Dorian Gray (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
capturingeternity) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
odds_andends2020-02-01 10:26 pm
capturingeternity) wrote in odds_andends2020-02-01 10:26 pm
Penny Dreadful AU
[It's late in the afternoon, and the grey skies above London have opened with a wintery mix of sleet and snow. It isn't a very fine day to be out and about, but those whose lives revolve around Spitalfields and its many small shops and trades have no choice but to bare the change in weather. At least those fortunate enough to work indoors are spared from the brunt of it.
Located near the East End, the area is a far cry from the artsy, exclusive district of Notting Hill, dotted with slums and cheap pubs as well as several brothels. However, it's also a crossroads of considerable trades — weavers, carpenters and furniture makers, jewellers and bookbinders. And one small shop tucked on a corner street that specializes in the brokerage of paintings.
Dorian's known the owner for a few years now. One complication to being immortal means that one has to be careful about where they do business on a regular basis. Three to five years is no problem, but frequent a place for too long and people begin to notice that while the fine lines appear and deepen on their own features, that one regular customer of yours has never seemed to change from the first day they stepped foot inside of your establishment. And with London being as big as it is, well, Dorian can give up one shop for the next. But he does have a particular fondness for this one, as he's found a few more interesting portraits sitting amongst the dozens of canvases inside.
His Hansom carriage pulls up aside the shop's front door the finely dressed man exits, raising an umbrella to shield his head as he crosses the few steps it takes him to reach the threshold. The shop's bell dings faintly as he enters, and he spends a few seconds shaking the umbrella off out the door before he closes and leans it against its frame. Glancing about, he finds himself alone (or seemingly so), though that isn't unusual. Mr. Walker is somewhat hard of hearing but he assumes he'll appear eventually, so in the meantime he simply meanders his way to one wall, checking for any new pieces that might be displayed, as well as the vertical stacks of canvases sat on the floor below.]
Located near the East End, the area is a far cry from the artsy, exclusive district of Notting Hill, dotted with slums and cheap pubs as well as several brothels. However, it's also a crossroads of considerable trades — weavers, carpenters and furniture makers, jewellers and bookbinders. And one small shop tucked on a corner street that specializes in the brokerage of paintings.
Dorian's known the owner for a few years now. One complication to being immortal means that one has to be careful about where they do business on a regular basis. Three to five years is no problem, but frequent a place for too long and people begin to notice that while the fine lines appear and deepen on their own features, that one regular customer of yours has never seemed to change from the first day they stepped foot inside of your establishment. And with London being as big as it is, well, Dorian can give up one shop for the next. But he does have a particular fondness for this one, as he's found a few more interesting portraits sitting amongst the dozens of canvases inside.
His Hansom carriage pulls up aside the shop's front door the finely dressed man exits, raising an umbrella to shield his head as he crosses the few steps it takes him to reach the threshold. The shop's bell dings faintly as he enters, and he spends a few seconds shaking the umbrella off out the door before he closes and leans it against its frame. Glancing about, he finds himself alone (or seemingly so), though that isn't unusual. Mr. Walker is somewhat hard of hearing but he assumes he'll appear eventually, so in the meantime he simply meanders his way to one wall, checking for any new pieces that might be displayed, as well as the vertical stacks of canvases sat on the floor below.]
no subject
The dress doesn't strike him as unusual, and neither too do her hands, or at least not that he shows. But her accent is odd — he's used to all kinds from Scottish brogue to Gaelic to Welsh, especially the latter two in the East End. He can't place it as any of those though.
In the interest of not just gaping at her or staring for more than a second or two, however, he covers his surprise with a smile and a little exhale of breath that's almost a chuckle as he sets the canvas he'd been inspecting down where he'd found it.]
Forgive me, you weren't who I was expecting. [He excuses himself, then turns a bit more to face her and easily slides his hands into his coat pockets.]
I ah, was just browsing, mostly. I drop in from time to time to see if Mr Walker's procured anything new that I might be interested in. I collect paintings, you see.
[He cocks his head slightly to the side.] You're his new assistant, I suppose?
SORRY FOR THE SLOW
( A flicker of a smile appears. ) Assistant'll do it, yeah. ( Wait. ) Sarissa Theron.
( Sometimes, maybe, she doesn't mind stirring the posh folk up. It's at odds with the caution she also feels like she needs to be entangled in, this desire to push buttons and be a little bit difficult. She wants to hide, but she also kinda wants to burst out into the centre of things. It's a duality she's not really comfortable with, can't map out right. )
We've had a delivery recently. Depending what kind of collection you're working on, we might have something.
( So there'll be something new. She moves forward, offering a slight smile, and rolling her shoulders as she reminds herself to fix up her posture as she goes to lead the gentleman to another room. Proper, ladylike. Not everything's unpacked and brought out yet, it seems. )