What's In A Name?

[grantuseyes]

Micolash sits cross-legged on a table. Strewn all around him are ink pots (some overturned and spilled), parchment paper (in stacks and scattered alike), pens and nibs and a few sticks of charcoal. His fingers are stained with ink and there are a few splotches somehow on his face and on his pinstripe trousers, along with a dark handprint on the metal collar of his cage. The side of his left hand, the one he's currently holding a pen with, is smudged even worse with black.

There are discarded drawings all around him, some that look like false starts on some manner of monsters. Some are just pages crammed with drawings of eyes, or scrawls repeating phrases or rambling prose. Some are crumpled up into paper wads or have half-hearted attempts at scratching out or erasing the contents.

The parchment Micolash currently has in front of him is being scrutinized by the scholar. Looking over his handiwork and trying to determine if it passes whatever muster he's going for. It's certainly a drawing of SOMETHING.

Whatever verdict he's pondering, it doesn't prevent Micolash from looking up and addressing whatever person is wandering close to his work station.

"What does your name mean? Do you know? Do you care?"

Comments

[middle_son]

Forrest shifts on his feet, because the question of how often his family is in peril is an awkward one. Far too often, for his tastes, is the answer.

"Don't got nothin' like that. But we get our fair share'f trouble. Other men're bad enough." He looks away, and rubs the back of his neck. "Had t'do too much protectin', th'last year, and I'm hopin' we seen the backside'f that, now. Sounds like th'law's changing and that puts us in the right, there."

The end of prohibition is both a blessing and a curse, but it does mean they're not criminals anymore.

You know, except for the whole murder thing, but nobody can prove that.