- Character Biography
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The Ministry of Niceties had not grown smaller. It had simply grown quieter.
Ruffano paused just inside the threshold, allowing the door to close behind him before he moved another step. The atrium remained as grand as it always had, marble veined in cool grays, tall windows admitting a disciplined wash of daylight, banners bearing the insignia of Niceties suspended in tasteful symmetry, and a borderline gaudy abundance of gold embellishments adorning nearly every surface that would tolerate them.
But something had shifted.
Visible desks were arranged with sharper geometry. Notices were pinned in careful alignment rather than decorative flourish. Working paws crossed the floor with purpose rather than drift. Even the low murmur of administrative exchange carried a different cadence, notably less indulgent.
Aah, so the rumors were true…
He adjusted his gloves with a small fidget, then decided to remove them entirely, folding them neatly and tucking them into his coat pocket. His attire today was measured restraint: a deep burgundy waistcoat stitched with subtle gold filigree, a dark charcoal overcoat cut clean and close, and a silk ivory cravat tied without theatrical excess.
His highly polished leather shoes clicked pleasantly against the smooth, unblemished floor as he approached the front desk.
Behind it stood a young rat, her posture upright with the slightly exaggerated stiffness of someone very determined to appear official. Her collar sat just a touch crooked, and there was the faintest ink stain along the side of one paw she had perhaps not noticed. She was scanning a ledger with grave seriousness.
When she looked up, her eyes widened. Her mouth opened just as words escaped her. Flustered, she glanced around for any curious onlookers before turning back to him.
“W-wait! Are you—? …Y-you can’t be in h-here… can you? …W-what can I do for you s-si… Mr. Quickwhistle?”
Ruffano inclined his head, neither indulgent nor wounded.
"Good morning to you."
His tone was warm but controlled, shaped carefully to fit the room rather than fill it.
"I assure you, I have not come to cause the Ministry further embarrassment."
A faint curve of humor touched his mouth.
"If the Minister’s schedule permits, I would be grateful for a brief audience."
The rat blinked, clearly juggling several realities at once. Before her stood the infamous fox Ruffano Quickwhistle, the rogue actor who had spoken out against Ministry policy mid-performance. The same fox whose name had been quietly struck from sanctioned playbills and registries alike, joining Hareley Chapwin, Orwyn Wellspring, and Lucilla Bellweather in that peculiar purgatory reserved for inconvenient talent. Names that had once filled halls and headlines, now spoken in careful tones — especially Wellspring, whose infamous “Visitors from Distant Worlds” had sent half the Harbor flooding the streets with pitchforks, frying pans, kitchen knives, and far too many suspiciously gleaming swords for a rumor that had started in a theatre.
“You… want to see Minister Emberkin?”
"If she will have me, yes."
He did not elaborate further.
Her ears twitched as she glanced toward the interior corridor, then back to him, then down at the desk as if the proper procedure might be written somewhere between the ink lines.
“I… I can send word to the Minister’s office,” she managed. “I can’t promise— but I can send word.”
"That would be more than sufficient, thank you."
She nodded perhaps a bit too sharply and gestured to a passing page with hurried instructions to relay the request inward.
The page disappeared through the interior doors.
Silence returned between them as the rat tried very hard not to stare at the lanky fox before her. Keeping her restraint soon proved too much, however, and moments later she leaned forward over her forgotten paperwork, elbows splayed, chin propped in her fists as she gazed up at him with wide, glistening eyes.
“…I saw you perform once,” she blurted finally, before freezing as if she had just realized the magnitude of her breach in decorum. “At the Marigold Theatre. Before— well. Before.”
Ruffano allowed the smallest pause before nodding sagely.
"I remember that stage fondly."
She hesitated again, glancing toward the closed corridor doors.
“…While we’re waiting,” she ventured, voice dipping to a conspiratorial whisper despite the very public setting, “would it be terribly improper to— I mean—”
She produced a small birch bark journal from beneath the desk blotter. It clearly was not an official Ministry ledger. She opened it slightly past halfway to an old playbill pasted at a jaunty angle upon the page, bordered with hand-painted red velvet curtains and golden candle sconces.
Ruffano studied it for half a heartbeat with a faint, appreciative sigh. Then he reached for the quill and ink pot that sat at the side of her desk.
"One must never deny a young patron her memento."
He signed with practiced elegance, ink flowing in a disciplined arc that restrained what might once have become a flamboyant flourish before handing the journal back into her eager paws.
The rat stared at the signature as though it might evaporate for a touch longer than was strictly necessary before closing the journal slowly and returning it to its hiding place.
Ruffano replaced the quill, smoothed his cuffs once more, and stood at ease before the desk, posture composed, expression measured.
