The Pen Is Mightier (Bliss and Cherri Tart)
<h1 id="title">Elliquiy Role Playing Forums</h1>
		<h2 id="linktree">Play-By-Post: Bondage, D/s, S&amp;M =&gt; Bondage: Human Solos =&gt; Topic started by: Bliss on 28-11-2007, 18:31:05</h2>
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				Title: <strong>The Pen Is Mightier (Bliss and Cherri Tart)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Bliss</strong> on <strong>28-11-2007, 18:31:05</strong>
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				<em>…gave a speech in a dinner party honoring the Queen’s nephew on the occasion of his birthday, with quips and remarks designed to entertain and amuse all the gathered nobility-</em><br><br>“DAMN him!” Geoffrey slammed the newspaper down on the end of the long breakfast table with enough force to rattle his fork upon his half-empty plate, and cause the housekeeper to look up in startlement from where she was waiting to refill his coffee cup. Unthinkingly he turned his scowl on the woman, whose eyes dropped to the society pages he’d been reading instead of meeting that glare, and he shoved his chair back from the table with a sigh.<br><br>“I’m sorry, Sarah; My appetite seems to have suddenly gone,” he said shortly, and rose, pulling his dark blue dressing gown tighter around himself as he walked through cool, Spartan rooms, mounting twisting wooden steps to his room.<br><br>It had been months since he’d actually seen that charlatan who styled himself a writer, and yet every day it seemed he was being confronted with the evidence that the pest had not yet been squashed – mentions in the society pages and in the gossip columns, and even in the op ed articles, all detailing this or that witty tidbit that had made the ladies laugh or drawn some bratty man-child into the glow of his attention, the joke that he’d made at someone’s expense, frightfully true and yet left unsaid by all but he.<br><br>Or worst yet, the appearance of some frivolous bon vivant essay or drivelly poesy on the ink and rag – the worst, the most baleful evidence of his gleaming social success and acceptance.<br><br>Several dark pillows and a wardrobe door bore the brunt of Geoffrey’s irritation as he slammed around his chambers, digging out proper clothing to spend the day in, and his rage was only barely muted when finally he jerked his necktie around his neck – too tight at first, nearly strangling himself for a moment before he drew the striped cloth free and tied it more carefully, and headed back downstairs to his study to pick up where he’d left off late the night before in his carefully researched proposal upon the shifting emergence of solid British infrastructure and the accompanying shift away from strictly separated dialectical language, and what that might mean to the status quo.
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				Title: <strong>Re: The Pen Is Mightier (Bliss and Cherri Tart)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Cherri Tart</strong> on <strong>28-11-2007, 19:08:28</strong>
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				The sun cast a feeble light through the bedroom window in a vain attempt at illuminating the rumpled sheets upon which Thomas lay, a pair of down pillows propping him up as he considered the day ahead, a matching comforter covering him from the waist down.&nbsp; Beside him, on a small beside table, stood a pair of glasses, and an half emptied bottle of wine, a gift from Edward, one that they both had taken great delight in, as attested by the disarray of his appareal upon the floor and the indentation of another man's body where it until recently, in the large bed beside him.<br><br>Somewhere beyond the glass pane, a sparrow twittered annoyingly, and he managed to send it a baleful glare, before taking his head in his hands and moaning softly.&nbsp; What had he been thinking, adding a bottle of wine to the consumables already downed the night before?&nbsp; He thought about the party, smiling ruefully, how they had all fawned over his every word, his every gesture, and then, the little scene out in the garden, Edward pracically begging him for his adorations.&nbsp; Not that the bugger needed to beg.&nbsp; After all, Thomas had not been secret in his own admirations.&nbsp; <br><br>Katherine had been cross, of course.&nbsp; She always was whenever he left her parties with the man <em>she</em> desired on his heel, knowing that it wasn't their intent to speak of business at some quiet pub that pulled them into the night, quickly bringing a halt to the merrimaking.&nbsp; After all, there were there to bask in his light and once the lights had dimmed, they quickly made their excuses and were gone, leaving her to brew in quiet.&nbsp; Oh, poor Katherine, how she both hated her need for him, for the noteriaty that he gave her, the brief brush with something larger then herself.&nbsp; He was the golden boy for the moment.&nbsp; A moment he knew wouldn't last, but for now, he would take his pleasure in it.&nbsp; <br><br>Speaking of pleasures, his gaze was drawn to the sitting room, his attention drawn by the almost noiseless closing of the door, knowing that the poor boy was even now slipping carefully out, worried that he might be seen leaving at this hour, besmirching his repuation of a ladies man and a lover.&nbsp; &nbsp;Well, A fine lover he was, Thomas smiled, sighing contentedly.&nbsp; Only, it was english cunt that he had an appitite for.&nbsp; He pushed the covers down past his waist, smiling as the sight of the Edward's true passion greeted him.&nbsp; He should get up, get dressed, perhaps pen a note to Katherine, thanking her for a wonderful evening before taking his tea at Brewer's or perhaps take a walk to clear his head a bit before starting his day out proper.&nbsp; <br><br>Rolling out of bed with a groan, planting his feet firmly on the imported persian carpet that had cost him a dare penny, the sheets falling away from his naked form as he pushed his feet into his slippers before casting about for his red velvet robe.<br><br>"But first, a bath."&nbsp; he spoke aloud, breaking the silence of the room, the sparrow having recently flown.&nbsp; "After all, London is a fickle lover, and the stink of last night will make her jealous, should I wear it upon her streets."&nbsp; <br><br>Pulling his dressing gown closed about him, he considered ringing for Misses Walters do draw his bath, deciding to let the poor woman be, this once, and drawing it himself.&nbsp; Oh, she would be cross with him, but then, she usually was, he thought with an amused smile.&nbsp; 
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: The Pen Is Mightier (Bliss and Cherri Tart)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Bliss</strong> on <strong>28-11-2007, 19:57:25</strong>
