fire has its cold half.

status: open! date: 21st of aude. location: just outside l’opera imperial.

Intermission descends with vast, swooping wings that cover the entirety of the audience. The tension in the air is palpable as the band brings the music to a crescendo and the curtain begins to close. Michel is privately very grateful: he feels like he spends most days sitting and waiting anyways. Doing so in his leisurely hours feels like a waste. The chance to stretch his legs is one he takes very quickly, practically throwing himself out of the box while others tend slowly pry themselves from their seats.

He grabs a glass of something bright and orange from the bar, but doesn’t linger. The first thing Michel goes for is the doors, which will close again in twenty minutes’ time to the outside world and trap them all inside again. Maybe he’s feeling a little more claustrophobic than he thought he was. The night air is cool, but it blessedly isn’t raining, which he’s grateful for. He’s wearing no armor tonight, and he feels naked because of it. Being rained on in some of the finest clothes he’s worn in months would be one of his worst nightmares.

Others filter outside, one by one or in pairs, maybe a cluster, but Michel plants his feet and holds the stem of his drink in a vise grip. No need to bow out here. Just… enjoy the drink and then go back to his seat. He can do that. He turns to the person closest to him because that seems like the wise thing to do. He can hear Victoire’s voice – or maybe it’s Helene’s – chiding him not to be so doom-and-gloom, so, fine. He’ll make conversation. “Are you enjoying the show? I’m having a difficult time keeping track of what’s going on.” 

          𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐍𝐄 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 of l'entracte in deep contemplation at the open bar, and he leaves upon confirming the suspicion he harbored during his arrival— that the wine being served could in no way hold a candle to his creations. Instead, he opted for a decent whisky to accompany him for the remainder of the intermission, which was to be spent outside, and a comfortable distance from the heart of the action.

         He’d especially not anticipated the company of l'impératrice’s commander. Someone mostly unfamiliar, but whose singularity and commitment to the crown inspired a certain degree of… curiosity. Was it all worth it? is the question he is faced with most frequently. Was being so intertwined with the crown mutually favorable? It was an answer he sought out through tangible evidence— they were gains that he needed to bear witness to, to be convinced. 

“Odeline, how I pity your customers,” Sidonie sighs, hazel hues rolling in exasperation as she watches the poor customer soon scurry from Terre Noire, “if that is how you greet them.” Padding deeper into the apothecary, she stops beside one of his predictably-bedecked counters, continuing, “You’d be better off not addressing them at all, with that attitude, Etienne.” His name, coddled by years of familiarity in Sidonie’s vocabulary, comes out akin to a lark’s tune in spite of her scolding; teasingly, she half-sings his name like it is Etienne that hangs the stars in the sky and deigns to let the sun shine over his own brilliance–like how she used to as a smitten schoolgirl with a crush on an older classmate–in an attempt to soften his prickly exterior before tacking on, “I do hope you’ve not chased that little storekeep of yours away. She was such a sweetheart; I quite enjoyed her presence while browsing.”

Resting a hip against the counter, she crosses her arms loosely across her chest as she regards Etienne Marais above Terre Noire rather that beneath it. It’s like night and day, seeing him someplace he doesn’t want to be as opposed to somewhere else of his choosing and she can’t necessarily blame him, what with her own closely-held desire to get to the Obsidienne. This is a commonality she shares with her former classmate: the itch to learn, to create–and that is what draws and keeps her here despite witnessing his brief encounter with an unfortunately indecisive person. 

“Perhaps I’ll shop after, so long as you have those bath items I like so much.”

          𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐄’𝐒 𝐕𝐎𝐈𝐂𝐄 𝐃𝐑𝐈𝐅𝐓𝐒 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐏 like a symphony of bells announcing her arrival. It is a familiarity that Etienne cannot escape, an understanding that is just as much a part of him as the skin layered across his bones. A past, and darkness, that welded their paths together, for even in the years that their journey’s arrived at a divide did they eventually return to ta singular road. There was no use in holding Sidonie at a distance, just as much as there’d been no use in denying the fire. 

         Both held the fragments of who he once was— broken, battered fragments of a boy, and nothing more. It allowed Sidonie to wield a certain power over Etienne— a power she’d opted not to use, though one that existed in its inherent potential, nonetheless. It created an imbalance in their mutual knowing— a vulnerability on his end that abhored him to his very core. Something unacknowledged— though something evident in the highs and lows of the temperament Sidonie is met with. Lows that she’d been wholly undeserving of, and lows a more virtuous man would do better to conceal. An effort would at least be made today he decided.

