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Ever since her little jaunt with their servant girl on her errands, Thea had been interested in visiting more and more places that Roisin haunted in her duties (and some that she didn't). Apparently, the apothecary that provided her mother's 'medicine' was just nearby, and Thea had insisted on running this errand in place of Roisin this time. She had heard... things about Sussex. Something about a crime lord, something about den of miscreants, something about a drunk seagull-- a brothel? Thea felt as if she had been living on top of an anthill andwithout ever having felt their movements, their writings, their stings-- but now? It felt so loud. Now she felt a million different twinges on her nerves, and she had to investigate each one-- like knowing the individual ant who bit her. Maybe she secretly wanted to be an ant, too. She didn't tell Elias where she was going. She wasn't sure why -- they always shared everything with one another. But for some reason, she wanted to explore alone. And so she wandered until she found the so-called shop front and waited for it's patron. While she waited, she browsed through the various vials and pots and containers filled with plants she'd never heard of or scented in her life. In her mind heavy smoke lingered within the shop, filled the place with haze so that it was hard to define one thing from another. "Can I help you with something?" a voice asked and she turned. A boy was there behind the counter with eyes brighter than any blue she'd ever seen. Like the sky or the ocean, but quite alive. Brightly alive. Unnervingly so -- right? Or were they... dead? It was weird, because she felt her heart thud heavily several times and she wondered if she herself was dying. But she didn't die within those few moments, and so she answered. “I'm here to pick up an order, for Vanadium?”

ART ➤ZakraArt CODE ➤TWISTY

It was not uncommon for the denizens of the shop to be faceless. Not in actuality, but to the young man, they might as well have been. Eyes of varied colors, their skin that of black or pink, their fur a myriad of brown or black or white. They blurred together, comingling with the scents of thyme and belladonna. Belfast was not a man of poor memory—he could not be when he worked in an apothecary whose jars were intentionally lined with oils to throw off nosy officials and thrill-seeking criminals from the Drunken Seagull's bowels. The pale jar lined that smells of rosehip contains wolf's bane, the clay cup with daisy petals covers the water hemlock. And so on and so forth. Should he misplace himself and follow only his nose, he would find himself paralyzed or bleeding from within or... well... how many ways did he need to think of dead? No matter. An ear flicked and he glanced over at the young woman that had entered. He was in the back, preparing a pouch of chamomile, jasmine, valerian, and poppy. The final touch was a passiflora flower, which would serve as a powerful sedative when paired with the poppy. It was a perscription, though he knew not for. A wealthy someone, he supposed given by the variety and strength of the ingredients. Tidying up his work, he moved to the front to greet the woman. Although he made a point not to remember those that visited for fear that they would be committing dastardly deeds, he could not help but notice the strange elegance of her face. Her features were delicate and yet her eyes were not. They were shape, like an icicle that had sharpened to a defined point at the end. “Can I help you with something?” Their eyes met. And whilst she seemed to have been born from the snow, black streaks smudged the inner corners of her eyes as if she had been crying. Subconsciously, he felt some part of him soften, as if the promise of shattered and broken edges was enough to tear open the frail stitches he'd used to close all of his wounds. “I'm here to pick up an order, for Vanadium?” And thus their moment's silence was ended. “Ah,” He said, surprised although his voice offered little inflection. His brow lifted and his head canted to the side. “Is lady Roisin busy today?” Subconsciously, he felt relief—not due to the servant girl's absence, but due to the fact that this face was not seeking herbs of nefarious natures. He was not hurting her ... or handing her the knife to hurt someone else. “my sin, my soul.”

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@Thea

"Ah," the boy replied simply. Then, "Is lady Roisin busy today?" Lady Roisin. Thea blinked at him curiously -- Roisin had many names within their halls, but lady was never one of them. That was reserved for herself, and for her mother. For some reason, it made her pleased that here, in this tiny little apothecary shop, this boy with alive-dead-eyes called her servant by 'lady'. Here, Roisin was a Lady. Here, Thea was... what was she? She could be anything. Life was so inconsequential, she thought with an inward titter. She could be another servant to House Vanadium, a simple-somebody hired to run errands for the day, or even a ghost that the boy behind the counter was imagining. Maybe she wasn't real at all. She wondered who his ghosts would be, and what part she would be able to play if she was one of them. She liked that thought the best-- the ghost one. “Do you prefer her over me?” she asked, for no particular reason other than it was her inclination to always answer a question with a question. Or maybe she was a little jealous that he was so familiar with Roisin and not her. Roisin was so acquainted with the entire city, all of it's townsfolk, while Thea... well, growing up in her isolated tower certainly did not help her feeling of not-aliveness. "I've never been in a shop like this before. What things do you have for sale?" she asked as she trailed along the shelves and let her eyes flit across the items. She did not know much of this realm, but she was certainly curious. Thea suspected the things her mother often got were not of exactly medicinal purposes. Unless medicine was supposed to create empty smiles and glazed eyes and apparent numbness. Apparent happiness? She was curious. Certainly. "What's your favorite thing here?" she asked, turning back to let her pale gaze linger on his dark face with bright eyes.

ART ➤ZakraArt CODE ➤TWISTY

A shopkeeper's conversation was one of the most dry varieties. It was meant to be meaningless, and yet it was necessary to warm the the shop and provide a sense of life—of distraction. The eyes would not wander the cobwebs or the chipped pottery that had broken. Rather, they would settle upon a simple, helpful face. These neutral nothings formed the harmony to the melody of service, and Belfast found himself at ease when the song went as it was meant to. "Is lady Roisin busy today?" "Yes, I have come in her place." "Wish her well for me!" "Will do" "Do you prefer her over me?" Belfast stopped, momentarily stunned by the sudden question. It was confrontational by nature, and yet the girl's face remained neutral. Or, as neutral as one with such sad features could appear. With pale eyes and eyes smudged with black, she looked like someone who was perpetually crying. He felt his heart tighten just looking at her, and yet he was simultaneously bewildered. “Consider my question a force of habit, we don't get new faces here often,” he offered with a placid smile and a silent prayer that she would accept it. As she walked the shelves, their conversation diverted, Belfast quieted the urge to follower her. He stepped around the crumbling counter that separated them, but tried his best to not shadow her too closely. Granted, he would not be alarmed if she stole a bundle of herbs and made off with them. She filled the air with one of disquiet, and he was struggling to grasp which role he played in her game. “Herbs of all kinds are sold here,” he began with a slow glance at the various rickety, rotten shelves. “Most with healing properties, although even that could be debated.” His gaze lingered on the bundle of poppy seeds poorly arranged in a scrap of salvaged fabric. “Even when we think we're helping, who knows what we're hurting. Something that soothes the mind can damage the heart, or disturb the stomach. It's not as exact a science as everyone would like it to be.” But that was the nature of mortals playing god. Uncertainty came with the territory. At her question and sudden, rapt attention, Belfast felt frozen. It was as if glass grew around him, trapping him there within a terrarium of her own design. But rather than stay perturbed for long, he cast another lingering glance at the poppies. Then back at her. “I don't have a favorite,” he answered. “They all have their uses—and they all wilt and become bone dry after awhile.” Stepping next to her, he did motion to one bundle on the wall. “But I suppose the mint leaves are soothing. A simple cure all, one often overlooked by stronger herbs.” “my sin, my soul.”

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@Thea