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				Geoffery's study was everything the rest of the house was not; while most of his town home was kept fairly austere and perfectly clean, his study was stuffed to the gills with all the accouterments of his profession. Every wall was lined with bookshelves, and they were filled with books, old papers, letters to other writers and famous minds of the day.<br><br>Sarah Whitmere, good keeper of the house that she was, already had a fire merrily burning in the low grate by the time he strode in and settled into the wingbacked chair drawn up to his rolltop desk - it wasn't meant to be a deskchair, but he found it far more comfortable, and he wanted nothing, not even an ache in the thighs from subpar furniture, to disturb him when he'd sunk himself into his work.<br><br>The newspaper he'd abandoned in the dining room was considerately folded with the local news faceup, on a low round table near the fire, and he pointedly ignored it as if it were a disappointing stepchild, sitting down to read over the pages of notes he'd scrawled out the night before. A cup of tea sat beside his inkwell, slowly cooling as he irritably scrawled a few more marginal notes.<br><br>But from the corner of his eye he could still see the paper, silent and looming as if it were an elephant in his cozy room, and inside his anger snapped.<br><br>Notes shoved aside, he drew a fresh sheet of paper close and snared fresh ink with his quill, jotting out a letter to the paper's editor - one that questioned the culpability of what should be such a fine, upstanding vessel of news distribution that, for reasons unknown to a hardworking mind such as his own, deemed it at all useful to sully its pages with the pablum pandering to ego found in the gossip and society pages.<br><br>Sitting back, he read it over with dark satisfaction before sprinkling the pages with sand to set the ink, folding it closed, and stamping wax onto it with his seal before ringing for his faithful keeper.<br><br>"See that this is brought to the offices right away; tell the messenger there's an extra bit in it for him if he makes certain it gets onto James Binsfield's desk before noon."
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				Title: <strong>Re: The Pen Is Mightier (Bliss and Cherri Tart)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Cherri Tart</strong> on <strong>29-11-2007, 09:43:13</strong>
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				Thomas closed the door of his flat behind him, his still damp hair hanging limply about his face in a tangle of chestnut, walking stick on one hand, top hat in the other.&nbsp; Despite a rather pleasant breakfast, prepared by his housekeeper, he was still hungry, albeit for something less intangible then food.&nbsp; Admiration was the fare that he sought today, and that could usually be found at Brewer’s Pub amongst friends and acquaintances, all to happy to bolster his not inconsiderable ego even as he bolstered their reputation by merely keeping company with them.&nbsp; <br><br>The trek through the streets of London was a familiar one, and soon he was standing before the door, hat set jauntily upon his head, his waistcoat and trousers impeccable in their taste and cut.&nbsp; After all, he was expected to look his best… the thought bothered him and, even as he thought it, he took a moment to loosen his tie and, taking off his hat, run his fingers through his hair, leaving it looking disheveled.&nbsp; Pausing a moment to take in his own reflection in the window, an impish grin on his face, he pushed through the door, the sight of several of his co-conspirators of the written word in heated discussion over brandy and cigarettes, warming the cockles of his heart.&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br><br>It was Oliver who first took note of him, his face already ruddy from drink, raising his glass in mock salute even as Thomas hung his hat upon the rack.<br><br>“Bishop, come over here!” he called out across the room, alerting the others to Thomas’s presence.&nbsp; “We were just discussing the work of a certain gentlemen, newly released, that you might be interested in.&nbsp; Come, sit down and join us.”<br><br>Thomas unleashed a grin upon the small company, taking up their offer, spinning&nbsp; the single unoccupied chair, and straddling it,&nbsp; arms crossed across theladdered&nbsp; back.&nbsp; “You should know by now that the only work of interest within the city is my own, gentlemen.” He quipped, garnering chuckles from the others.<br><br>“Brandy?”&nbsp; Silvers offered, pushing the bottle and a clean glass towards him, which he filled, sipping cautiously, the faint residue of a hangover still threatening.&nbsp; <br><br>“As a matter of fact, it is your work, Thomas.&nbsp; Really, who else would inspire such passionate discourse this early in the morning?”<br><br>&nbsp; --<br><br>It was mid afternoon before they broke up.&nbsp; Thomas, becoming surly with drink and bordering on rudeness, his sharp wit and sharper tongue beginning to find targets a little to close to home for the comfort of his companions, finally begged forgiveness, excusing himself from the gathering.&nbsp; Truth was, he was becoming bored of accolades.&nbsp; &nbsp;His keener observations were wasted here.&nbsp; He felt the sudden need to write, not mere scribbles that might please the masses, but something of import, something that would transcend and illuminate, rather then merely amuse.&nbsp; Looking for inspiration, he let his feet lead him where they might, his thoughts far from the grimy streets of London as he searched for his muse.<br>
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				Title: <strong>Re: The Pen Is Mightier (Bliss and Cherri Tart)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Bliss</strong> on <strong>29-11-2007, 21:37:24</strong>
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				The next morning, Geoffrey read over the newspaper with grim glee, seeing that Binsfield had done his work as a proper friend and given the letter he'd sent the prime location in the letters page.<br><br>The joy of the sight of him followed the man through the day, and Sarah was bemused at how voraciously he tore through his work and his lunch, before finally he noticed the dying of light through the heavily curtained window, and strode from his favorite room toward the stairs.<br><br>"Ms. Whitmere! Call a carriage round for me. This has been a wonderful day, and I think I've earned myself a night of soaking in the joy of the footlights!"<br><br>The man meant the theater, of course, and he was almost pleased enough with himself to hum as he changed into a dark blue tailed suit over a crisp pale cream shirt, and knotted a silver grey cravat at his throat. The effect, with his shock of darkly waving hair and blue eyes in his austere face, was almost startling, even after he drew his hair back into a queue with a black ribbon that was almost lost among the locks, and set a navy tophat upon his head.<br><br><em>Exactly right</em>, he decided with a nod, looking himself over. Every inch the academic aristocrat, inside and out.<br><br>When he riched the foyer, Sarah was already waiting with his black cloak in hand, and helped it over his shoulders before handing him his cane. "Shall I have a dinner waiting for you, sir?"<br><br>"No, I'm feeling extravagant; I'll be dining out, tonight." He tapped the edge of the silver-tipped cane gently against the edge of his hat and headed out to the waiting carriage, looking forward to the evening's even. If memory served, it would be one of those snippy little french plays by that Moliere fellow from the Continent.
