Orphan At The Edge Of The World 123 Crawling Chaos 21

With a warning to not get hopes up too high, the man excused himself to rea.s.sure the patrons and artists while the young mage appreciated the art, taking in the sub-par daily rotated displays and slightly more interesting reproductions put up to appease casuals. Hiding his lack of enthusiasm, Orison continued to project sincerity and earnestness as he pretended to take the man's advice about studying the posture and poses. That slightly changed as he imagined himself as the person in them.

Occasionally, he managed some very real admiration for how difficult it might have been for some of the models to hold the poses they did. If the artist in question really had made them hold some of these positions for more than a handful of minutes, it would have been real torture. Looking at the art with that kind of frame of mind, he could see why nearly all models used by artists tended to be very physically fit. They may very well have wanted more variety of subjects but only so many could muster the fort.i.tude needed to endure the artist's 'vision'.

As Orison indulged in a fantasy of 'being put through his paces' in the buff with some understated beauty of an art girl, knowing that this wasn't an era that really supported women engaging in such professions, a man that had been setting up the display he was looking at said, "Run off back to The Village, rent boy."

The man's voice was deep and raspy from disuse. Orison took in the gaunt frame, clothes more worn than his own and a pallidness that spoke of poor diet and too many hours spent indoors. The antisocial vibe the man put off gave Orison the impression of shy uncertainty rather than surliness. The stag pin the young mage gripped in his pocket was giving Orison the impression of concerned sympathy rather than dislike which made a complete lie of the the incredibly rude and offensive comment.

The young mage thought, "He knows something... I'm sorry starving artist dude but I'm going to have to avoid your character killing, good intention rescue. I will remember it, though."

Outwardly, Orison projected suppressed, angry humiliation while pretending that he hadn't heard. Unwilling to cause a scene, the man returned to his work as the stag pin fed Orison an outpouring of sad hopelessness. Trying to balance what he thought a person who was desperate would endure with what a person with self respect and dignity wouldn't, the young mage finished a full circle before realizing that he'd need to come back another day or risk appearing too needy, maybe raising suspicion of hidden agendas. Either of which might slow down his progress and time was of the essence.

On his way out the door, the man who had been at front reception said, "The director wasn't in today but the owner will see you tomorrow evening at Taverna. It's a restaurant a little north of here, two streets to the right."

Orison flashed another sunny smile and said, "Thank you, sir."

From the stag pin, Orison got nothing more than what one would expect from a nice man who had successfully completed a good deed. Whoever he was, in the grand scheme, he was a clueless lackey in whatever darkness reached out from the place. And darkness, there was. Within corners and wisps under the floor of the place were traces of negative energy.

A five minute walk down the road, Orison felt two sets of eyes on him. One was overhead in the form of a crow breaking out of normal patterns and the other was from the weary artist from earlier who was trying to catch up with him without looking like he was doing it on purpose. Taking pity on the poor man whose pulse was already a little on the erratic side, Orison slowed his pace down.

Finally catching up to the young mage, the man said, "Oh, so you were heading this way too? I, uh, would like to apologize for earlier."

With a pained look into his flat wallet, the man suggested a cheap pup nearby were he'd buy Orison a drink to make it formal. Due to the eyes flying above, Orison was somewhat torn on what looked less suspicious between denying the guy who insulted him or looking petty for not accepting the apology when he presented himself as a clean cut and wholesome person. Seeing a Darby's nearby, the young mage compromised for a soda instead.

Using the excuse to suffer in solidarity, Orison ordered a burger and fries for the both of them. There was a strange but mild fluctuation of emotion from the manager at the register but the young mage didn't pay it much attention. Whether it was that or the extra second of staring as he took the change, it wasn't that out of the ordinary for him to have to deal with.

As they split up the meals and drinks, the man who introduced himself as Nicolas said, "Look, I didn't really mean it. I'm sure you're a cool cat and all but that place is bad news. Hit the bricks down to Pittura on the Piazza if you're looking for some quick gigs in the scene."

Orison said, "If it's so bad, why are you still there?"

Nicolas replied, "I'd be splitsville in the beat of a bongo if I wasn't about to break into the circle, man."

Chuckling, the young mage said, "I know talking like that's uncomfortable. I'm n.o.body you need to impress by acting trendy. Just relax."

A bit sheepishly, the sculptor said, "Building brand is important. Most of the fat cats... Most of the patrons want to be trendy by supporting trendy. It's kind of sad that the gallery owners are the ones who pretty much spoon feed what's good and what's not. What's good right now is young and urban. I swear, there was this guy who was painting the same soup can in different hues and our director was on the phone with this guy from Los Angeles already priming to up sell the guy... Makes me wonder why I went into sculpting. It really is a dying art."

