." Perhaps it would not seem such a scandalous story to a more privileged type, but markers were not a common place thing where he had grown up.
 #33226  by Nola Fitzralph
 
Cornflower blue eyes widened slightly as Nola peered at her new acquaintance from beneath her long lashes. A rosy bottom lip jutted forward to communicate her thorough disappointment at the apparent lack of scandalous stories. Well, where was the fun then?

However, some recognition flickered in her recovering expression as he went on anyway to divulge an anecdote.

"Did they steal them back and draw panda eyes on you in revenge?"

Nola would have, and perhaps done more creatively than panda eyes, had he dared steal hers. Colour markers were the mark of one's superiority against their lesser peers once upon a time, and the one with the largest and most colourful set reigned supreme.
 #33231  by Kirill Federov
 
"No. But I did get in horrible trouble with my father. He was displeased with my less than savory antics."

His father was a Soviet official, and this allowed Kirill a great deal of luxury in his life - at least luxury as far as the Soviet Union went - but markers were not one of those luxuries. After all, his father was no auror, or anyone who traveled frequently he was a local authority that acted within his region. This meant absolutely no imports... His classmate had markers because his father had the opportunity to travel a lot. The youth had grown green with jealousy until one day he snatched them.

"I was punished by not being allowed to go out to play with my friends in the yard and on the street. Even worse, I was made to stay inside and study all day..." He shook his head slightly.

"I still feel rising nausea when I see Chekhov's name anywhere."
 #33247  by Nola Fitzralph
 
Chekhov. It sounded familiar. Not the name itself in particular, but some hint of recognition and interest flickered in the British's face even as a brief shadow of befuddlement remained. Nola cannot imagine getting into 'horrible trouble' over some markers.

Actually, that was not entirely correct. Her mother would certainly be very displeased if she was caught stealing.

It was a good thing that Lisbeth was not around enough to catch Nola doing much of anything.

"You are from Russia?" she hazarded a guess, the curiosity evident in her demeanor, even as she turned her admittedly distracted attention to survey the array of jewelry in the glass counter between them.