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: The Pen Is Mightier (Bliss and Cherri Tart)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Cherri Tart</strong> on <strong>30-11-2007, 19:16:48</strong>
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				The muse had eluded him once more last night, as she did all too frequently these days, and he'd taken his frustration out in the form of several glasses of whiskey and a midnight visit to an opium den where he could at least feel that she was still out there somewhere, just hovering on the edge of his awareness.&nbsp; <br><br>His dreams had been fitful that night, and he'd slept in until noon, waking bleary eyed and nursing a headache that slowly disapated over a late breakfast of sausages and toast, capped with several cups of strong tea as he perused through the morning paper, looking for any mention of himself with a self mocking smile, not surprised to actually find...<br><br>He stared, noting the signature beneath the letter, one eye brow raised.&nbsp; So, the jealous little tart had felt the need for some sort of public forum to vent his anger.&nbsp; &nbsp;He read through the letter with an amused smile, wondering if Geoffrey understood that even a public tongue lashing did nothing but enhance his repuation.&nbsp; Perhaps he had finally decided to play the game and was trying to tie himself to his coattails?&nbsp; <br><br>No, that wasn't like him.&nbsp; He was sure that he was sincere in his venomous words.&nbsp; Poor boy.&nbsp; Sincerity wouldn't sell prose, no matter how good.&nbsp; Still chuckling, he lit a ciggertte and leaned back, enjoying himself, wondering if he should reply in kind.&nbsp; &nbsp;Perhaps a fued.&nbsp; The public would eat that up.&nbsp; He might even start a few rumors of his own to keep the gossip alive.&nbsp; That the words might be true and might prick him, we wouldn't admit to anyone other then himself.&nbsp; <br><br>He spent the day frivolously, puttering around his expensive flat, penning an editorial letter of his oww, as well as several others, long overdue, to casual aquaintences, coming across an invitation to several plays and fetes as he was reading through his corespondence, one of which particularly caught his eye.&nbsp; Moliere!&nbsp; Oh, the man wielded a sharp quill and, despite a little professional envy, he was eager to see what he had to offer.&nbsp; Besides, it would be a full house and he would be center stage at the after party, if he had anything to do with it.&nbsp; It was decided, he would hire a coach and make an appearance. <br><br>He arrived early, deciding that he needed to be seen, not loathe to admit that it was a boost to his ego.&nbsp; He'd taken little care in dressing this evening, knowing that he'd stand out more for being so casual in this crowd.&nbsp; Oh, of course he looked good, but then didn't he always?&nbsp; But tonight, he'd taken great pains to look the part of a rake, wearing tweed and brown patent leather boots, a brown newsboys cap set upon his head.&nbsp; Yes, he would stand out tonight, and the critics be damned.&nbsp; <br><br>The usual crowd had yet to arrive, something which suited him just fine tonight.&nbsp; He felt carefree and untethered, feeling the twinkle in his eye as he entered the theatre, waiting for the first caress of recognition to brush against him.<br>&nbsp;<br><br>&nbsp;<br><br><br>
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				Title: <strong>Re: The Pen Is Mightier (Bliss and Cherri Tart)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Bliss</strong> on <strong>03-12-2007, 23:51:51</strong>
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				Arriving at the theater included the usual bustle he'd come to expect from such an event; those with the titles and money to show off doing so in fine form, strolling the sidewalk outside the theater and mingling in the lobby, while doing their utmost to pointedly ignore the even more glittering nouveau riche except for the lucky few that, for one reason or another, the nobility took upon themselves to elevate.<br><br>He wended his way slowly among them, nodding and exchanging polite words of greeting with some as he sought out the ticket office and presented himself to order up a seat in a box; As he awaited the little paper billet that he'd hand over to one of the footmen for guidance to his seat, he looked over the crowd - and observed some sort of bustle and commotion by one of the entrances to the plushly-carpeted lobby.<br><br><em>What the devil? </em>he wondered, and slid an extra coin onto the counter after taking his ticket, which he slid into an inside pocket of his dark coat. The steps up toward the mezzanine were nearby, and on the pretense of studying the crowd he went up a few stairs and looked over to see, in the midst of the commotion, a newsboy's cap.<br><br>That explained the commotion, then - such a lad trying to sneak into a place like this where he had no business, and had gotten caught. Of course, that made perfect sense.<br><br>Shaking his head, he descended the steps and handed over his ticket to an usher, being led down the understairs through a darkly wallpapered hallway, and through a door into one of the boxes at the very foot of the stage - the only acceptable place to sit close, if one actually wanted to -watch- the play, so long as he wasn't so unlucky as to have to share the space with someone wining and dining a mistress.
