The weather is cold out, but the warmth of Heaven blazes forth in the form of a warm snout under Louis Auguste’s hand, bristling soft. The mare’s eyes are bright and soulful, batting thick lashes as she looks up at him; Louis Auguste’s fingers card through the warm mane, the soft of her neck. The holster around her head gleams in the light, clean. The stableboy stands there, saying nothing. There is a bruise flowering on his lower arm; barely covered by sweat and dust. ‘’Thank you,’’ he says to him, though he does not really know why. His breath comes out as fog.

The cold weather didn’t bother Subyss that much, his opulent curls shielding him from the worst of it. With the abolition of torture, he was in deep financial trouble, and he has given himself the idea of proposing his services as a corrector to what ever noble at Versailles he could find. For he occasion, he had put on his only tricorn hat and decided to not wear any of his belts, all marked with Guillaume family symbols. He tried to at least partially hide his facial tattoos with some powder, which blended quite well into his sickly white skin, to no significant avail. And there would be nothing he could do with his thick gallow accent. 

The curious voice belongs to a man even more curious. Louis Auguste halts his horse. A single pull on the reins is enough, she is only trudging at a slow pace. (He hasn’t yet decided what he wants; only knows he wants to be anywhere but here, anyone but himself. Too embarrassed, too selfish, be useful your Highness, or stop wasting everyone’s time.) The man’s accent is thick. When Louis Auguste smiles at him, it’s bright like the sun glinting off the morning dew.

Not recognizing the identity of who he was talking to, Subyss pulled away from the mare’s teeth. Now his best coat was ruined! A flush of fustration burned his cheeks, but he took deep breaths. He needed his fix. He needed it. 

A redness peeks through the man’s blushed face; Louis Auguste can’t help but smile sympathetically, all too aware of the feeling. Nerves, anxiety, a certain instilled shyness… They were the tragedies of an aristocrat’s life!

The weather is cold out, but the warmth of Heaven blazes forth in the form of a warm snout under Louis Auguste’s hand, bristling soft. The mare’s eyes are bright and soulful, batting thick lashes as she looks up at him; Louis Auguste’s fingers card through the warm mane, the soft of her neck. The holster around her head gleams in the light, clean. The stableboy stands there, saying nothing. There is a bruise flowering on his lower arm; barely covered by sweat and dust. ‘’Thank you,’’ he says to him, though he does not really know why. His breath comes out as fog.

Having recently arrived at Versailles, Marie’s attendant was helping out with leading the horses to their respective stables, removing their saddles and holsters, when in his peripheral vision he saw what appeared to be a noble who was just finishing up his excursion.  After leaving some instructions to one of the others, Andre went ahead, and only then when the autumn sun wasn’t blinding his vision did he immediately recognize the face before him.

Dark hair, a fine nose. Louis Auguste recognises the face, vaguely, picks it out of the ballroom of his mind filled with faces and masks and drinks and exotic fruits. Little clouds drift apart, sun trickling through. Sanson’s servant! Naturally, any servant of Sanson’s is a — well, a friend might be generous, but…

The weather is cold out, but the warmth of Heaven blazes forth in the form of a warm snout under Louis Auguste’s hand, bristling soft. The mare’s eyes are bright and soulful, batting thick lashes as she looks up at him; Louis Auguste’s fingers card through the warm mane, the soft of her neck. The holster around her head gleams in the light, clean. The stableboy stands there, saying nothing. There is a bruise flowering on his lower arm; barely covered by sweat and dust. ‘’Thank you,’’ he says to him, though he does not really know why. His breath comes out as fog.

The cold weather didn’t bother Subyss that much, his opulent curls shielding him from the worst of it. With the abolition of torture, he was in deep financial trouble, and he has given himself the idea of proposing his services as a corrector to what ever noble at Versailles he could find. For he occasion, he had put on his only tricorn hat and decided to not wear any of his belts, all marked with Guillaume family symbols. He tried to at least partially hide his facial tattoos with some powder, which blended quite well into his sickly white skin, to no significant avail. And there would be nothing he could do with his thick gallow accent. 

The curious voice belongs to a man even more curious. Louis Auguste halts his horse. A single pull on the reins is enough, she is only trudging at a slow pace. (He hasn’t yet decided what he wants; only knows he wants to be anywhere but here, anyone but himself. Too embarrassed, too selfish, be useful your Highness, or stop wasting everyone’s time.) The man’s accent is thick. When Louis Auguste smiles at him, it’s bright like the sun glinting off the morning dew.

good morning! it is… november 2022, and i have so much to catch up on when it comes to innocent rouge!

hello! tonight, after work — unfortunately i am not royalty myself of course and have to perform for peanuts — i am going to look into roleplay blogs and partners!

I made myself sad.