(IC) Gossip with the OC above!

*Grabby hands* gossip with this old man
--

Roswell in this follow up

   - oh god I forgot to edit my post to respond to this follow-up. anyways. Rochester this entire time.

Oh no, another bitch baby slap fight between two old people. What could go wrong?

“I do apologize for only being able to serve you two things,” Rochester drawled to the leidsman while gesturing at the tart and sweetened tea that she had laid out for him with pretty much no ceremony whatsoever, “I’m suuuuuure it must pale in comparison to that hare you served me a while back. I am also surprised that my wife hasn’t kicked your ass for keeping me in that apartment of yours. I did tell her about it, after all. Though then again, she did end up going over to your former mentor, then that musician lover of yours, instead of you when looking for information - so maybe she did take something into consideration after all.” Uhhh… Sarcasm absolutely fucking dripped from her voice while she held out a slice of apple for Spot to gobble up.

Then, she continued while giving her guest a stinky eye, “But whatever. I heard about that gala that is going to be at the Old Chapel in a few days or so. Your grounds, if I remember correctly. Your turf. How does it feel, knowing that the place is going to be decorated and swarming with those rich shitheads in a few days? I’m sure they must be like fruits ripe for the taking, especially with their shiny watches and expensive jewelry…” She, again, kept her gaze on the middle-aged man just to scrutinize his reaction. Whether he scrunched his nose, or started to kindle a twinkle in his sole grey eye… Rochester would be watching.

Rochester would witness it all, for better or for worse.

Spot continued to gurgle as the older woman sighed, “I’m sure that all the aristocrats will be there, too. Social obligation, you know. Shit like that. Johnson, Brown… I think all of them will be coming. Was that part of Duo’s orders? Or did you have something else up your sleeve when setting up the parameters?” Rochester started to chuckle with a hint of bitterness while picking up an apple, then starting to pick at its peel with her fingernail. Pleeeeeaaaaase don’t try this at home, kids; this shit is fucking gross.

For a moment, Rochester paused and chewed on her lip… Almost uncharacteristically, in fact. Her stature remained taut as she started to flick flecks of apple skin with her nail. Again, don’t try this at home. It’s really not worth it.

“I sure hope you’re not going to try robbing my former intern at the party,” she grunted with a surprisingly monotonous voice, “I know you and her are absolutely fucking hunky-dorey with each other, but old habits die hard at times.” She shrugged just when her nail dug into the flesh of the apple, causing some juice to leak out just a bit. “... How is she doing, by the way?” Rochester inquired with a cocked head, “I haven’t had the chance to speak with her lately, though I don’t think she’s actively avoiding me. I think it’s just more likely she oscillates between spending her time on her own, and sticking to you like honey...” Unlike that metaphor, though, Rochester wasn’t trying to be sweet; rather, she was being rather bitter, like wormwood. It showed.

maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaybe NP will get a follow-up if my brain stops acting like scrambled eggs. MAYBE.

"Ah, I don't know Beatrice herself. I believe that's an misunderstanding," the elder party stated, pursing his lips into a pout as he leaned back in his seat. He raised a pair of thick eyebrows at Rochester, the graying fur on his muzzle twitching as he spoke.

"I-I haven't d-done journalism since I-I was twenty-eight—pardon me, vocal tic. Besides, I think she works for a different publisher...hm. Anyways, the point of this conversation! I've heard something interesting about her, and I want to hear your take."

After Catthew finished his statement, he extended his arm and stretched out his fingers, examining the wisps of fluff that sprouted out. He allowed the corners of his lips to twitch upwards while he slightly bobbed his head downwards.

"So, regarding how Beatrice gets her stories. I heard she usually threatened violence when she was in her youth. She looked like quite a strong young woman. Isn't she, uhm, three years younger than you? I'm not too good at estimating ages. Anyways, I'm quite curious about what she does today. Regarding her writing, of course. Is she still as feisty as ever, or is she more reserved?"