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: The Pen Is Mightier (Bliss and Cherri Tart)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Cherri Tart</strong> on <strong>05-12-2007, 21:01:08</strong>
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				Thomas soon got bored.&nbsp; Not that he showed it, all smiles and quick quips, but really, he'd come here to make a sensation, and all he was getting was... well, adoration and attention, but tonight, the devil had taken him, and he wanted more.&nbsp; The small crowd that had gathered about him only whetted his appetite for something more, something... <br><br>He spotted Geoffrey, looking dapper and dignified in the crowd, that 'oh, I’m so much better then this common rabble' frown clearly writ upon his face.&nbsp; Too bad the man was such a bore, all righteous indignation and brooding.&nbsp; &nbsp;He really was quite fetching in his way.&nbsp; Oh, wouldn't he be scandalized by<em>that</em> thought... <br><br>Thomas smiled wickedly.&nbsp; Oh, yes, he would... and after that piece that the wag had written about him, he deserved every thing he got, if not more.&nbsp; <br><br>Making his way through the growing crowd, people starting to move inwards to take their seats as curtain time neared, Thomas smoothed out his trousers and scanned the theatre, frowning at being unable to locate his ‘prey’ with in the crowded room.&nbsp; <br><br>"What a let down."&nbsp; He breathed with disappointment, then shrugged.&nbsp; Really, it didn't matter so much.&nbsp; And besides, as long at the little tart didn't bugger off right away, he'd have more then enough time to harass him afterwards.<br><br>More interested in being seen, then actually seeing the play, he took his seat in the gallery, taking a moment to stand on his seat and raise his hands magnanimously.&nbsp; “I have arrived, dear friends.&nbsp; You may start your little play now, if you wish.”&nbsp; <br><br>With a satisfied smirk, he removed his cap and took his seat, hands clasped over his stomach as he ignored any commotion he might have caused within the crowded venue.&nbsp; <br>
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				Title: <strong>Re: The Pen Is Mightier (Bliss and Cherri Tart)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Bliss</strong> on <strong>10-12-2007, 16:55:20</strong>
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				Geoffrey had just gotten himself settled comfortably into his chair in the box when there was the sound of the door opening behind, and inwardly he groaned a little before turning to glance, to see what would be joining him for the show - for a moment hoping it would just be an usher or a waiter.<br><br>It wasn't either, in the least, but instead a slightly older woman, who swept in with a broad smile to Geoffrey, and began speaking even before she'd finished doffing her light wrap.<br><br>"Oh, it feels like AGES since I've been here for a show, nearly a month at least. I'm so glad to get the chance to see one of Mr. Moliere's works, too - I've heard such delightful things, and this venue always stages well, of course."<br><br>She kept talking as she settled into one of the other chairs in the box, and then reached out to offer him a limp-wristed hand, plainly expecting his attentions. The saturnine man's brows drew together a little, but politely he caught her fingers upon his own and bent to brush his lips over the back of her knuckles before she drew the appendage back and set about arranging her several-layered dress and patting her pinned-up curls to make sure they were still in place - the vanity of a much younger woman still lived in her, that was clear.<br><br>"I'm Loretta, of course, Loretta Bonadine." She favored him with a bright, expectant smile, as if certain he'd heard of her, and Geoffrey shifted in his chair with an uncomfortable smile and a nod. "Ms. Bonadine... of course. I'm, ah, Geoffrey, Geoffrey Crenshaw, I'm -"<br><br>"OH! Mr. Crenshaw, I heard your name spoken just this morning about a lovely moralist piece that was in the paper. You're a writer, I'm told, aren't you?" Geoffrey had only time to nod, before noticing the lamps being lowered and the footlights coming up. Loretta continued on in a delighted rush, plainly pleased to have been seated with someone with a little amount of fame. "Well, Mr. Crenshaw, I know this is forward of me but I'm never one for shyness you know, what does it get you but a seat in the corner and a cup of cold tea, not stepping forward? Anyhow, If you've not had dinner yet, I and several friends are going to dinner after the show, and one of them is the most CLEVER writer, I'm sure he'd love to meet you!"<br><br>Geoffrey nodded and murmured assent simply in hopes of getting her to quiet - which, thankfully she did as the sudden upward rush of the red velvet curtain caught her attention, and the first actor strutted forth on the stage, beginning the show.
