Flashback Writer's Block (Aaryn Broadbent)

[Zenobia]

1st of Summer 511 The Quill's Rest Well, thought Zenobia, if melodrama was the fashion in the Theatre currently, then this should sell well. Otherwise... she looked down at her scrawled attempts at writing the last scene of her play. Not that she had finished some of the central scenes, but she had her plot worked out so she doubted it would be so terrible to write in this roundabout way. Almost as a way of recollecting her thoughts, Zenobia scribbled a quick description of the plot of the play into the front page of her notebook. 'The Sweetest Summer' concerns Enid, daughter of Paolino, the richest merchant in Zeltiva. She secretly marries Heron, the son of her father’s detested enemy. Enid is separated from her husband in a shipwreck after Heron is captured by Paolino along with the courtesan Attalia, Paolino's mistress. After a series of tragic events, Paolino is mistakenly imprisoned pending execution by his own orders leading Attalia to commit suicide, believing he is dead. On discovery of this, Paolino, full of regrets, escapes from his cell to find her and sees her alive long enough for her to die in his arms. At this point, another of Attalia's suitors arrives at the scene and jealously kills Paolino. Enid, thinking both her father and her husband are dead, withdraws from the world. The last scene shows Heron, who had been exiled to Alvadas, arriving back from his journey and reuniting with his wife. Act 3, Scene 4 Attalia, dying in the arms of her lover Paolino, admits that in spite of her past, she feels she would have been happy to pledge her life to him and never anyone else. Now it is too late, and Paolino realises that he had made a mistake in believing the words of gossipmongers over the heartfelt pleas of his sweetheart. He tries to convince Attalia that he can cure her and they will be together, but the poison is already having its effect on her. Zenobia quickly skimmed through what she had already written for this scene and picked up from where she had left off. Attalia: I could have been happy with you. Paolino: You will be happy with me. I love you Attalia. We will be together. Attalia: Oh, we should have been. Paolino: We still would be. Attalia: Even after all this time, the seasons that have past... me, dying in your arms and you, standing there talking nonsense, I feel as uplifted and free and as light and giddy as an adolescent. As the first day I met you. Paolino: Oh Attalia. I was blind. I wanted you for a mistress, but where would I have found a better wife? We can get married. Attalia: We were going to, darling. But now, it is best you forget about me. Paolino: How could I ever? There was never a woman as lovely as you. Zenobia took an inelegant swig of Kelp Tea, hoped nobody had seen it, and frowned. It was just too much of a cliché. Melodrama, she did not mind, but it was supposed to be a scene of love and redemption, so it had to be good. She looked around at the other faces within the room. How did they all manage to be so focused? With a sigh, she took her pen and crossed a large, thick line across the last few sentences she had written.

[Aaryn Broadbent]

Gods but it was hot. Aaryn made his way through the city, sweat dripping from every pore. His sweat smelled of wine and exhaustion. He'd been having bad dreams lately, dreams that left him with red rimmed eyes and a salt streaked face. He'd taken to staying up through the night just to escape them. He'd found that the wine helped. At least that way he could fade into the black of unconsciousness before the dreams took him.

He'd hoped that as time went on the pain would stop; like a scab finally turned into scar tissue. He'd been wrong though. It never stopped. It had gotten better though, or perhaps he'd become more accustomed to it. At first it had swallowed him whole, leaving him to wallow in sorrow by himself with nothing but a bottle for company. He could function now...somewhat.

He opened the door to The Quill's Rest and stepped inside, allowing his eyes a moment to adjust before scanning the room for a seat. He wiped sweat from his forehead and scratched at the stubble on his cheeks. He'd shaved recently, not recently enough, but recently. He was just in time to see a girl mishandle a sip of kelp tea, frown, and scratch something she had written out. He'd been there before, especially since Kayle's death. The thought of Kayle was enough to send him spiraling further down into his hateful mood. The guilt he felt for noticing that the girl was pretty only made it worse.

He sighed inwardly and made his way across the room to a table not far from where the girl was sitting. He pulled a chair out, opened his journal, laid out his quill and ink vial, and sat staring at a blank page.

He needed a drink.

[Zenobia]

Zenobia sighed theatrically and sat up straight in her chair. With her usual unabashed boldness, she surveyed the room. Writers and artists galore, though that was only to be expected - was anybody else present having as much trouble as she? They always said that with the fantastic view over Zeltiva, the Quill's rest more than enveloped one with inspiration... so why didn't it do so her? It had quite the opposite effect, in fact; it filled up her head with cold ice blue skies, a flurry of white clouds, stormy blue seas swishing with swooping white horses jumping upon the water and tiny people, running around in all different directions. Most of the occupants of the room were men, just as well really for she got on better with the opposite sex than with her own. With a dramatic yawn, she stood up and suddenly she felt that half the room was watching her out of the corner of their eyes. With a little smile, she glided over to fetch another cup of Kelp Tea, before returning to her seat. Attalia: You were a fool to love me. Paolino: Men are always fools in love, but I am not one for loving you. Attalia: Oh, you say you love me. Paolino: I do. Darling, I do. We will be happy together. Attalia: I could have been happy with you. Paolino: (Angrily) Why talk as if you won't be? You'll get better. I have lost so much, that I do not think I'd cope another day if I lost you. Attalia: There are better reasons to be angry than over something I can't control. Paolino. I can't move my legs. Paolino: Sweet silly thing. Why? Why have you done this to yourself? To me? Attalia: Forget it. It doesn't matter. All that matters is that you hold me, that I give you my last breath. Paolino: (Shaking her) That's a dreadful thing to say. Attalia: I like your arms around me. Paolino: I like you in my arms. At that point, Zenobia almost yelled with frustration. She never usually had such problems writing about Love - she preferred nothing more to writing about love and death - but now it was as if someone had stuffed her brain full of cotton wool. Maybe if she took her mind off it, it would come to her in a moment of inattention rather than thinking about it obsessively, which only made her subconscious more panicked and desperate. With that in mind, she turned in the direction of one of the men closest to her, blue eyed with his dark hair in a ponytail. It was relatively easy to make eye contact and then she just had to shoot him a friendly smile. Zenobia was not, by nature, timid.

[Aaryn Broadbent]

A bit melodramatic if you asked him. That's how Aaryn saw the woman at the table across from him. The sigh, the stiffening, the dramatic yawn, all of it was enough to elicit an inward groan from Aaryn. At least she was pretty. He admired her casually as she made her way to order another drink. He felt guilty, terribly so, but was he not still a man? Did he not have desires? Should he be punished for them? He hadn't felt an emotional connection to a woman since the death of his wife, but he'd had a fair share of emotionless flings. He rubbed his temples. His head was starting to hurt.

While most of the men in the room's eyes returned forward when the woman turned around, Aaryn continued watching, eyes scanning the woman from her face to her feet. She was strangely pretty, exotic maybe. Finally, he let his eyes drop back to his journal. He dipped his quill into the inkwell and began to write.

"From the Journal of Aaryn Broadbent, Summer 1 in the year 511 after the Valterrian, written in his own hand.

Is desire an immoral concept? Have I condemned myself to suffering for my natural wants? I was faithful to Kayle. I would never have been any other way. I loved her with my heart and soul. Now that she's been taken from me...do I persist as if she were still here?"

He leaned back in time to see the woman's small smile. What an interesting development. Aaryn knew he was a handsome man, but it was an unimportant aspect of himself. He dismissed it usually, respecting intellect as he did. He closed his journal, walked over to the woman's table, and dropped into one of the empty chairs.

He glanced over at what she was working on, eyes devouring the words on the page. He returned his eyes to the woman's face, cleared his throat, and began to speak.

"That's swill," he said, leaning back in his chair. "Melodramatic swill. I daresay it's a cliche more than anything. A woman dying in the arms of her love. That's not how life works unfortunately," Aaryn said, eyes distant for a brief moment.