         “Damned if I do, damned if I don’t,” he proclaims with a lighthearted groan, knowing his storefront manners were nowhere they needed to be. “Though I think a comfortable silence would benefit both the customers and myself— even if they don’t always know it.” It was Etienne’s own subtle way of acknowledging Sidonie’s correctness, something she usually was, the majority of the time. “I’ll have you know that I’m the most pleasant when Nella is around.” It was a pleasantness reserved for his singular employee, who he needed far more than she needed him. “She’s on vacation with her fiancee, so I’m manning the front of house in the meantime. Maybe if you expressed how much you missed her presence then she’d reconsider her plans for any future sabbaticals.” Something unlikely to sway her— but worth a try, nonetheless. 

         Perplexion weaves through his expression upon the delivery of their last statement, and he studies the mage with a perked brow. “I always have the bath things you like,” he retorts matter of factly, wondering if that had been the fullest extent of Sidonie’s reasoning for visiting. “You know this, though. Perhaps there’s something else I can do for you.” Or something you can do for me, he does not say, for it needn’t saying. 

victoire, for all his hemming and hawing about the part he played, was far from a subtle man. he looked the role of captain of the guards — his clothing, his weapon, the mask upon his face all declared his position. and his position declared his intent. ( shops these days seemed to have a way of finding trouble. sometimes walking through them served a good reminder for the owners to keep their delicate sleeves as far from trouble as they could stand. ) 

at the man’s greeting, if it could be called such a thing, victoire nearly snorted. he ought to try this approach in his line of work; perhaps he could scare would-be assassins away with bad manners. 

“i’m afraid i’m too fond of window-shopping to prepare fully ahead of visiting such a fine establishment,” he returned, an obnoxious amount of cheer in his voice. “besides, i’ve learned some shops have more in their hand than they’re willing to show to just anybody.” there was no evidence of such a thing here, of course, but victoire had long since learned that so long as he pretended to know what was going on around him, he could bluff his way through anything. “is this place yours?”

     —

          𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐂𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖𝐋𝐄𝐃𝐆𝐄𝐒 𝐕𝐈𝐂𝐓𝐎𝐈𝐑𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐀 𝐂𝐔𝐑𝐓 𝐍𝐎𝐃 reserved especially for those employed by l'impératrice. It is a measure taken to ensure prying minds kept a reasonable distance from his side business. His unfamiliarity with the guard and his motivations only intensified the need for such actions. A grimace escapes him upon realizing this would more than likely not be the quickest of interactions— especially with how the man described his shopping habits. “Well, if that’s your intention, then the least you could do is make a purchase by the end of it,” he declares testily, though still attempting to compromise. The remark that follows that obliterates what little hospitality existed within him, his now narrowed eyes search Victoire’s appraisingly. “And what brings you to believe that you’re not just anybody?” he inquires dubiously. 

𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐋𝐔𝐂𝐊𝐘 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐑𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐈𝐓 𝐈𝐒, to find what you are looking for on the first try. Etienne’s annoyance charms Rosalind thoroughly, as it may so completely deter any other customer from entering his store ever again. She has always liked him best like this: the poison come to the surface, every thought laid bare. When Etienne bares his teeth, there are no secrets between them. His unpleasantness — that rancid and unlikable quality Etienne has mastered — is all the opening Rosalind needs to swoop in and make herself at home. She knows his anger, his petulance and spite which might sting anyone else. But Rosalind and Etienne know the trick of survival is to learn the taste of venom. They know how to tend to their gardens of bitter and deadly things; she just hadn’t expected him to use it against others.

But it all seems so far away, now. Without an engagement to tether her future to his, it’s easy for Rosalind to turn a blind eye to the labs beneath Terre Noire. She does so now, smiling at Etienne with all the warmth in the world to sway his heart, black and rotted with greed. He wants for the world, everything in it; it’s in his nature to hunger, and to crave for the taste of what was taken from him. Enter, Rosalind. Enter, what might have been if she had walked with him to the lowest lands of Val Faim. Enter, the marriage she denied him.

For a price.