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				Title: <strong>Re: The Pen Is Mightier (Bliss and Cherri Tart)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Cherri Tart</strong> on <strong>12-12-2007, 17:56:47</strong>
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				As the play started, Thomas became oblivious to the attentions and commotion of the crowded theatre, shutting them out as the curtain parted 'Harpagon' took the stage. The Miser it was called, and although he'd yet to see it, he'd heard marvellous things about it already.&nbsp; &nbsp;And truly, it lived up to the hype... witty and cutting.&nbsp; Truly, here was genius at work.&nbsp; Had he the inclination at that moment, he would have dispaired that the muse had truly abandoned him and was now residing in France.&nbsp; &nbsp;And yet, watching the antics of the players onstage, he felt the stirrings of... longing.&nbsp; His mind turned inwards at the intermission, wondering how to regain that spark that had been absent yet a short time, yet seemingly forever.&nbsp; <br><br>Ah, the pitfalls of fame.&nbsp; &nbsp;Before he had it, the fire to gain it had fueled his imaginings, his very pen, and driven him to excesses and great words... he had, however, become to comfortable in his energies had turned instead to keeping what he had rather then reaching the highest pinacle.&nbsp; He needed... passion.&nbsp; Something new, something wonderful, something to force him to reach within and rediscover that fire.&nbsp; Perhaps he needed to fall from Grace and start over... <br><br>He laughed at that, mostly too himself.&nbsp; He liked where he was too much to do that, but the thought of risking his lauded position within the social and artistic circles... that had merit.&nbsp; Something risky, yes...&nbsp; Perhaps even scandalous.&nbsp; He would think of it tonight at Lady Bonadine's.&nbsp; He sighed at that.&nbsp; She could be such a bored, yet such a delightful target for his wit, unwitting as she might be.&nbsp; Too easy, perhaps.&nbsp; Once again, there was no challenge there, save the one that kept him on his toes as she tried to show him off as her little pet poet.&nbsp; That made him grind his teeth and roll his eyes.&nbsp; He belonged to no one!&nbsp; She might have provided a ladder but it was he who had taken it, step by step, in the face of great obstacles and achieved... well, not the stars, but certainly a penthouse room overlooking the lights of London.&nbsp; <br><br>He considered not going, and yet, the temptation was too great.&nbsp; She had said something about gathering like minded fools tonight and the thought of skewering anyone with the temerity to believe them self capable of wonders on the written page was just too much to pass up.&nbsp; Yes, tonight he would not achieve satisfaction by rising above, but rather by pulling those with such ambitions down.&nbsp; Yes, it was a nasty thought, and yet, it suited his mood right now.&nbsp; With a cruel smirk, he settled in, applauding enthusiasticly as the second act began.
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: The Pen Is Mightier (Bliss and Cherri Tart)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Bliss</strong> on <strong>02-01-2008, 18:17:29</strong>
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				It was a little bit of a disappointment, as the show progressed, that it was a transliteration from French to English. There were certain spots where, as Geoffrey watched, he felt certain the playwright had meant to make certain little sarcasms and jabs about nouveau riche and classism, but in the translation the ideas had not been completely preserved. Nonetheless, it was very much a cleverness, and even as some of the things onstage held up a mirror against his own family history, he found himself smiling more often than not, and even let out a laugh once in the midst of the third act - a genuine, joyfully amused sound that he could not remember when he'd last uttered it.<br><br>When finally the curtain fell, there was a wonderful uproar, angry shouts mingling with laughter and cheers and applause from the audience that he could almost feel rising to its feet behind the box, and the Bonadine woman shot to her feet as well, applauding and beaming at the stage with such effusion that he felt abruptly certain that she'd not -quite- understood all the jokes.<br><br>'Well, Ms. Bonadine," he pushed himself to address her first as he stood, before she could bowl him over again, "May I escort you to your carriage? I hired one of my own, but-"<br><br>"Oh nonsense, of course you'll ride with me!" The woman swept against his side, her arm curling through his own, and were he a lesser man he might have scratched his head and grinned before putting his hat on once more.<br><br>Having sat through the show with nary a bite, he found himself very much looking forward at least to the dinner portion of the woman's little gathering, if not the social aspect - though it seemed he had little worry on that account, as she seemed content with the occasional one or two-word acknowledgments as they followed the deepening flow of the crowd through the lobby and out toward the waiting line of conveyances in the street.
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: The Pen Is Mightier (Bliss and Cherri Tart)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Cherri Tart</strong> on <strong>09-01-2008, 18:46:10</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				It was a good laugh, nothing earth shattering, but certainly entertaining, with an edge of cruel humor that had <em>he</em> written it, would have been more pronounced.&nbsp; And it was inspiring, pushing him to thought as he made mental notes throughout the performance of the changes he would have made and how he would have played the roles out.&nbsp; Certainly food for fodder.&nbsp; Perhaps the muse was playing a teasing game of hide and seek and he'd have to seek her out in other, less conventional ways.&nbsp; <br><br><em>ready or not, here I come.</em> he thought as the curtain fell and he joined the audience in applause, shouting out 'Bravo' rather loudly and pleased that, once he had done so, the applause seemed to thickin, moving outwards in an arc from where he was seated, as if the masses took his approval to heart and as a seal of greatness.&nbsp; He smiled, pleased at that, although a voice in the back of his head whispered darker things, breaking his mood somewhat.&nbsp; Yes, it was too easy, and yes, he didn't deserve it, at least not this night.&nbsp; He was resting on his laurels and he couldn't help but wonder when it would be discovered that the emperor's arse was hanging out of his trousers.