Waiting.
@Orina Emberkin
Ruffano paused just inside the threshold, allowing the door to close behind him before he moved another step. The atrium remained as grand as it always had, marble veined in cool grays, tall windows admitting a disciplined wash of daylight, banners bearing the insignia of Niceties suspended in tasteful symmetry, and a borderline gaudy abundance of gold embellishments adorning nearly every surface that would tolerate them.
But something had shifted.
Visible desks were arranged with sharper geometry. Notices were pinned in careful alignment rather than decorative flourish. Working paws crossed the floor with purpose rather than drift. Even the low murmur of administrative exchange carried a different cadence, notably less indulgent.
Aah, so the rumors were true…
He adjusted his gloves with a small fidget, then decided to remove them entirely, folding them neatly and tucking them into his coat pocket. His attire today was measured restraint: a deep burgundy waistcoat stitched with subtle gold filigree, a dark charcoal overcoat cut clean and close, and a silk ivory cravat tied without theatrical excess.
His highly polished leather shoes clicked pleasantly against the smooth, unblemished floor as he approached the front desk.
Behind it stood a young rat, her posture upright with the slightly exaggerated stiffness of someone very determined to appear official. Her collar sat just a touch crooked, and there was the faintest ink stain along the side of one paw she had perhaps not noticed. She was scanning a ledger with grave seriousness.
When she looked up, her eyes widened. Her mouth opened just as words escaped her. Flustered, she glanced around for any curious onlookers before turning back to him.
“W-wait! Are you—? …Y-you can’t be in h-here… can you? …W-what can I do for you s-si… Mr. Quickwhistle?”
Ruffano inclined his head, neither indulgent nor wounded.
"Good morning to you."
His tone was warm but controlled, shaped carefully to fit the room rather than fill it.
"I assure you, I have not come to cause the Ministry further embarrassment."
A faint curve of humor touched his mouth.
"If the Minister’s schedule permits, I would be grateful for a brief audience."
The rat blinked, clearly juggling several realities at once. Before her stood the infamous fox Ruffano Quickwhistle, the rogue actor who had spoken out against Ministry policy mid-performance. The same fox whose name had been quietly struck from sanctioned playbills and registries alike, joining Hareley Chapwin, Orwyn Wellspring, and Lucilla Bellweather in that peculiar purgatory reserved for inconvenient talent. Names that had once filled halls and headlines, now spoken in careful tones — especially Wellspring, whose infamous “Visitors from Distant Worlds” had sent half the Harbor flooding the streets with pitchforks, frying pans, kitchen knives, and far too many suspiciously gleaming swords for a rumor that had started in a theatre.
“You… want to see Minister Emberkin?”
"If she will have me, yes."
He did not elaborate further.
Her ears twitched as she glanced toward the interior corridor, then back to him, then down at the desk as if the proper procedure might be written somewhere between the ink lines.
“I… I can send word to the Minister’s office,” she managed. “I can’t promise— but I can send word.”
"That would be more than sufficient, thank you."
She nodded perhaps a bit too sharply and gestured to a passing page with hurried instructions to relay the request inward.
The page disappeared through the interior doors.
Silence returned between them as the rat tried very hard not to stare at the lanky fox before her. Keeping her restraint soon proved too much, however, and moments later she leaned forward over her forgotten paperwork, elbows splayed, chin propped in her fists as she gazed up at him with wide, glistening eyes.
“…I saw you perform once,” she blurted finally, before freezing as if she had just realized the magnitude of her breach in decorum. “At the Marigold Theatre. Before— well. Before.”
Ruffano allowed the smallest pause before nodding sagely.
"I remember that stage fondly."
She hesitated again, glancing toward the closed corridor doors.
“…While we’re waiting,” she ventured, voice dipping to a conspiratorial whisper despite the very public setting, “would it be terribly improper to— I mean—”
She produced a small birch bark journal from beneath the desk blotter. It clearly was not an official Ministry ledger. She opened it slightly past halfway to an old playbill pasted at a jaunty angle upon the page, bordered with hand-painted red velvet curtains and golden candle sconces.
Ruffano studied it for half a heartbeat with a faint, appreciative sigh. Then he reached for the quill and ink pot that sat at the side of her desk.
"One must never deny a young patron her memento."
He signed with practiced elegance, ink flowing in a disciplined arc that restrained what might once have become a flamboyant flourish before handing the journal back into her eager paws.
The rat stared at the signature as though it might evaporate for a touch longer than was strictly necessary before closing the journal slowly and returning it to its hiding place.
Ruffano replaced the quill, smoothed his cuffs once more, and stood at ease before the desk, posture composed, expression measured.
Waiting.
@Orina Emberkin