Orison shook his head. "Keep your integrity. If you're genuine and your art is genuine, you won't have to pander to any scene to make it, a.s.suming you have the talent. Just don't make enemies out of important people. Sculptures aren't dying, they're just moving back outside.

"The Great Depression killed 'temple of decadence' architecture and money's not as concentrated into a few hands as it once was. It'll be a long time before it is again and no one will be wanting to flaunt that because people will have grown used to being 'equal' by then. The public will be offended by vulgar displays of wealth rather than awed by it because it will remind them of what they've lost."

Nicolas looked at Orison skeptically and said, "Says the cat who wants to flash skin to make rent."

The young mage shrugged. "Truth will speak for itself... And believe me, it's going to be a very temporary gig."

Nicolas sighed. "Alright, my man. If you say so. Keep in mind what I said... If you can't find what you need in The Village, then get some work at the Piazza. There's plenty of creeps there too but they'll just want to get fresh with you. The boss lady, she's a dangerous chick."

Rubbing his forehead, all too aware that there was an eavesdropping crow outside, Orison said, "I have a dinner date with your boss lady, at least that's who I'm a.s.suming the director's a.s.sistant was referring to. If I don't go, then I'm pretty sure there WON'T be any gigs for me at this pizza place. You might find yourself in some hot water too."

Nicolas shuddered but then said animatedly, "The Piazza, man, not pizza! It's the Square for squares, you dig?... Err... Anyway, if you got to go, be careful."

Orison said wryly, "Alright, I will... Speaking of avoiding danger, lay off alcohol until you can get a few days worth of greens and some oranges in you. Five to ten minutes of sun a day for however much of YOUR fish belly skin you're willing to flash wouldn't be a bad idea either. You're very close to getting really sick."

Nicolas laughed. "I knew you seemed like too much of a nerd to be selling your...face." Flashing a sloppy salute, he added, "Right-O then, doc."

As the topic switched to casual conversation, the crow flew off. It didn't take long before the siren's call of his artistic pa.s.sion had Nicolas itching to be back in the studio but before they parted ways, Orison was approached by the manager for an offer to partic.i.p.ate in a newspaper ad photography shoot. The young mage wasn't interested in the least but with Nicolas right there and how suspicious it would look to pa.s.s up some easy money to 'model' for something far more wholesome, it was too difficult to turn down.

While he had been doing his thing, Zora hadn't been idle. He had no way of speaking with her directly for fear of more mundane methods of surveillance that wouldn't be so obvious but that didn't stop them from pa.s.sing a message. Orison went to pick up his 'remaining belongings' from a bus station locker that would have updates in it and a way for Orison to leave a note as well.

Taking the duffel bag of carefully picked 'possessions, Orison turned in at a cheap hostel that had already been prepaid earlier in the day. Once a.s.sured of privacy and with no signs of supernatural spying, the young mage checked out the note in the bag covertly before making a note of his own on it. Aside from some detailed divining to locate possible 'warehouses' where the missing persons might be kept, there wasn't much else to add aside from unspoken effort to put together his duffel bag and a safety net of back up.

To finish off his day, Orison switched off the buffer on his emotions. After a solid hour of surprisingly intense emotional outpouring in the form of a pity party, the young mage invested himself into a long meditation session to help with the restoration of essence until he drifted off into trance. In the early hours of the morning, he did so again with a minor training session disguised as a physical fitness routine added in.

Taking advantage of the textbooks Zora had placed in his bag, the young mage found a tastefully artistic but moderately quiet coffee house and set up shop most of the day, diligently studying. It felt like lifetimes since he had last devoted himself to an academic endeavor and even if it had started out as an act, his inherent nature had him devouring the books in earnest. The notepad to the side slowly began to fill with rough sketches and notations.

Through his 'act', Orison discovered some important information about the fate of his sub-mind as well. With the sub-mind as a bridge, the spiritual seat in the young mage's mind had fused more directly with his soul, allowing it to act as the center of memory and even control bodily functions. That didn't mean his brain had become a decoration. It just meant that damage to it wasn't quite as instantly or unavoidably fatal as it had once been.

More importantly, death of the physical body didn't mean the end of 'self'. He had transitioned from having a part of his soul capable of remembering and controlling his body to his soul housing his memory and personality rather than his brain. Things like hormones, toxins and cellular death of neurons would no longer affect his core perception of self and existence around him. He was also no longer a purely material existence that had a soul in it.

With the quasi spiritual plants on his mini-plane as a reference, he had taken on a small percentage of spiritual existence as a physical being, about one or two percent as far as he could guess. He could envision that as he continued to grow in power and strength of existence, he could reach a point where he could theoretically reconstruct himself from as little as a single drop of blood with some pretty heavy stipulations. The largest stipulation would be spiritual integrity and the second largest would be availability of resources.

That knowledge also hinted at a possible future existential crisis. It was all theory and question at the moment but he was compelled wonder. What was the trade off? To become a more spiritual existence meant to be a less material one, obviously. What was lost during such a transition? What was gained? How much importance would he continue to place on his physical form moving forward?

Orison decided to pack the thoughts away as it came closer to his meeting time with Muriel. Something fundamentally important lied at the heart of this matter and it felt like a casual afternoon of inner reflection wasn't the best way to reach a conclusion on it. Exchanging a quick but relatively shallow epiphany for a deeper, more expansive one at a later date seemed like a good investment.

Within a bathroom stall of the coffee shop, Orison put on the carefully packed 'Sunday best' that Zora had prepared for him. It was far too similar to the first outfit that he had bought Neil to be a coincidence. After a few years of wear and careful mending, it carried the gravity of dignified poverty very well and its continued existence in Neil's wardrobe spoke of nostalgia and a meticulous design of costume/disguise for certain occasions. Being a private detective did carry a bit of some of the same characteristics as a spy after all.

Being so aware of what he was wearing made him display the same kind of worry and care a person with only one 'good' suit would exhibit subconsciously as he made his way to the Greek restaurant, Taverna. Orison mentally complimented Zora's attention to detail as he felt the return of the spying crow. There was a hint of curiosity at just how good Zora might be at manipulating people as well.

Wondering if he was in for some high cla.s.s sn.o.bbery and snubbing, the young mage was pleasantly surprised to find that the restaurant in question was fairly middle income friendly. It was overall friendly, in fact. A point that was easily observed as he was lead to a table where a beautiful olive skinned woman sporting an impressive volume of loosely curled, inky tresses was sitting.

After a lukewarm introduction, which Orison presented his student card for, he said, "I'm sorry. You strike me as being a lovely person but you aren't the person I'm here to meet. Why are you pretending to be Muriel?"

The woman in question, raised a carefully groomed eyebrow and asked, "What makes you so sure?"

Orison smiled. "A lack of money does not equal a lack of common sense. You're too young, don't possess the command presence and willfulness of someone who is used to authority or has been raised with privilege. The first could be dismissed if you possessed either of the other two... I'm more than happy to continue with the a.s.sumption if you like, though. You are quite stunning and likely far more easy to converse with."

The lady stood up. "I'm afraid that since you know the truth, our conversation is over but, if I may be so bold, you're not too hard on the eyes yourself. Not someone that I'd entertain dating but pleasant enough to look at."

Forcing down the bitterness of her backhanded compliment, Orison said in saccharine tone, "So, is the woman of the hour going to make an appearance herself or is she too afraid of being compared to you. You look like a tough act to follow. I'm somewhat surprised she'd use a woman that's probably more beautiful than herself as a proxy. She's more broadminded than I had originally pictured her."

The woman shuddered slightly and the smile on her face wavered before she collected herself enough to slip back into neutrality. "Enjoy your meal, Mr. Rainier. Who knows what you'll have to sell to get your next one."

Giving a saintly smile to her back, he shot, "Less than what you will to keep your current job, nameless extra."

The dignified and austere middle-aged woman who stopped her from laying into Orison, turned to face him from a nearby table. She was no beauty but the calm dignity and sharpness in her features was reminiscent of a queen. It also radiated a casual cruelty and disregard for others. She didn't so much invite Orison to her table as command it with her eyes. Orison complied with what dignity he could considering the chair she gestured to made it necessary to walk around another table and left little room to position it for comfort.

Staring a hole into him through small vanity sungla.s.ses, Muriel said, "How easily your facade of naive little country boy is broken."

As he studied the woman's distinct Mediterranean features that had faded from austere beauty to fearsome matron-hood with time, Orison said in a suggestive tone, "A diamond has more than one facet, mam. And anyone who tramples on my dignity will find out how hard and rough this country boy can be."

Ignoring his sauciness, she pulled out a manila envelope from her large purse and read from it. "Allen Rainier, nineteen years old. You just completed your first year at NYU? Quite a ways to go to already be running into financial difficulties. "Whatever your dreams and aspirations are, I can help you or I can put a swift and decisive end to them. When you are in front of me, child, you will be an obedient lamb. I don't see a diamond. I see a lump of coal. If you can survive my pressure, you will be a diamond or you'll be dust. Either way, you are mine to do with as I please and no amount of country boy dignity will be able to change that.

"Report to this address at nine o' clock sharp or leave town. Those are your options. Feel free to pursue other ones. I'm feeling a distinct itch to crush someone's spirit and after your provocation, you'll serve just fine. Give me a reason to change my mind by being exceptionally obedient or exceptionally afraid."

Orison thought, "Wow. What a b*tch."

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