Maintaining that coy smile of his, Catthew lifted up his hand to his mouth. He took a moment to groom his wrist, his tongue scraping against it as he did so. After he finished, he returned to his previous stance; he held his hands behind his back and allowed his short, stubby tail to swish around.

"Now, there was this guy that I grew up with who's, uhm...primarily doing biology and pharmacy work now, if I remember correctly. I'm quite surprised at how chipper and happy he is—hell, he doesn't even look a day over forty! I would offer to give you his contact information, but I don't think he would like that. He hates humans, though I could never figure out why. Maybe it has to do with his grieving...Urgh, I'm going off topic again, am I? Anyways, please continue, you've piqued my interest."

“I’m not a gossiper,” Beatrice quickly admitted while folding her hands together, “and if you think that way, you’re only going to get disappointed. I focus on rooting out the corruption that has plagued much of this society - whether it be concerning humankind, or whatever is going on between you felines and those canines.” Well then. She leaned back in her seat and pulled out a cigarette, seemingly from a nearby drawer- Two, actually. One she kept in her own hand, the other she held out for the other to take.

“Want one, by the way?” she asked before placing it on the desk, then taking out a lighter to light up her own. In other words, if her guest didn’t have an igniter for his cigarette, he was sort of fucked. Thanks, Beatrice.

Once she puffed out a cloud of tobacco smoke, the journalist started to drawl, “That asides… My wife told me a bit about you. She told me that you asked me some details about her when you ran into her, and…” She broke off into a coarse, almost mocking laugh before coughing into her sleeve. “... I mean,” the older woman grunted with a wave of her hand, “At least you didn’t try asking anything too personal. I still write, though I mostly focus on the white-collar criminals now. Enough journalists clamor over the violent stuff, so I shifted myself towards a more underrepresented aspect of crime. Also, my demeanor depends. Maybe I’ll be more extroverted, maybe not. I’m flexible. I have to be, at the very least.”

She then scrunched her nose slightly as she remarked, “But… That’s enough about me. How about you, sir? I know you haven’t worked in the New Era News for a while, but I’ve been hearing some rumors.” Pausing for dramatic effect, Beatrice also took her sweet, sweet time blowing out another puff of smoke. However, there was a problem. Whereas the previous exhales were more or less haphazard, this cloud of smoke was intentionally directed at the feline.

Uh oh.

“... Mostly that the new writer, Cheesecake,” Beatrice eventually resumed, “isn’t who she says she is. Of course, you hear that sort of hearsay all the time. I’m a bit guilty of perpetuating it myself when it comes to some of my cases. But…” She rubbed her chin and furrowed her brow. “I’ll be the first to admit that there’s definitely some uncanny similarities between you and her in terms of writing style-” Beatrice broke off to wave her hand. “Don’t get me wrong, sir; people get inspired by each other all the time. But if what’s said is true, then…” She trailed off to flick off some spent ashes from the lit end of her cigarette.

“... She’s not that sweet anymore, is she? I mean…” With a careful chuckle, Beatrice folded her hands together and twiddled the cigarette in between her teeth. “... You may have secrets up your sleeve, but that’s only going to be a temporary thing, sir. Everything unravels itself eventually. I’m not saying that as something incriminating; it’s more general than anything else, but… You know how it goes. It’s up to you as to whether you want to take this seriously or not.”

NP maaaay get a follow-up if I have the time??

Nerine made herself comfortable again. Spending time at Beatrice and her wife's home became something of a ritual, something she looked forward to albeit only because she felt it had to be done. One could hardly grow a tomato plant out in the West Province, so...

"All I can say is that I'm always glad to raid your food." said Nerine, her ugly bare feet propped up on a different seat before the one she sat in. Her blunted fingernails struggled with a clementine. "It is awfully kind of you. And your wife, I suppose, never really took the time to talk to her. Also never really cared to, though."

"Compliments to her for having good taste, though, but..." She stopped for a moment, finally finding the clementine's flesh. As she picked apart the sections, she carried on, "Don't know if having good taste translates well into having good faith, you know? Between you and me, what I've heard about her... sounds like she's a bit of a flake." She was deadpan, plain, uncaring whether or not she was talking to the spouse. Better deal with it. "Bit of a shame, what happened to her -- what, her student?"

