fortune teller

Normally, Emory would avoid Finn’s shop. He’d been hiding behind so many masks that he was terrified of being read–but now things were different. Sure, he was still terrified of the future, but right now the present was even scarier. With his mom gone, the nation’s eyes on him, his father threatening to disown him, and his relationship with Orion hanging in the balances–the idea of the future seemed rather comforting at the moment. 

And who better than Finn to give him a sense of security about his future?

As he entered the shop, his hands were shaking so violently that he kept them in his coat pockets. “No worries,” Em replied. He’d been in the shop before, but only with Eira on his arm. The lack of his fiance to hide behind cause Emory’s stomach to flip, and his eyes didn’t rest as they glanced around the room. Knowing that Finn now knew his secret didn’t help matters, but he had to face the fact that everyone knew his secrets now. “I will be upfront about admitting that I do not know exactly why I am here.”

If there is anyone at all Finn would least expect to see in his shop, it might be Emory Osanos- it’s sheer surprise (neither pleasant nor unpleasant) that makes his hand pause in its motion towards pulling another box of tea towards him, surprise and he snaps out of it a moment later.

“Many clients don’t.” He replies unthinkingly, blinking a little at his kettle.

A beat of silence, Finn has to pause and abandon his tea for a moment to pull back the curtain. Just for a moment, double check to see if-- and nevermind, nevermind it is. Emory’s figure is the first thing he sets his eyes on, the Silver uncertain in the way he holds himself (regal despite his bearing).

Finn raises an eyebrow, unease neatly layered over with the slant of a half smile and the crinkle of warm eyes, “I’m just making tea at the moment. Any preference for type?”

Valeria hadn’t meant to come into this store, if that’s what you could call this sort of place, but here she was. That damnable bell above her head had even given her away. No popping in and out again without being seen. It took a great deal of self control not to run out. She was quick on her feet, she’d think of some lie that would explain her presence. Maybe.

“No rush. No rush.” Valeria called back to the voice in the corner, again cursing her abominable luck. She moved to a slightly more relaxed position before the man emerged, unwilling to let first impressions scare the guy away. The silence felt awkward and before she could quite think her words through she spoke to the corner. “I actually came here to ask what you do here. I walk past often and I’ve always wondered.” It wasn’t really a lie.

“Make yourself comfortable!” He raises his voice over the whistling kettle- where did his spoon go again. “There are chairs!”

There are chairs, though everything is so mismatched- wooden stools, a bench in the corner, a chaise lounger he’d picked up somewhere- it mostly slots together because Finn’s draped gaudy fabric over everything, decided to add to the sense of mysticism with his green and purple and shimmering (fake) silk. He has some sense of aesthetic at least. The windows are open and unlike most fortune telling establishments, the air isn’t thick or heavy, the smoke from the burning incense going straight out the window.

In a corner framed by gaudy curtains- whatever privacy that affords him, Finn tries to find a clean cup amidst all the baubles and trinkets. He’s dealing with the close to boiling kettle when a bell rings and the door of the shop swings open. He pauses and levels out a small spoonful of leaves to set to the side.

“I’ll be with you a moment.” He says, loud enough to be heard at the entrance of the shop. Patience, they say, is a virtue.

“Are you saying that you’re reliant on a crystal orb to ordain the future. I thought all the power rested in here.” She tapped at her temple with a small smile. Everyone was in dark, muted tones, but she could tell the reds among them, flickering with flame beneath their cheeks instead of the ice of their counterparts, as if still different in death, inappropriate in the vividness of their coloring.

At the mention that he hadn’t been able to see Eira, a light frown came upon her face, but she hid her feelings of fear and concern, and she instead laughed brightly, “Well, I’ll see if I can take the little bird for a turn around the gardens later. Then perhaps you can glimpse us both and expend yourself a little less.”

“Quite well, actually. I was never too close to the king, may he rest in peace.” A small sigh, “However, I do hope that my friends are coping with the loss of their father. I pray that they’ll find peace… That their pain will fade with time.” She flicked her eyes towards him, “And you? Are you well?”

The shadow of a grin plucks at his mouth. He’s never been entirely sure exactly how much Kass knows of his ability- how much of her words are serious, how much is merely jest. He supposes it doesn’t really matter.

Expend yourself a little less.