[Zenobia]

Zenobia smiled coyly as the man came over, willingly allowed him to read her scribbles then laughed at his judgement of it. "It's swill, admittedly, clichéd swill that will need to be improved. On the other hand, in response to it being melodramatic, that's what sells to the great public at the moment. My last piece was gritty realism, but the Lightshow Theatre, who I have a conditional contract with, had trouble staging it. Now I amuse myself with tragic melodramas and comedies of manners." she smiled and, leaning on the table in front of her, cupped her chin in her hands and tucked a dark curl behind her ear, before looking up at her new acquaintance through her eyelashes, "And what matters if life doesn't work that way? The people of Zeltiva are sick of life - they want drama and love and escapism. I have now come to the conclusion that theatre, like any other art, doesn't have to be realistic. It can be satirical commentary, visual art, surrealism and fantasy. Some it uses a passive audience and sometimes not. All that and more." Zenobia was happy at how quickly they had found their way into a conversation. She didn't like awkward beginnings, for they did not suit her open and warm personality, her almost confrontational character. He was typically handsome, she knew, rather too 'pretty' for her usual type since she usually found an interesting face more attractive than a classically handsome one. She noticed the way he had said the last immediately, and commented on it, with a light, kind smile. "Ah, you suffer. You are either languishing from lovesickness for a woman who will not have you or..." she paused - it did look darker than that, on closer reflection - before adding more gently, "You have suffered from the loss of your paramour." She would have liked to have asked why his lover had left him, or for who, but she thought it impolite to ask. She would have liked to have asked him what she, or he possibly, was like and why he suffered much for it, but she didn't want to bring him painful memories. Anyway, she was much too vain not to admit that she would much rather he paid attention to her. "I am Zenobia. I'll not bother explaining my surname, for it is a good deal too complicated for light and easy conversation of a general nature."

[Aaryn Broadbent]

She'd laughed. That had been a surprise. Had he done that to any of the other writers in the Rest there'd have been blows traded. They were...touchy people, himself included.

"At least you know. You're no insufferable princess with a craving to be artistic but no skill to speak of," Aaryn said. He watched her tuck her hair behind her ears. There was something stirring about it. "They are fools who only seek escape." Making himself a hypocrite. Was that his new game? "If you seek critical acclaim you'll abandon this. If you seek the love of the masses, then by all means write on.

He listened as she spoke of his suffering, stone faced and silent. He rarely talked about Kayle. Perhaps it was a subconscious fear of tarnishing her memory. Perhaps it was simply the pain.

"She died. Four years ago," he said as simply as possible. That was all he had to say about it. There was no true need for discussion. For a moment the air between them was cold, before she spoke again.

"Zenobia. A fair name. It suits you well enough," Aaryn said. "Aaryn Broadbent, writer, philosopher, anthropologist." Drunk. The thought sprang unbidden to his mind. It was close enough to the truth.

[Zenobia]

Ah. She had said too much. Recently, she had been trying harder not to put her foot in it with thoughtless comments, but this hard work had really not been coming off quite as she wished it to. She smiled, hoping he wouldn't mind her not making a comment on the death of his partner, for she knew that many people liked to talk about that sort of thing. "What if I seek both critical acclaim and the approval of the masses? It is easy to criticise the masses, but such criticism could simply be considered an acceptable form of snobbiery. Is artistic democracy at fault, or is intellectual nepotism?" Zenobia tapped her fingers against her cheek idly, "But I'll drop it. I am in much too frivolous a mood for such a discussion. You see, in so many ways, I am an insufferable Princess." she said this then added with a note of humour, "But, do not worry, I will do my best to conceal my true nature." She took a sip of Kelp Tea then returned to her leaning position. Now, this sort of thoughtful, light inclination forward had simply become habit when speaking with those taller than her, but at some point in the past, she had adopted it because a friend had told her it was the best way to accentuate the figure, especially the top half. She wasn't sure it was true though. "Writer, Philosopher and Anthropologist. Sounds like a recipe for despondency. Fascinating, of course. I suppose complimentary skills, but still they must encompass such a wide range of items. You study people, their origins, cultural development, biology and physique, and their social customs and beliefs. Then you ask Why? And how? And if? Then you write about it. Your names suits you too, I think."

[Aaryn Broadbent]

OOCI'm sorry it's taken me so long to get back to this. Like I said earlier school/life has been a bear recently and I just haven't had the time. I should be back more now though.

"A good question. Artists rarely receive both during their lifetime. After death is a different matter," Aaryn said. "Blame intellectual nepotism. That would be the fault of the University, breeding ground as it is." While Aaryn held a healthy dose of respect for Zeltiva's University, he also found a dash of disdain for it. There was something about the structure and bureaucracy that had always rubbed him the wrong way. Perhaps that had been why he'd never attended. "At least you'll do that much for me," Aaryn said with a slight smirk.

He couldn't help but notice her figure, leaning forward over the table in front of him. He kept his eyes on her face, using only his peripheral vision to view the rest. That had been a lesson from his father, learned long ago, before even his ill-fated marriage. He'd been a lad in earnest then.

"Despondency. Misanthropy. Call it what you will," Aaryn said, leaning back in his chair. "That's...more or less the process. Perhaps it's simply escapism, my desire to travel and learn. Get away from the city; lose myself out...there somewhere," Aaryn said, motioning vaguely in the direction of the Wildlands with one of his hands.

"A princess and a philosopher. What a pair," he said. Perhaps he was flirting. There was something about Zenobia, her exotic mystique maybe, that he found himself attracted to. He knew that the guilt would drown him. He also knew that if he started early enough, he could drown the guilt. Everyone wins.

[Zenobia]

"I don't think I should bother if I were simply imagining acclaim after death - what good would it do me then? I am not so vain as to wish to live on in popular memory for ever and ever. Simply, being happy and knowing the thrill of life. That should be enough for me and I am endeavouring to make it so. Regrets have a way of leaving unflattering worry lines across the visages of those who experience them." Zenobia smiled, licked her lips then bit her bottom lip before turning to look at Aaryn. She locked her eyes into his for about ten seconds, slowly looked away to take a sip of her drink before flicking her eyes back a moment later. "Misanthropy? That makes it sound dreadfully serious." she said softly, secretly wondering if such misanthropy might reveal itself in a form of lecherous misogyny, but made no comment on the subject, "Of course, a fervent desire to travel and learn is always admirable... people who do not experience such desire are often void of any great intellectual capacity, or are dismally non-captivating. On the other hand, the desire to lose oneself sounds problematic and near impossible. There are those who will claim that to lose oneself somewhere allows one to find oneself elsewhere, but I think there is much too much emphasis currently on this rather affected concept of 'finding yourself spiritually'. A person is forever changing and forever re-creating themselves. With that in mind, the notion sounds like a very futile and laborious one. There is no point in such a thing because it just distracts from actually living. Travelling should be about new experiences and seeing new things not about an egotistical journey of self-discovery." Zenobia flushed ever so lightly and flicked her fingers against the table, "Sorry. I'm rambling." It was something she did all too often. People often liked to say that she liked the sound of her own voice and, unfortunately, she knew it to be true. Her father had always repeatedly said that there was nothing worse, more unattractive, than a woman with an ugly voice. An ugly voice being coarse, nasal or high-pitched... luckily, hers was neither of those things. It was one of the things she was proudest of - dulcet, deep, melodious and expressive. Pleasant, even when a slight eypharian accent slipped when she was angry. "A Princess and a Philosopher? It's unfair, for you have the better title." Zenobia smiled coyly before adding with a mild teasing tone, "I would suggest we swap, but you would be an ever worse fit in the role of a princess than I. That said, you do look to be a gentleman."

[Aaryn Broadbent]

"Are you not?" Aaryn asked, partially snide partially curious. She seemed to be the type who'd crave immortality. Perhaps he'd simply read her wrong. "I guess I'll have to take you at your word," Aaryn said, watching Zenobia smile and lick her lips. Their eyes met for a moment leaving the pair in the midst of an electric tension, which lasted even after Zenobia had returned her gaze to her tea.

"I rarely joke," Aaryn said simply. He recognized the fact that he was in fact a misanthrope. He abhorred people, so much so that he'd disappear if he had the choice. Alas, that was not an option. Too many obligations still to run away. "Consider this. What if a man seeks to lose himself? If he takes himself out of the cycle of change and recreation then what does he become? That's what I am to find out. I don't mind. It's...charming."

By the Gods. Was that flirtation? An upswing of guilt, forced back down by sheer will. He'd done nothing wrong yet. And truly, would anything he did be considered wrong? He was just a man after all, made older before his time by the cruelty of life.

"And you do look to be a princess of somewhere far away from here. You can thank my mother for my manners. She insisted I be the perfect gentleman, and ingrained the etiquette into me when I was too young to resist," Aaryn said, his own tone still serious. There was however, a brief note of joviality, as if he had considered an attempt at humor. He looked over at Zenobia, studying her face and its features.

"So, princess, what can this despondent philosopher do for you?"

Perhaps the question had more than one meaning. Even he wasn't sure. The only thing to do was wait and see how she answered.