Fickle and flighty Yvon is more stubborn than even Rosalind, as it turns out. Rosalind cannot seem to get a grip on the younger girl, much less turn her eye toward Alain’s direction. If she cannot deliver one fine prize for Alain, then she will settle on another. Enter, Etienne. Enter, what might have been if he had walked with her to Val Faim’s elite nobility, in a world that knew only glitter and gossip and the wine he loved. Enter, the marriage he denied her.

“And if I came here prepared to buy nothing and browse for the day, what shall you do?” Rosalind teases, her rings clinking against the vials on a shelf as she runs her hand along them. His creations. His life’s work. The prize she will give to Alain on a platter. “Is Nella out? I promised to bring her a trinket for how long she’s had to deal with you. I know better than anyone how cruel you are.”

𝐅𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐘 𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐆𝐄𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐕𝐄𝐈𝐍𝐒. The sound of Rosalind's voice blazes through him, as she tips the poisoned chalice in his direction, and knowingly, he indulges in its contents. Any venom of Rosalind's volition would not result in immediate effects, for the rules of their dance dwelled within him. A portion of himself, forever forfeited in favor of Rosalind and her divine cruelty. “Then I'd leave you to your browsing and retire to the lab, the place I'd actually like to be,” he declares without immediately looking up, in no rush to visually identify the woman he'd learned in nearly every regard. “Unless, perhaps, I have reason to not trust you. Because you're scheming or something of that nature.” He looks in tandem with the accusation catapulted in her direction, searching for any clues in her reaction that would shed light upon her true intentions. 

He perks up ever so slightly at the mention of Nella, one of the few people he'd actively made an effort of sparing— or so he thought. Her words are enough to destabilize his assumption, though he manages to mostly maintain his neutral expression. “Fraternizing with Nella is one thing, but acquainting yourself to a level that allows for the exchange of trinkets is another matter entirely.” Especially if it meant him being the subject of discussion. “Surely you aren't attempting to influence my employees in any way, are you?”

▒

Has it really been that long? So long that Etienne can’t recognize Ghislain’s lavishly adorned visage? He supposes it has, though he really can’t blame the alchemist for not recognizing him immediately. Ghislain has change very much. He’s a man of prominence now, the head of the Gallois Company and the Master of Quartier Azur. While his silks, paints, and jewelry have always been top quality, Ghislain’s current attire is much more fanciful given his elevated status. Plus his mask is more feral. Stronger. No, Etienne wouldn’t recognize him easily because Ghislain is a changed man. A better man, one finally worthy of his companionship. 

“I’ve no need for these “concoctions” or to browse them. There’s only one reason I’m here, and that’s to show off.” Ghislain hesitates, but ultimately reaches to unfasten the straps of his mask to reveal himself. Etienne is someone to be trusted after all, someone Ghislain would go to great lengths to please. He bows at the waist with a flourish and springs back up, grinning albeit a little nervously. “I’ve become very important, you see. I could probably get every item in this shop elsewhere. Not that I would, but I could. I’m simply that rich and that well connected now.” There’s an air of bemusement in the way he brags, but the smile on his face falters a bit, betraying his uncertainty. “I just thought … you might want to celebrate my success with me? I’m terribly busy all the time now—because I’m so successful-—so even coming down to see you was a bit of a logistics nightmare. Everyone depends on me and my company to support the continuing of operations at Quatier Azur. And it’s not just merchants either. There’s travel and important diplomat arrivals … schedules are very important and make sure the docks stick to them…” Ghislain is rambling, but never once did his wide-eyed, expectant gaze leave the other’s face. Surely Etienne would be proud. Ghislain hasn’t even gotten all the way through his responsibilities. A spineless fool could never handle them all. “Then there are the wages to oversee, appeasements to be made, and trying to understand some of Hippolyte’s old notes … may he rest in peace … I have an assistant now, because I’m a really important man…”

—

          𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐀 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐊 𝐈𝐒 𝐄𝐍𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 to usher Ghislain beyond the point of recognition. Not with every other aspect of his being catalogued to memory, from the timbre of his voice, to the pacing of his walk. The observations Etienne carried were obtained through a continued scrutiny, a manner of attentiveness inspired only by budding affection. It was the singular conclusion that made sense, and the most formidable of all. He'd learned Ghislain of his own volition, without even realizing what was unfolding before him. That was what made his desire so alarming, how it managed to escape his immediate control. He'd been comfortable in Ghislain's presence, a comfort only obtained through a lowered guard. He cannot bear the weight of the risks, he decides— and so proceeds with his campaign against his own affections, swearing his feelings would go unrequited by means of his own silence. Still, that same familiarity is inescapable, even with the distance Etienne concocts between them. He realizes this as Ghislain delves into one of his monologues, and how he's unable to tear himself away, even as his eyes dance across different items in the shop in an attempt to pretend he isn't otherwise. He does not miss a single word. Even with the knowledge that this was all they were— words. 