"The way you say it, I sound like an old man. Guess I’ll be spending my night outside in the garden after all." His voice is wry, rueful. “

“Time will mend all.” Speculation, or knowledge. He had yet to experience such grief- knew little of it except what he had gleaned through the future others, so perhaps he had a little knowledge of this after all. “I’m certain they’ll find their peace. My thoughts are with them.”

Kass didn’t care about the rumors she was stirring up or the whispers she was causing. Let them gossip and whisper and titter among themselves. It wasn’t that she was above it. No, she was beneath it. She lived in a world where whispers were met with fists and challenges meant blood. If she wanted to acknowledge them, she had no doubt that many a person would fry before the day was out. And that would lead her execution. No, she had to ride just above her baser instinct. For everyone’s survival.

She half-snorted when she realized who had caught her, rolling her eyes at him. “Don’t you have better people to spy on, fortune teller? Why don’t you stand in your shadows, look into your crystal ball, and watch over our girl instead of me? You know I can take care of myself.” She stretched up and cracked her back slowly, using what little give her gown afforded her to try to ease the pain from her spine. Turned out a Nolle couldn’t slouch in a public event, guard or not. People liked to think that the army was this pristine well-oiled machine that left and came back polite and stern and well-suited to orders. Well, that wasn’t the case. Out in the trenches, no one cared if your buttons were shiny or your shoulders were rounded or hunched. Men and this woman more often than not came back more concerned with forgetting the taste of blood than minding their p’s and q’s. After all, they’d all seen the carnage managed by a bad order at a bad time.

“When is my mother not being insistent, I ask you? Honestly, that woman ought to train half of the Nortan soldiers in the Choke. If they can survive her, they’ll survive anything.”

The woman looks entirely uncomfortable in her ballgown. It’s beautiful, certainly, but it looks unbearable as with most fashionable clothing. He’s indistinctly grateful he’s never had to wear anything of the sort.

“I didn’t bring my crystal orb today, unfortunately.” Ruefully amused, he has the brief thought of himself coming to the event decked out in his normal work garb- the garish sashes and the rainbow colours. It would have been entirely inappropriate.

“I haven’t been able to find Eira yet.” He confesses. Decorum is not something he ascribes to often, and with Kassiopea Nolle it’s more often than not unnecessary to try. His inability to find Eira is not for lack of trying- he’s been trying to glimpse her all night- even with the knowledge that he’d never be able to approach her in mind. He’d watch her from afar, perhaps.

Emory had been hoping his response would satisfy Finn, that maybe he’d decide that was enough small talk for the night and scurry off. Instead, he asked further questions–Emory didn’t know why he was still surprised. People in general never knew when to stop inquiring, and Finn seemed particularly curious. 

With a polite smile, Emory answered, “How has it progressed? Slowly. I am on duty, after all,” his eyes settled on Orion, who stood behind Finn with a few Silver girls. Queenstrial business, he assumed. He felt his heart sink, even though he knew it was pointless to feel envious. Before long, he realized he’d been staring. Looking back to Finn, he stood a bit straighter. “Uh, anyway, if you are looking for Eira–I last saw her near the banquet tables.”

“Oh, I see.” He turns a little, finds the object of Emory’s gaze, and supposes he should not be wholly surprised the other is looking towards his employer. Loyalty is a virtue to be extolled.

The mention of Eira, on the other hand, catches Finn off-guard. He blinks, opening his mouth before pausing- has to choose his words carefully before he speaks. Eira’s-- husband, fiance, chaperone?-- never ceases to mystify, to contradict. It nags at him every time- he’s always forgotten to ask what exactly the nature of the duo’s relationship was. Now it seems a little too late to be asking, especially when he feels as if it should be common knowledge already. But- husband, fiance, or even chaperone- Emory’s words don’t seem to match up with any of the three.

“I was keeping my eye out.” He smiles, hiding his perplexity well. He’s tried to give up on figuring it out- but it seems to come back and haunt him every time. Expecting anything from Emory is a moot point. “Should you be getting back to anything?”

DATE: March 19th LOCATION: Palace Gathering Hall  OPEN

               The decent into hell is easy, it’s what her father had always uttered over the dinner table, entwined with the demands and rants of a man hungry on his own pursuit for power and wealth. Screams were forced from her chest, yet remained lodged in her throat., tears springing to her eyes in horror. It was a catastrophic event, devastation rocking the glittering room. Her mind was dizzied, and for the first time since the attack, Calista forced her eyes open. Silver poured from cuts which littered her skin, yet she could not see the impact to her body, or the horror which had ensued. 