That sort of abandonment was sickening.

If Nerine didn't like not having scurvy so much, she would have harsher words to give.

With a raised brow, however, she stared Beatrice down. She couldn't imagine herself standing by a person so lazy in their care, either. [She did, anyway, because she was someone led more by the heart than the brain.] But! Who was to know Rochester would be loyal to Beatrice in times of strife?

"I just thought it's a shame, you know?" she droned, "Forcing someone into a marriage is one thing, I think, but not taking any opportunity to help them is... maybe not as cruel, but it is real telling. Anyways..." The woman picked off another piece of her clementine and held it out to Beatrice. "You want a couple slices?"

@ NP: you're free to respond to default nerine or her younger version's tab if you want, just let me know which   

nerine throws a baby fit

_{claim younger Nerine  👀}

Xander let out his breath. He gently set down his teacup. The sound of the cup being placed on the saucer was the only sound breaking the silence between them. Xander’s fingers rubbed the edges of the cup.
“I apologize for dragged you here,” Xander told Nerine. “I can imagine that a woman of your status have... More important things to do than to drink tea with an old man in the flower garden,” he said. Xander pressed a small smile on his face. But even that sad attempt of a smile couldn’t hide the worry in his eyes.
“But I have some, significant matters to discuss, rumours maybe. Oh, madam, I’m not a man who believes those on face value,” he said. “But they are worrisome nonetheless.”
Xander picked up his glasses and started to clean them. Just to drag the conversation between them. Just to prologue, the uneasiness of the situation.
“It’s about Sir Otto, madam… I do apologize bringing him up,” he said. Xander placed his glasses back. “I’ve heard he was banned at a young age. But... There is talk in the streets. Some people say that they saw,” Xander couldn't help but huff. “Like a ghost figure roaming the streets. I do not believe that myself. Other’s,” he paused again. “Thinks that he is planning his return and that he's plotting something. Something dangerous madam.”

--
“Oh, I have heard of him,” Xander said. He adjusted his glasses in an attempt to hide his nervous smile. “Did he do something, sir?” he asked. A question he regretted asking. Of course Roswell did something. Xander listened Veritas’ story with raised brows, then a frown.
“That’s no good,” he muttered. “Can you give me the poor lady's adres? Maybe I can.. Uh, arange something..?”

“I ain’t got noth-“ Veritas did a double take, looking around the darkened tavern before excitedly moving his chair forward “ok I got a bunch of that good shit” pulling out a small slip of paper and doing a quick once over on it 

“Ight Ight so, ya know Roswell? The stealin dude? One eye n such? Well one night I was out n about with a couple buddies drinkin. Who do I spot but the feather collared thief him self jumpin out an old ladies window. Now I’d admit I ain’t got the best look of em at the time, but I swear on me mommas grave that that shit head got a poor old ladies pearls. ON ME MOMMAS GRAVE!”

Esmond wasn't used to being around those outside of Laojin Base, nor hearing about them. But, he had heard a few things about Veritas, and then the teensiest bit more of the Memoriae family, just tidbits passed along and twisted to sound more interesting, more exciting. Those tall tales, Esmond heard all of them, and now that he had finally met Veritas, well...

He felt the need to ask, right? He just had to know if it was true, the stories he heard of the man's son.

"Your son, Alex," Esmond began, his voice airy and full of wonder, "I heard that he was a lawyer. Right? That's what's my friend said to me, but then he said that Alex got into a fistfight with someone in the court... Is-- Is that how court works? I never ever been, never even been up in the building to listen in on the general or the other superiors when they've got to punish someone, never even knew something like hitting the... the..." He paused. "What's the word? The bad person. In the court. The criminal." He was thinking of the word 'defendant', but he wouldn't know, honestly.

"And then, I heard he got to kill the man himself." he carried on, his eyes widening, "I know that you can get killed back home if you do something that's shit... Is that even how lawyers work, though? Or are they the same as judges..?"