A dull thumping slowly came into focus from the inky blackness. The muffled sound of footsteps on the floor above and the distant sweet voice of Elizabeth Black making it's way through the floorboards of the Almshouse. Eventually, this soft patter of noise faded with the gentle sound of a door shutting in the click of the door knob. With much more effort than should be needed, Maxwell Kalbronski slowly opened his heavy eyes to distantly stare across the room, which was confusingly sideways to him. It took him a few moments to realize that he was completely slumped forward onto a table, his head turned sideways to stare at a wall. Placing both hands on the table he'd push himself upward, only to flop back and sink into his chair. His long ginger hair fell around his face in a wavy mess, and was promptly pushed away and carelessly tucked behind his ears for the time. His vision slowly adjusted to his surroundings, namely the table in front of him. An empty bottle of whiskey, one of Elizabeth's half-eaten sandwiches, a waffle-iron, a flask (perfectly balanced on the edge of the table), and a piece of paper with what appeared to be a very drunken attempt to draw a self-portrait.
With A grumble, Maxwell would attempt to stand from his chair, only to have his legs give out under him sending him plopping right back into the seat. Smacking his mouth in an attempt to rid himself of the taste of morning and stale alcohol, he'd reach out to grab the scribbled drawing.
"No no no… dammit that'll never do." he'd mumble to himself as he tore the paper in half. "If I want to be a performer… I need a proper flyer. Maybe Lizzy can do that for me. Or maybe the old man… No I could possibly ask for that."
Maxwell would yawn and lean back in his chair, the thoughts of being a true performer for nobles swirling through his head. He knew he could make even the Kades, stone cold as they were, crack a slight grin. With a swing of his arms he'd successfully come to his feet as he walked over to a crate at the other side of the room. Bending down he'd fish out a shirt that was just slightly cleaner than the one he wore then. Losing his whiskey stained shirt from the night prior, the man would walk over to a mirror, new shirt slung over his shoulder. He'd take some time to fix his mess of orange hair and pull it back into the long pony-tail he was so familiar with. With a heavy sigh he'd pull the new shirt over his shoulders and begin to button up from the bottom, pausing halfway though as his hand drifted up to his chest. Clearly on the surface was a large brand mark, leaving a white scar on his skin, a sign from the old days of the inquisition. Maxwell would run his fingertips over the burn before quickly finish up and throwing his red vest over his entire outfit.
The mirror adjacent from him showed a man with sunken eyes and a hardened complexion, the mobster from a life before Regalia. Maxwell would looking into that stiff and uncaring face before giving a light chuckle.
"People won't pay to see /that/ face. Too dreary. Can't cheer anyone up with a frown like that!" he'd say to his reflection. Taking a deep breath he'd plaster a genuine smile on his face, one that even made his eyes slightly sparkle and his cheeks rosey. The clearly aging mobster was gone, now only the reflection of a ever happy performer looked back at Maxwell.
Placing his hands on his hips he'd turn to smile directly at the waffle-iron as he said, "Well Emily, I think todays going to be a great day! I hope your strings are in tune to play! Oh and, no need to talk about last night, ya?". Maxwell would strut over to the table and pick up his ever lovely waffle-iron and flask from the smooth surface. Marching up the stairs he'd come to the main room of the Almshouse and go right out the door. Taking a deep breath of the outside air he'd let the sun shine on his face as he turned down the street. Taking Emily the waffle-iron in both his hands, he'd tango with her down the cobbled path, determined to make another person smile today.
@Miss_Confined
With A grumble, Maxwell would attempt to stand from his chair, only to have his legs give out under him sending him plopping right back into the seat. Smacking his mouth in an attempt to rid himself of the taste of morning and stale alcohol, he'd reach out to grab the scribbled drawing.
"No no no… dammit that'll never do." he'd mumble to himself as he tore the paper in half. "If I want to be a performer… I need a proper flyer. Maybe Lizzy can do that for me. Or maybe the old man… No I could possibly ask for that."
Maxwell would yawn and lean back in his chair, the thoughts of being a true performer for nobles swirling through his head. He knew he could make even the Kades, stone cold as they were, crack a slight grin. With a swing of his arms he'd successfully come to his feet as he walked over to a crate at the other side of the room. Bending down he'd fish out a shirt that was just slightly cleaner than the one he wore then. Losing his whiskey stained shirt from the night prior, the man would walk over to a mirror, new shirt slung over his shoulder. He'd take some time to fix his mess of orange hair and pull it back into the long pony-tail he was so familiar with. With a heavy sigh he'd pull the new shirt over his shoulders and begin to button up from the bottom, pausing halfway though as his hand drifted up to his chest. Clearly on the surface was a large brand mark, leaving a white scar on his skin, a sign from the old days of the inquisition. Maxwell would run his fingertips over the burn before quickly finish up and throwing his red vest over his entire outfit.
The mirror adjacent from him showed a man with sunken eyes and a hardened complexion, the mobster from a life before Regalia. Maxwell would looking into that stiff and uncaring face before giving a light chuckle.
"People won't pay to see /that/ face. Too dreary. Can't cheer anyone up with a frown like that!" he'd say to his reflection. Taking a deep breath he'd plaster a genuine smile on his face, one that even made his eyes slightly sparkle and his cheeks rosey. The clearly aging mobster was gone, now only the reflection of a ever happy performer looked back at Maxwell.
Placing his hands on his hips he'd turn to smile directly at the waffle-iron as he said, "Well Emily, I think todays going to be a great day! I hope your strings are in tune to play! Oh and, no need to talk about last night, ya?". Maxwell would strut over to the table and pick up his ever lovely waffle-iron and flask from the smooth surface. Marching up the stairs he'd come to the main room of the Almshouse and go right out the door. Taking a deep breath of the outside air he'd let the sun shine on his face as he turned down the street. Taking Emily the waffle-iron in both his hands, he'd tango with her down the cobbled path, determined to make another person smile today.
@Miss_Confined