               She was caught, stuck between the living and the threshold of something otherworldly, the event had acted in repeat for her, over and over, mind circling around the same trigger point. Her fingers grasped for something, an uprising of coughs and she seemed to intake a plume of smoke with every breath. Her eyes stung, an abyss of darkness surrounding her, and in all her life she’d never felt so vulnerable. 

               Tears slipped down the curvature of her features, her arms flailing desperately. Every ounce of her swan-like elegance slipped away, and perhaps to others she appeared maddened, although they were likely wrapped up in their own injuries. She caught her hand on a sharp edge, wincing from the pain as she used it to hoist her body up, only to stumble once more over a protruding object. “Help!” she cried, pressing her hands to her eyes. “I–I cannot see.”

There’s blood on his hands, and all Finn can wonder is why it isn’t his own. Red blood, slick and wet and when he had touched that man’s hand all he’d known was the end.

( all he’d felt was the end, the terror immobilizing him as if it was his own, the darkness, the darkness- )

“Lady Eagrie-”

Recognition, a flare of concern that takes him by surprise- he had almost wondered if he was too numb to feel anything. If he had been emptied out, a little part of him dying when the other had died. But he comes rushing back to himself at the sound of her voice, his emotions thump jagged and sharp against the beat of his heart, and he’s almost relieved.

Coming closer he barely spares a glance at the silver blood slick on her skin, not slipping on the rubble as he reaches her. “It’s alright-” he pitches his voice low, soothing, and perhaps trying to sound calm helps too, because he’s suddenly more composed himself. “It’s alright.”

He’s about to take her hands in his own to guide her when he remembers-- his gloves, he’d discarded them. The moment of hesitation is overcome, he does not falter again when he gently grasps her arm, careful not to touch anything but her sleeve, careful not to slip. “Let me help.”

location ;; the bunkers date ;; 03/20, 5:24 a.m. status ;; open

     It had been a long night, far too long and gruesome for her liking. Her knees were pulled up to her chest as she sat on the ground, not quite leaning against the wall for fear of even more agonizing pain aside than the constant ache that still plagued her. Jacalyn Blake had never seen anything quite so horrible in her life as the aftermath of the attack. She couldn’t even have imagined something so awful could happen in the world that had always been so kind to her. But it was clear that her rose-colored glasses had failed her this time as she sat in a blood-encrusted gown with a borrowed shawl pulled tight across her back. She had stopped crying a while ago, but her tears had made tracks through the blackened smoke that layered her face. Although she had nearly dozed off a dozen times through the night despite the worried talk and crying that pervaded the bunker, every time her eyes would close and she would slowly fall back on her injuries thus awakening her once more. 

     So there she sat for most of the night, not speaking or moving or sleeping. A state of shock, she thought, finally glancing around her to see the other survivors. “Portia,” she finally said, her voice low and shaking slightly. “Does anyone know if she’s alright?” She’d been separated from her unconscious friend shortly after the explosion. Jack supposed it might have been selfish to only now think of her friend, but so much had happened in such a short amount of time. And for a while, all she could focus on was the harrowing pain in her spine. She pulled the shawl tighter around her, wincing at the added pressure on her wounds. “What happened?”

There’s sobbing from around him- quiet, subdued. Everything is still heavy, as if the air around them is constricting in itself, unwilling to let them speak, to allow them to mourn. The shock has passed, all there is is a strange sense of numbness now. The children have long since fallen asleep, he’d left his temporary charge with another, was trying again to ineffectually search for the girl’s mother. He had a sinking feeling that perhaps she wouldn’t be found.

He shakes his head at the question from the stranger- who Portia is, he’s not sure, but he has no need to know. “I’m sure she’s fine,” he says, comforting, and doesn’t know if he’s lying or not.

It’s unsettling, the thought that his words might be a lie, that her friend might be lying buried under rubble, that she might never see this Portia again. For some reason he almost can’t connect to it, almost can’t connect to that thought.

What happened.

What happened, indeed. The explosion, the bombs, the screaming. The smile that pulls on his lips is weary, strained.

“Nobody’s sure,” he murmurs. “But it’s over now. Everything will be alright.” And the lie is tepid on his tongue. Everything will be alright. He’s never believed it more when he tells the stranger this now, he’s never wanted to believe it more. “Are you injured?”