          “What better way to show off then to purchase one of my many concoctions?” Etienne retorts with a risen expression, motioning at the various bottles across the counter. It was his way of goading Ghislain to action and what he found to be the most straightforward way of calling his bluff. “Why would I want to celebrate with you, better yet, why would you want to celebrate with me?” He wonders if his words are too harsh, a consideration he rarely finds himself making, sighing as a result. “You’re right, a celebration would be in order if you got the position,” he says in attempt to lessen the impact of his prior words. “And it seems like you already know a lot about it.” He knew it would all be a matter of Ghislain putting forth these words into actions, and by this point in Etienne’s life, he was sparing with where he held his belief. Never though, did he completely outlaw the possibility. “Don’t let it slip through your fingers. Do what it takes to convince them.”

WHEN: Fourth of Maccius WHERE: The Lion’s Mane WHO: Closed @etiennemarais

Patrice had been given instruction, and he could not deny it. He was to accompany Beau to Hippolyte’s former place of residence, and serve as guard to her as she performed some task from Alain he had not been informed of. However, after learning of the location, Patrice could only imagine it was not something pleasant, and had already refused to participate in whatever task she’d been stuck with. He was to guard her and chase away anyone who approached, and that was that. Beau had agreed all too readily, and he was not sure if he should be relieved or be looking over his shoulder for the other shoe to drop.

But Patrice could not live with such paranoia. The last time he’d been frantically looking over his shoulder in Val Faim, he was running from the scene of a crime he’d committed, hoping there was no one in the path he’d left, and if there were, that they hadn’t seen nor suspected a thing. Such memories left an uncomfortable itch at the base of his neck, though whether it was the call of the sea mist tickling him as it called to him or if it was the blackmail-soaked rope Alain leashed him with, Patrice could not be certain. All he knew was that he needed a drink to wash away the feeling, and the Lion’s Mane was the best place to get one.

It was there that a certain face had caught Patrice’s eye. Etienne Marais was a familiar name and face with an unfamiliar profession. When he’d first arrived in Val Faim, he’d heard of this wine merchant, and had to search his memories for the familiar grouping of letters. It dawned on him soon after: this was the same person as the stable hand he had known growing up, whose domain he’d hidden contraband books and compasses and like treasures within. Etienne had kept his secrets, and seemed to have grown a prestige of his own once such things no longer needed guarding. And like Patrice had taken interest of Etienne, he had noticed that, in his research, so had Gisele, and he was not sure who knew to be cautious about her rose-adorned thorns. So, he sought to intervene. Besides, it would be impolite not to say hello. He still retained some manners from his childhood.

“I must say, you seem to have flourished since we’ve seen one another,” Patrice greeted as he approached the bar. It’d been nearly twenty years, he reminded himself. “I cannot help but wonder what someone of such fine fruited craft is doing at an establishment that seems to specialize in ale.”

          𝐈𝐓 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐒 𝐎𝐍𝐋𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐀𝐈𝐋𝐎𝐑’𝐒 𝐕𝐎𝐈𝐂𝐄 to pluck the cords of familiarity within him, struck with a sudden onset of memories recognizable only as an unintelligible mass. Nostalgia claws at Etienne’s lungs and throat, and for several moments, he does not speak. He is overcome by the moments before these— when Etienne would thumb through Patrice's hidden books in the corner of the stables, careful not to taint the pages with the day's grime, a young stable boy, lined to the brim with both brilliance and hope. This was a version of himself no longer in reach, an existence sustained only by the memory of those who'd known him in what felt like another lifetime, a life he'd disown entirely if not for the living proof of it. It was easy to ignore in the cobblestone paths and rickety horse stalls of his youth, for he outright avoided them, but far more difficult to confront them head on, and in this instance— unexpectedly so. It was what prompted his initial silence, for Patrice was a walking reminder that the past is never quite simply the past.

𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐒 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐎𝐍; such is the case for Rosalind and Etienne, who circle one another forever snapping their jaws. Their engagement is severed, their love affair stomped out, and still, they find their way back to one another. Every time they collide, Rosalind congratulates herself for escaping disaster before it brought her to ruins. Every time they depart, Rosalind feels the wind whistling through her bones, wondering if there will ever be anyone who makes her feel so alive as Etienne. Sure, it often feels like being set on fire from within, every part of her crumbling to ashes — but Rosalind has only felt herself when in the throes of destruction, knocking down all in her path as she blindly races to her glory. “Not long enough,” Rosalind snorts. “I don’t want your advice. In fact, I’d rather you insult me. What could I possibly learn from you?”

“Must you always speak as if we’re holding a gun to each other’s head?” Rosalind rolls her eyes, but she steps closer to him regardless. The thrill of besting him, her heart in her throat as Etienne’s eyes draw her in the same way she’s spit him out — this is where they are each other’s best, sharpening the other’s iron against their own. Whose hunger outhungers the other? Whose desire is most ruthless, most brutal? “Typical Tienne. Wanting everyone to beg for his attention when you know damn well you’re never going to give it away. I was the closest you came, hmm?” Her smile — touched by bliss as if pressed there by the gods — is meant to taunt him. “How embarrassing for you, that I threw it away.”

Etienne holds out his hand and she is reminded of the times he’s offered it to her before. The time he helped her stumble home as a teenager, flirting with her own potential for ruination. The time he he slipped her family’s ring, marked with the de Villiers crest, onto her finger. The time he tricked her into designing her own engagement ring and laughed as she cursed at him. Rosalind feels a pang in her chest, and she ignores it as she takes his hand.

“I am, but I suppose we can make them wait.”

          𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑 𝐅𝐄𝐄𝐓 𝐌𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐖𝐎𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑, no period of separation enough to extract the movements they’d etched into these very floors in dances long ago. “You talk of insult and lessons as if they have to exist separately, when you know you can always count on me to deliver both,” Etienne quips with an appraising glance, moving in tandem with the steps that were just as natural as walking. “More than I could ever hope to express during a single dance, Laurier rose. If I’m remembering correctly, it was the very knowledge of such devices and potential for learning that played a substantial role in your ending of the engagement, was it not?” 

         Any lingering humiliation Etienne felt surrounding Rosalind’s departure mattered little when it meant reminding Rosalind of the shortcoming that was her inherent morality, and the limits it created for the path of their paired ambition. It was an appetite inadequate for the feats he once desired they achieve. “Though, you can rest easy knowing your secret is safe with me. That of your bark possessing little bite to back it up.”

         Her ambition, the deadliness of her bite was almost enough— they'd almost been enough, a thought that evades him when being met with the Rosalind of the now and her most recent attempts at perturbation. “There's little you could do to further embarrass me, Rosalind. The perpetual wreak of cowardice that you just can't seem to escape has always been embarrassment enough.” He does not miss a beat as they proceed with the dance and the conversation at hand.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐕𝐎𝐈𝐂𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐍𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐒 𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐒, and there is a small pause beneath the comment, letting it simmer beneath the silence. Helene intends it to be uncomfortable, the movements of the workers measuring and pinching amplified beneath the background noise of the Silver Quarter. They both employ this sniping, trying to play at venom without the horror that it intends to inflict, all bark with no amount of bite beneath the words. Safe to say, it was a pleasant alternative to any other form of socialization in Val Faim. A bit more low-stakes than she was used to, but at least it took her mind off things.

“My dear, you would need to be worth impressing first, but that is simply your mistake. I’ll find my time forgive you for that, I suppose.” A crack of a smile in the mirror as her sleeve is carefully measured. She, though through no fault of her own, likes the young noble, as he had been forged through summer and winter, clawing a place in the Empress’ Court that only few have dared try. Even more so, he had succeeded, an alchemist and a vintner that seemed to keep his head above water through dealings with suspect persons and the occasional poisoning. A dangerous man to some, but not to her. Not yet. And woe be to the Court if it ever came to that; nary a noble in their precious ivory towers would be able to withstand their onslaught.