<br><br>Before the applause had even dided down, he tipped his hat to the small crowd of faces about him, some of which he recognized and all of whom recognized him, and began pushing his way carefully towards the lobby, playing with the idea of stealing the admiration for a fine performance by staging his own, or simply slipping out relativly unnoticed and saving his grand finale for Mistress Bondadine's dinner party.&nbsp; <br><br>In the end, he opted for the later, hiring a hansome cab to whisk him away through the cobbled streets towards her residence.&nbsp; He settled back against the seat, enjoying the ride through London's narrow streets, playing with the germ of an idea that niggled at his thoughts. One that suddenly bloomed as he passed a trio of women, whose profession was quite obvious.&nbsp; He called to the driver to draw to a halt.&nbsp; The horse slowed down to a stop, it's breath rising from it's nostrils into the cold london air like steam, one hoof stamping patiently on the stones, as Thomas dismounted.<br><br>"Wait here, my good man, for I must have a word with these ladies."<br><br>A word.&nbsp; Several words actually, sweetened by handful of silver coins, and the most charming of the three sat at his side as the buggy drew nearer it's intended destination.&nbsp; Not that she was a great beauty, but she still had the bloom of youth upon her cheeks and her breasts were full. Oh, there was little doubt as to her origins and most likely anyone would be able to figure out her profession in short order.&nbsp; Still, she was delightful in her own way and was sure to make an impression upon the stuffed shirts at the event.&nbsp; Penny was her name, short for Penelope, and she was chatty and all giggles, not yet hardened by a life on the street.&nbsp; <br><br>Helping her out of the buggy, he took her arm and advanced upon the Bonadine apartments, a cocky smile on his face and a twinkle in his eye.&nbsp; Yes, this would be a rather enjoyable evening.&nbsp; And perhaps, when it was over, he'd take Penny back to his place and she could earn a few more silver pennies.&nbsp; With that thought, he rang the bell and waited.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: The Pen Is Mightier (Bliss and Cherri Tart)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Bliss</strong> on <strong>22-01-2008, 19:38:03</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				The ride to the woman's apartments proved to be the second act of the self-important monologuing he'd endured from Ms. Bonadine before the play began, but it was as much to his luck that so long as he gave the semblance of attention to her and responded politely at the appropriate intervals, she didn't seem to care if anything she said actually garnered any actual discourse from him - and if nothing else, her self-indulgent chatter was oddly entertaining, as he began to try to keep track of how long she would go between breaths.<br><br>The Bonadine apartments, he realized after handing off his coat and hat to an effete butler, were everything that one should expect of a woman of society - rambling, decorated richly and thickly with the finest of everything. In each room there were things that pointed out wealth, social status, and when possible both - a portrait of herself hung among several others she informed him gleefully were family heirlooms were the noticeable piece de resistance in the sitting room she led him into, where arose from the couch a slightly younger woman who Loretta rushed forward to embrace, launching without preamble into a relation of the show and of himself, whilst he stood by no longer even trying to hide his slightly bewildered smile.<br><br>The two sank to the couch with a chatter, and he strolled over to the fireplace, picking up and toying idly with a wrought-iron egg, crafted like filligree with a tiny puff of feathers deep inside cunningly shaped into a miniscule bird. Beautiful, artistic, and entirely pointless, he was musing to himself as the bell rang, and the door opened distantly to let in other guests.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: The Pen Is Mightier (Bliss and Cherri Tart)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Cherri Tart</strong> on <strong>19-03-2008, 20:19:57</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Lady Bonadine's manservant raised his brows in surprise, barely hiding the flash of disdain that stained his contenance at Thomas's arrival with an obvious 'wayward lady'.&nbsp; Oh, this would be jolly!&nbsp; All eyes would be on him and he's have tongues wagging far into the night and the following day.&nbsp; With exagerated manners, he left his coat and hat with the servant, telling him to announce them as Master Oliver and his consort Penelople Goodhead, snickering at the man's barely repressed sneer.&nbsp; Like he cared what he thought of him.&nbsp; <br><br>And truly, it was better then he could have expected, walking down the perfectly decorated hall and standing in the door way, the prositute on his arm, timing the kiss he gave her to co-incide with the turning of heads.&nbsp; Not a simple peck, either, but a full blooded kiss accompanied by a quick swat to her ample bottom.&nbsp; He heard mutterings and even an outright snort of disgust, all of which pleased him to no end.&nbsp; <br><br>Stepping into the room, he scanned the crowd, spotting Lady Bonadine easily, in halted conversation with...<br><br>A look of stunned disbelief froze his smile for the briefest of moments.&nbsp; And then, like a hunter seizing upon a perfect shot, he smoothed his features over and led his companion towards his host and her guest, his arm through hers, his step jaunty as he stepped around the couch.&nbsp; <br><br>"Please, my lady," he said, giving Misstress Bonadine a low bow.&nbsp; "Don't stand.&nbsp; I see that you are enjoying a trivial conversation at the moment with your... gardener?&nbsp; I'm sorry, the face is familiar, but i can't quite place it..."&nbsp; <br><br>He made a pretense of peering at Geoffrey's contenance, keeping a puzzled look upon his face, his eyes daring the writer to react in anyway out of the ordinary.&nbsp; Oh, this would be fun, baiting the pompous puffinjay.&nbsp; Had he but know of his presence, he'd never have considered missing this opporunity.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: The Pen Is Mightier (Bliss and Cherri Tart)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Bliss</strong> on <strong>27-10-2008, 21:18:53</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Geoffrey turned with the others when conversation halted to see who it was who entered, in perfect time to watch Thomas detach his lips from the street trash by his side and strut through the room.