DATE: march 21st LOCATION: outside the gym STATUS: open  

         Vezina was a mess, but the world wasn’t sitting around waiting for a mess to breathe again. The world didn’t just stop because someone Vezina loved (she really did love her mother, no matter how often things were awful with her. She takes a deep breath, her mind racing like it hasn’t since she was still in school. The gym will quell her fear, will calm her anxieties. She just needs a punching bag. 

          She makes her way to the gym quickly and quietly, not stopping at all. Then, in quick succession, three things happen: Vezina trips over her own two feet ( a rarity that Vezina has her guard down enough to trip is nearly a miracle ), Her boxing gloves fall out of the bag, along with a knife, and Vezina lands on the ground and feels tears prickling her eyes. 

           She doesn’t cry, ever. Vezina isn’t a fan of showing weakness, but in this moment she is weak. Her mother is the gone, Evelina is gone, so many people she knows were gone in one instant and she’s not allowing herself to cry too much at home because she is caring for her father. Right now, she obviously needs to cry, but she wants to run away from Norta itself, away from anyone who might see. 

          “I’m sorry,” she chokes out at a spectator, trying to gather her things and escape. 

Aimlessly, Finn wanders the city. There are always new things to see, new things to discover- even if, unlike most days, much of it feels stale to him, nothing feels quite real. Everything feels fragile. As if the diamondglass built into the foundations of the city are no more than spun sugar, to be broken and shattered upon the slightest push.

And yet, somehow, most are still going about their every day lives, individuals walking and talking, laughing as if nothing has changed. There must be some strength in that, willpower of some sort, and while Finn yearns to replicate it he doesn’t think he’s really succeeded at all- he has no idea how.

When a woman falls down not metres away from him, it almost takes him a split second to react. But when he does he’s taking a step forwards- then another, until he’s next to her (if he had the time or thought to notice, he might see all the others on the street avert their gaze, avert their steps, but he’s never been given to see such things, has never given a care for what should be accepted and acceptable).

“Are you alright?” He keeps his voice soft. I’m sorry, and a pang of something twists at his chest. “It’s alright,” he murmurs, remembering all those times he had repeated it in the bunkers, shushing a child who could not sleep, who hadn’t been able to find her mother. He repeats it now, unwilling to feel helpless when he can at least try- try to help.

There’s nothing to apologize for, but somehow it can’t quite leave his lips, the words can’t quite form on his tongue.

Instead all Finn says is- “Let me help”- and he’s kneeling down, picking up her things with steady hands, gingerly handling the knife as he replaces it in her bag. His decision, when it is made, makes itself in a split second. “Are you going to be alright? My shop is close by.”

DATE: March the 19th. LOCATION: Gathering Hall. OPEN TO: anyone.

               The explosion is a terrible, awful kind of beautiful. The flares billow out then almost seem to curl inwards, unfurling and crawling back like the tide. When the dust settles, Eira tries to pull herself to her feet, realizing ( not without a surge of relief ) that she can still stand. Still, her first steps are as hesitant as a newborn fawn’s, hands grabbing at the air in a desperate attempt to find something to steady herself with. The air reeks of smoke and a sharper, metallic tang she is afraid of sticking a name onto. When she presses at her collarbone and the hem of her dress, her fingers come away coated with something warm and sticky, shimmering silver. 

               She feels haggard but absurdly happy to be alive. And others — oh, gods, she prays with growing horror — aren’t so lucky. Bodies are strewn across the Gathering Hall, bleeding red and silver alike, and she cannot bear to look at them. What if she actually recognizes someone— what will she do then— Eira wants to Sing the world into righteousness, tell them things are going to fix themselves and see it magically happen, but this is no such world. “ Are you okay ? Do you need help ? ” she almost shouts those words across the crowd, biting down on her lower lip right after she speaks them and hurrying towards the silhouette she can barely make out in the general panic. It doesn’t matter who they are or whether she knows them ; right now there is no such difference, simply the border between dead and alive. 

Eira. He doesn’t realize how worried he is for the other, not until he sees her, not until she’s close enough that the haze clears and the tight knot of fear anxiety dread loosens in his heart and he can breathe again.

“Eira-” his voice stumbles, shaken but of course it is, of course he is. “I- I’m fine.” