Thumbing through page after page, picking up picture after picture, Quartermain mumbled silently in discontent. Reaching for a picture that made his copper eyes water, he smirked and relived the memory of Aurelia throwing that rusted monkey wrench at him. Flushing red, he remembered the way she yelled at him, "get out of here! If you need somewhere to spend time, the dungeon stairs are down the hall on the right. You'll fit right in with anyone else who has repeatedly broken into my room!" What a jokester she is. Brushing his fingers through his equally blush-toned hair, leaning back in his seat, Quartermain audibly sighed. Reaching for his chipped and chiseled quill pen, he methodically jotted a quick note of his thoughts. Although the thought of the note made little sense, the writing looked eloquent and beautiful. Done in rapid succession, it exuded an air of elegance, despite being utter nonsense.
Dropping his quill into the pot, he removed his spectacles and prepared for the mental battle ahead. Gently flipping the metallic lever that lay underneath his desk, the machine whirred, whistled and spat out a fresh piece of parchment. Quartermain couldn't quite figure out how the mystical machine worked, and his angry glare of disapproval made no strides to help that failing understanding. Silently, he dipped his pen into his pot of ink, and with an act of precision that could only be done by someone of his expertise, he wrote out a letter. As expected, the letter was a rambling of mismatched words with a lack of punctuation, and had no real rhyme or reason to it, but anyone would be a fool to admit it wasn't an impressive work of calligraphy. The words meant nothing, it resembled as if the letter had been written in an unspoken language, a tongue that no soul besides Quartermain could ever decipher. Shoddily folding the parchment into a crane, Quartermain pushed away from his metal chair. Reaching for his aged leather shoulder bag, Quatermain made a quick walking pace to the King's quarters.
Regarding the priceless artifacts left and right of him on his walk, Quartermain couldn't help but notice the beautiful artworks of pottery and glass. If Quartermain was anything, he was an artist. He may not paint or draw, but despite that, the things he created were truly beautiful. He even considered his own name to be that, art. It was not his true name that had been forsaken. As a public servant it was mandatory to adopt a single word as your name-sake, he had chosen the name Quartermain at the ripe age of eleven, the day he had escaped the feudalistic wars that had happened in the far southern part of the world. In Delben it was customary to adopt two names, here in the north you either had one or three. Those of nobility would drop their middle names when adopting a title, a similar process to the civil servants like himself. Unlike many of his colleagues, Quartermain had not chosen a title that resembled his past name, Edison Moul. That name resembled nothing anyone alive referred to him now.
He had much to offer in regards to his art and culture, but not in many other subjects. Glancing at the crane in his grasp he thought of Virgil, or the king as he should say. A man that waits for no soul, Virgil Matthen, was the King of Kalad. As one of his personal scribes, a title he had gotten through nothing but coincidence, Quatermain had a leg up on speaking to the king directly. That "advantage" really didn't equate to much, though, as it seemed every time he would try and speak to the king, something would arise in the king's schedule. Quartermain had terrible luck. Although all things considered, in comparison he could be pretty lucky. As the king's grandmothers kept passing away and preventing him from discussing his inquiry. How unfortunate to lose seventeen relatives within the span of a few months. Tragic.
Fiddling with the edges of the crane, Quartermain placed his hand towards the door leading into the king's personal chamber. Inching towards the knocker, Quartermain heard a pitchy shriek from inside the quarters. Pausing, he placed his ear to the door to listen. Had something happened to the king? He furrowed his eyebrows and focused on the noise inside the room. He listened carefully but was only able to distinguish certain words of what could be heard.
"Wh- knee slapper - I cannot get - of- you are absolutely killing me -."
"- nitwit, to-." Quartermain sucked in a heavy breath, trying to be as quiet as possible. Slowly backing from the door, he could focus on nothing but what he had just heard. The king, he was killing his servant! Dropping the crane which had gotten crushed in his sweaty grasp, he felt something against the bottom of his back. Turning to face the object, it was all but too late. The ancient pottery vase, it fell as if in slow motion. But his perspective made no difference as his attempts to catch it were futile. The vase smashed to the ground, rumbling through the hall, shaking all earth nearby.
Quartermain quickly realized his mistake as the minuscule earthquake sent waves through the other fragile pieces of artwork surrounding him. The spire of glass fell in front of him as he ran throughout the hall, being chased by the loudest tidal wave of shattered art. Tripping several times on assorted items, including an open bucket of paint. He placed himself through the door at the end of the hall. The tsunami of breaking stopped at the frame. Glancing behind him towards the massacre, he knew exactly what he must do. Leaving prints of blue wall paint in his wake, he reached his room and slammed the door behind him. Quartermain placed his coat on and gathered his belongings. Rushing, he only grabbed the essentials. His wages in shards from the last month, ink, a notepad and quills. What else could he need? Quartermain threw himself out his window, and ran as fast as he could. The snow crunched under his hurried steps.