<br><br>Of course. Of COURSE it was him. Lady Bonadine had touted cleverness, and Thomas was the toast of the social scene with titillation oozing out his every pore, something that for some reason appealed to women up and down the social ladder, from the Lady on the couch to the Strumpet on the newly arrived guest's arm.<br><br>Geoffrey's stomach twisted as they all but made a beeline for him, and suffered the pretended inspection with a cold smile. Fame hadn't really changed Thomas, it seemed.. just nurtured his less savoury qualities.<br><br>"I don't imagine you can, Thomas; the eye is often dulled when set too often upon things of lesser quality which fail thereby to keep sight keen. I'd not insult our host if I were you, though. Unlike some, she has better taste than to consort with those below their station. Perhaps your mind is not too dulled, yet, to recall Geoffrey Crenshaw." His hand fell slowly from the carved egg he'd been examining, and with a moment's hesitation, loathe to touch the man's hand, offered it to shake as was only polite.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: The Pen Is Mightier (Bliss and Cherri Tart)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Cherri Tart</strong> on <strong>27-10-2008, 21:19:42</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Oh, good, Thomas thought.&nbsp; The man was was up to playing the game.&nbsp; This should be quite entertaining.&nbsp; It was all he could do to rub his hands together in delight.&nbsp; Instead, he offered one, shaking Geoffrey's firmly with the slightest down tilt of chin, his eyes drinking in the man's own eyes, searching for the repressed fury that he knew must be seething just below the surface.&nbsp; Aw, to prick him again and again and bring it forth.&nbsp; Yes, this was going to be a night of fun, most certainly.<br><br>"Why, Master Crenshaw.&nbsp; Of course! How could I be so thick.&nbsp; Surely everyone knows your face by now.&nbsp; I, myself, have heard wonderful things about you."&nbsp; His smile was seemingly sincere as he turned to Lady Bonadine.&nbsp; Letting go of the poets hand, he took hers, bending at the waist and bringing it too his lips.<br><br>"Such a delightful acquisition, My Lady.&nbsp; It must be quite a coup to have a pet poet at your disposal.&nbsp; May I introduce my own pet Protege, The fair Lady Penelope."&nbsp; <br><br>Turning to the side, he ushered his companion forward and was pleased to note that she was looking Geoffrey up and down appraisingly.&nbsp; Good girl, he thought.&nbsp; She's showing some interest.&nbsp; Perhaps he might encourage that.&nbsp; The man would be absolutely applalled.&nbsp; <br><br>"Peneleope sweet. This is my dear friend Lady Bonadine, and this is Master Crenshaw.&nbsp; A writer of some small reknown, but rising fast.&nbsp; They say he might one day be the second best playwright in all of London.&nbsp; Well, third best perhaps.&nbsp; We can't go forgetting Good old Willy Shakespeare, by god."&nbsp; Taking the street walker's hand, he tugged her gently, queing her to curtsey to the pair of socialites and noting that she had only eyes for his rival.&nbsp; He smiled mischeviously, giving him a wink as if to include him in some sort of shared joke.<br><br>"Penny, is also a practicer of the arts, although I think that you'd have little interest in her particular field."
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: The Pen Is Mightier (Bliss and Cherri Tart)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Bliss</strong> on <strong>27-10-2008, 21:35:18</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				It was all too clear from lady Penelope's mode of dress, the crude pile of her up-pinned hair, just what kind of Lady she was. A lady of the Night, a lady of Ill Repute, and certainly not a practitioner of an art that Geoffrey held in high regard - a thing which Thomas certainly knew, damn his hide.<br><br>Lips pressed thinly together, he mimicked gingerly with Penelope the polite greeting that the scoundrel at her side offered their Lady host - taking up her hand, he lifted it to brush his lips featherlight against the knuckles, stopping his own breath for a moment to put the low scent of mud and streets from his nostrils as he straightened. "Miss Penelope - a pleasure, I am sure." At the soonest moment he gladly released her hand and stepped back as she executed a semblance of a curtsey. She seemed not intoxicated, at the very least; though nor did Thomas, and he wasn't sure if that were a blessing or a curse.<br><br>With another careful backward step, he moved to set himself down upon the couch by Lady Bonadine's side, and turned his attention to her with a forced smile. "I don't imagine that Miss Penelope here is the clever writer you assured me I would meet this evening, Ms. Bondaine," he reflected pleasantly, and then inquired, very deliberately NOT cutting his eyes toward Thomas, "Tell me - do you think he'll arrive soon?"<br><br>For her part, the Lady was a little wide-eyed, her cheeks flushed as her eyes shifted from Thomas, to Penelope, to Geoffrey, and back to Penelope, before managing, "Oh, yes... it seems you two already know each other, actually. Will your... companion be joining us for dinner, Master Oliver?" Seeming belatedly to realize she was staring, Loretta's eyes stuttered over Penelope's form and then shifted toward Thomas, he being plainly the safer of the two to look upon.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: The Pen Is Mightier (Bliss and Cherri Tart)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Cherri Tart</strong> on <strong>27-10-2008, 21:38:39</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Thomas Oliver had never claimed to be a nice man.&nbsp; When you were as charming, talented, and quick witted as he, you didn't have to be nice to be loved.&nbsp; He didn't suffer any false illusions of modesty or magnaminity and he knew that fame could be a fickle mistress.&nbsp; &nbsp;That said, he enjoyed being who he was, and bugger anyone who held issue with that.&nbsp; Geoffrey Crenshaw was such and having him cornered in a room full of society folk like this whetted his appetite.&nbsp; He felt like a tiger, the scent of blood upon his nostrils, his every thought on wounding the man, making him bleed.&nbsp; Toying with him.&nbsp; He smiled, keeping the feral look from his face, putting on a mask of pleasantires for Lady Bonadine's guests.&nbsp; He'd never been an actor, but still, he knew how to perform.<br><br>Ignoring Geoffrey's remark, brushing it off as clumsy and obvious, he took a moment to help himself to a pair of cut crystal glasses containing champagne, offering one to his copanion, who's arm he took in his, looking to all the world like old friends comfortably sharing a drink.&nbsp; Turning toward the room, his profile towards the seated writer, he raised his voice gaining everyone's attention.<br><br>"I'd like to present a toast to Lady Bonadine, who is graciously providing us with wonderful company, fabulous cullinary delights, and the chance to mingle with London's most celebrated scribe.&nbsp; I'm refering to myself, of course."&nbsp; <br><br>He paused, enjoying the mixture of chuckles, a smattering of applause, and the whispers of speculation amongst his fellow Guests as he tapped the rim of his glass to Penny's with a musical 'ting'.<br><br>"That said, I'm sure you're all be delighted to hear some excerpts from my latest, un-yet heard work.&nbsp; But instead, for a change of pace, I thought it might be interesting to hear something from the mouth of my compatriot and lesser known, if more richly deserving,&nbsp; talent.&nbsp; If Master Crenshaw would be willing, I'm sure it would give us all something to talk about for the rest of the evening."<br><br>With that announcement, he stepped to one side, sparing a slight bow towards the named writer and a mocking smile.&nbsp; &nbsp;