But the day is young and the sun is bright, with the promise of the future freshly minted beneath its rays; no blood has been spilled, and nothing has offended her in the slightest as of yet, so she lets it continue. Helene felt his eyes linger on her, and she moves her hand in the slightest to allow the seamstresses work as she moves. “You do know that decorum presents that your eyes should never linger on a lady, my dear Etienne, unless her hand catches your face from the insult,” she comments offhandedly, letting her face angle and catch the sun. “Lucky for you darling, that you’ve caught me in one of my better moods. And my sword is not within arm’s reach. But I digress. Have you come here simply to admire me, as many are wont to do, or is there anything more substantial you wish to accomplish?”

—

          𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐄’𝐒 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐏𝐒, 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐌 𝐎𝐅 𝐀𝐂𝐂𝐄𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐍𝐕𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒, and Etienne now knows to commence with the verbal contest. “It never hurts to have a shopkeeper on your good side. Rumor has it, I have a pretty swoon-worthy friends and family discount.” It was a rumor of his own formulation, something that went uncontested with little to no friends or family to make use of such an opportunity. “Though my worth independent of my business will be up for reassessment in the near future, you may find,” Etienne offers with a suggestive smirk, knowing that the particulars depended on the outcome of his sponsorship. 

         “You'll have to forgive my unfamiliarity with such customs, for I am no gentleman.” To carry himself as such would've been no different than it was in his early years of social climbing, but he presently possessed standing enough to opt-out of such niceties. “But do not let my failure as a gentleman prevent you from restoring decorum as a lady would in an instance such as this,” he hints at her prior suggestion, eyes returning brazenly to her mirrored gaze. “I’m not sure how safe I am to truly feel considering all of the potential weapons formulated from tailors tools, it is reassuring to know I’m not in close proximity to your sword, milady.” 

         He lingers a moment longer without response, still determining the precise nature of his motivations. It was true, admiration always played a substantial role in their interactions, but there was a sense of approval sought out that did not exist prior— not the approval he achieved in their verbal spars, but an approval extended only to those considered worthy allies— or adversaries. Such a desire would never be addressed directly, but he wondered what indirect measures could be taken in order to achieve such a result. “No new potential political gain that I’ve concocted since our last encounter. Other than the usual benefit of having an advisor to the empress on your good side. Is there any way I can be of service to you, though, milady?”

Even if just once, Gisele wishes she could be spared the resistance of a target. It’s not that her pride is outraged by Etienne’s words - by her own estimation she has a higher tolerance for derision than most - but her mind is puzzling out the logical eventualities, imagining how the chess board will shuffle for each move she makes, and the odds displease her. He relishes in this power too much, both over her in this instance and in his crowning position atop the triangle between Calandre and Alain. To sever him from it, even if only to replace it with power of another kind, is not a straightforward procedure. She’s equipped with offers, both appealing and realistic; Unfortunately offers alone are nothing without the proper preamble. Gisele can make no mistake on that front, not again– she could reliably offer Etienne the world and he’d still be scouting for better deals. She suspects there’s nothing in existence she could ever definitively buy his allegiance with and this infeasible price makes crafting a sales pitch so much more trying. 

And yet, for all the imposing unlikelihoods, she knows she must try. Not so much for Alain, as for herself. She simply has to adjust her techniques to account for the difficulty of character. If Etienne refuses to receive delight, there are plenty of tactics she can call upon that require none. “Perhaps I did know, but I’d much rather be too polite than overfamiliar. It never pays to overplay one’s hand.” Gisele’s artfully sunny air does not waver for even a moment in the face of his dismissiveness, but her reply comes as half concession, half warning.

“So many demands and yet nothing offered for my compliance but a seat. Not even an offer to get me a drink?” With a quick tsk, she slides into the booth across from him, folding her hands neatly on the table and leaning in. “I think perhaps you’ve misunderstood what this is. I’m not here to kowtow, Etienne, and neither am I here to convince. That’s not quite my field of expertise. I’m merely here to assess.” She spends a long moment looking over him appraisingly, taking no care to disguise the inspection. “Quite honestly, I’ve invested in you before and been left all the worse for it. I don’t see what reason I should have to consider you a potential asset at all anymore.” She skillfully maintains the facade of innocuity, as though she were now simply deciding volubly the relative merits of one drink over another or discussing card game strategies. “It seems like it would make more sense for me to work to neutralize you than court you to my cause, no? What could you be bringing to the table to make working for your support worth my time?”

          “𝐘𝐎𝐔’𝐋𝐋 𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐈𝐍 𝐌𝐄 𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐎 𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐘 𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐂𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍,” Etienne responds with a disappointed wave of his hand, persisting with the courtship narrative he’d posed prior to Gisele’s disruptive suggestions. “For you to be overplaying your hand would mean that some potential scenario exists where over-politeness gets you anywhere with me. How well do you know your mark really?” He tilts his head, overcome with semi-mock offense at the thought of not being thoroughly vetted prior to Gisele’s arrival. “It’s a matter of working smarter not harder. Unless sweet nothings serve some grander purpose not yet revealed to me.”

         Like distractions used while staging a murder attempt, he notes to himself, though Etienne hadn’t noted anyone worthy of suspicion occupying the Mane— outside of Gisele, whose presence pended further evaluation. He tilts the bottle toward her with a perked brow, an offer generally made to any person occupying his booth, the satiating of his ego through sharing his wines, paired with the understanding human tolerability generally increased when indulging in alcohol. “Did we not just level with each other about the frivolousness of formalities?” he poses with a searching glance, attempting to clearly assess what she hoped to gain in her approach, arriving at unsatisfactory answers each and every time. “I am no host. Though if you’d like some wine, I have plenty.”

         Any desire he did not have to host Gisele on this fated night at the Mane left in full upon realizing how she planned to proceed with her presentation, enough to know that it presented uncomfortable, and undesirable conversation, something that paired rather unfashionably with his wines.  “I’m displeased to say that one of our memories may be failing us. Hopefully, my recollection of events will aid us in the path to clarity.” His expression grows taut as he fills a spare glass in a silent motion. “What you remember to be an investment, which isn’t wholly untrue, I remember to be my going with a more secure opportunity. A third of an estate just doesn’t carry the same promise. Neither does a half.” 

         He shifts the glass toward Gisele with caution enough to not allow his irritation to waste wine. “Don’t bother overestimating your importance in my potential alliance. If not you, then someone else. Let me remind you who potentially is gaining something from this situation.” Who recruited Etienne presented no gain for him, and exactly why he possessed a clear advantage when it came to any efforts made toward recruitment. How far they were willing to go, in order to bear the credit of his recruitment, were all avenues he was yet to uncover.

          𝐈𝐓 𝐃𝐈𝐃 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐀𝐍 𝐀𝐋𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖 a person's efforts were best dedicated to something aligned with their strengths, something, Nella, Etienne’s only employee at Terra Noire, assured him several days ago, but that did not change her decision to take the week off, and leave him to run the shop, and most dreadfully, interact with customers. A bonus, nor a raise would sway her either, though Nella still welcomed the idea of either in the near future, she’d assured him. Perhaps this was when having multiple employees would have come in handy— but he knew the odds of stumbling across another person he could tolerate long term were slim to nothing.

          Every moment spent above the surface meant another moment spent away from the lab, and Etienne progressively grew more irritable in its absence, busying himself with straightening several enchanting fragrances displayed on the shop counter and opting not to look up at whoever entered the store. He could only hope his performance of obliviousness was convincing enough. Only several moments pass before he decides identifying the customer would be in his best interest, perchance he fell victim to another assassination attempt. “Have you come here with a purchase in mind, or are you just browsing, as they say?” Etienne asks point blankly, for this would determine the remainder of their interaction. “If you are here to browse, consider arriving more prepared next time. There are only so many options to be had with a perpetually unchanging inventory.” Every customer meant a new opportunity to break the record for least amount of time spent with him in the store.

She doesn’t like the way Etienne puts it - as though she belongs to the Empress, as though she is just another one of Calandre’s pawns. But, perhaps that is what she is, in a way. Maybe this is what others see, maybe this is what Calandre sees. But she isn’t, at least, this is what she tells herself - She doesn’t belong to anyone but herself. Herself, and Odeline.

She takes another sip from her glass - She isn’t drinking as quickly as Etienne, in part for fear that there are things she does not want to say to him, that she might, had she been drinking more. 

“Interesting,” She starts, “That you assume I choose my company based on allegiances.” It’s true that she does, sometimes, and it’s true that she knows, perhaps, that she would do better for herself not to keep his company. 

—        

           He studies the mercenary curiously, in search of what specifically he said to have them so agitated; it was information that served no present purpose, but could potentially become useful at a later date. “What about my assumptions is of interest?” he cannot help but ask, overcome by rare, though genuine enthusiasm. “Though, I was never assuming you picked your company based on allegiance. I inquired about the frequency of our meetings despite our potentially conflicting allegiances. It is enough for nobles in much higher standing than you to steer clear of me, and the reason I’ve found your reoccurring presence quite strange.”  Basing one’s associations based on allegiance to the Crown when employed by the Crown seemed the most natural route of all, especially when even the irrevocable scent of treason could be enough to deprive one of their head. “Don’t tell me you thought others avoided me because I’m insufferable,” he blurts half jokingly between chuckles. “That surely plays a large role, but it was by far, never the root of it.” 

To Gisele, going to see Etienne is like passing through a forest she knows well in daylight during the dead of night– Objectively, she knows the spooky figures lurking in her periphery are nothing but rocks and shrubs catching the shadows wrong, but that knowledge doesn’t relieve the deep, instinctual sense of wrongness that overcomes her. Approaching Etienne as a suppliant and not a patron is decidedly wrong, another grim repercussion of the same betrayal that tore up everything of value in Gisele’s life. Even just circulating in the same social spheres as him is punishment, like having to watch an old friend who’s long since forgotten your name parade around with your replacement. Over and over she has talked her into and out of Alain’s assignment in her own head, a few times having gotten so close to calling it off entirely, but at the end of the day she couldn’t escape the knowledge she’d inevitably go through with it. She is, above all else, a creature of purpose.

By the time the selected date arrives, she has thoroughly prepared. She anticipates Etienne will be at the Lion’s Mane for some time, and she expects that her ‘chance encounter’ will be minimally disruptive, as much as this sort of thing can be. Hopefully this will be quick. Whatever affinity she has for words, unfortunately, extends more to the jarring and unpleasant than to the suasive, especially weak in a match against a man who has talked his way from stable to political stage. Moreover, she’s almost fundamentally unsuited for the setting, the noise, the liquor, the rowdiness, what with her sobriety of spirit and precise language, leaving her even further at disadvantage. 

She slips through the throng of patrons with a tense, business-like manner, her demeanor only softening when she catches sight of her target. As soon as she’s sure she’s close enough to be heard without having to raise her voice, she calls out to him. “Monsieur Marais, what a delight to see you.” Her delivery is it’s usual silky sing-song as she rounds on him, each syllable articulated with flowing rhythm and musical inflection, as though there really is nothing in the world she’d like better than this very meeting. "Tell me, would you prefer I play out the charade of what a wonderful coincidence it is to happen upon you here or would skipping all that be doing us both a favour?”

          𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐕𝐀𝐋 𝐅𝐀𝐈𝐌, The Lion’s Mane became, for Etienne, the city’s core and capital, his own personal pandemonium, and the closest thing to comfort he could ever hope to discover. So frequently was his booth adorned with his wines, and perhaps less frequently, companions, that it became his own. A self-implemented, unofficial sanction, (as he had not yet convinced Degaré why the booth would be better adorned with, “Property of Etienne Marais” sprawled across it), tangible enough that he lounged leisurely in the splintered seat like a makeshift throne. Besides— Etienne's claim of royalty— which was him being noble adjacent, more than anything— bore the same weight of absurdity that his claim to a wooden booth did.

         It made the spectacle of Calandre and Alain vying for his hand all the more the gratifying, for the forging of his courtly presence confirmed Etienne's belief in the fragility of noble associations. To enter noble circles requires only the proper presentation of oneself, as an asset that the crown and those in opposition could not bear to live without, for what worse hands for the philosopher's stone to wind up in, then that of one's enemy? How badly Alain and Calandre desired Etienne's allegiance mattered little— just as long as the idea of him aligning with others— continued to be unbearable. 

         Unbearable— it was the word that remained with him as he watched Gisele glide across the crowded space. How far Calandre and Alain were willing to go were still depths not yet fully explored— but sending Gisele to do his bidding, and in the Mane of all places? Perhaps Alain was willing to go far indeed. As the gap between the two of them lessens, the span of his smile lengthens. He understands that she would not grace his presence unless it was absolutely necessary. She was one of many people he'd crossed  on his quest to upward mobility— but the difference between Gisele, and many of the others, was that the potential for her wrath was enough to unnerve the alchemist— enough for him to question her intentions, even as she presented them to him, clear as day.