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: The Pen Is Mightier (Bliss and Cherri Tart)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Bliss</strong> on <strong>27-10-2008, 21:39:30</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Thomas had always known how to hold a crowd in the palm of his hand, to shape and mould it like putty warmed by the flesh of his grasp - it was a talent that Geoffrey had recognized, and sometimes sneered at, but also envied, because he had little enough such ability of his own.<br><br>"It is a kind offering you make to these people, Mister Oliver, but I must confess that my own latest work is as yet unfinished and unpolished. I do take such pride in my writing that I wish it to be at its finest when it is presented to those who would read it, and I have no wish to insult this fine company-" here he turned to nod his head to Lady Bonadine with a smile, who visibly sat straighter and smiled, puffing like a sweet little bird at the compliment "-with anything less than the very best that they so deserve. I'd think any gentleman would agree."<br><br>By the broad doorway, a servant appeared as if summoned, and rang a small glassine bell, summoning the small gathered crowd toward the dining table, and Geoffrey stood before bending to offer the Lady his elbow. "I do hope the Lady will allow me the honor of escorting her to Table?" he queried, fully and uncomfortably aware of the almost hungry look Thomas' companion had in her eyes, and seeking to forestall any unscrupulous thoughts by putting himself completely at the service and side of their host.<br><br>"Of course, Mister Crenshaw!" the Lady twittered happily, slipping her hand into his arm as she stood, and cast what she probably thought were furtive glances between him and Thomas as she moved toward the dining room, where a full table was set up awaiting. Apparently her idea of a 'little dinner' had been one of her few understatements. "Am I wrong... or do you two know each other?"
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: The Pen Is Mightier (Bliss and Cherri Tart)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Cherri Tart</strong> on <strong>28-10-2008, 17:02:13</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Thomas smile was the picture of charm as his head bowed just enough for Crenshaw to take note and, likely, no one else.&nbsp; The brooding poet had won this round, refusing to rise to the bait.&nbsp; It wouldn't have mattered, of course, had his recital been brilliant or fallen flat.&nbsp; Oliver would have made it his moment, one way of the other.&nbsp; After all, it was easy enough to draw the attention of all present to him.&nbsp; They already were poised for it, knowing that they'd taken note of his companion, wondering what he was up to.&nbsp; That was the beautfy of fame.&nbsp; It fed on itself, growing just by existing.&nbsp; <br><br>Geoffrey, however, had taken a pawn and won a skirmish.&nbsp; Not the war, nor even a battle, but still it was well played.&nbsp; Not that any of the droll patrons present would take note, but he did.&nbsp; Very much so.&nbsp; He admired the man for his adherence to his nature if nothing else.&nbsp; And then, he chuckled, wondering if the man had even realized how biting his remark might be construed.&nbsp; Perhaps he had been sincere!&nbsp; Oh, what a lark!&nbsp; Glancing towards Penny, he offered her his arm, following the patron and the poet into the dining room, careful to keep close so that he could position the girl directly across from his... well, nemesis might be too strong a word, but he was feeling melodramatic presently. <br><br>He turned a genuinely disarming grin upon Lady Bonadine at her question.&nbsp; "By reputation, yes.&nbsp; It is hardly possible to travel in the circles we do without coming across mention of the other from time to time, and certainly, Master Crenshaw is both well known and well respected as a... well, I supose the word 'critic' comes to mind."&nbsp; The smile he flashed was anything but friendly.&nbsp; "I do suppose it pays the bills and in this line of work, there is a lot to be said for that.&nbsp; Not everyone can feed oneself merely on writing prose unless one is inclined to eat one's own words." 
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: The Pen Is Mightier (Bliss and Cherri Tart)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Bliss</strong> on <strong>01-12-2008, 17:51:59</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				"It is easy enough to eat one's own words," Geoffrey returned evenly, leaning gently toward Lady Bonatine and turning as if addressing her rather than the... well, gentleman was the word that would have to do for the man sitting across from her, although he was acutely aware of the attention that laid upon them both, "If they are made of sweetness. But confections, however meltingly delectable, are fleeting and hollow things, decidedly lacking in the nutritive requirements of the mind. Don't you agree, Miss Bonatine?"<br><br>Blinking in surprise, and obviously delighted to have her opinion asked, she nodded so quickly that her pincurls bobbed upon her head. "I am, of course, fond of sweets," she agreed, "But one cannot live on them..."<br><br>"Quite right," Geoffrey said with a smile, and a nod that was perhaps a bit too firm, judging by the way the woman's eyes widened. Quietly he cursed himself; he really was no good at disagreements in a social setting. This knowledge only lowered his brows, making him seem all the more saturnine. "One needs more solid things to survive; meats and grains, cheeses and wines. Things that take skill and effort to put to table - and never with too much spice. The resulting upset is rarely worth it."
			</dd>
		</dl>
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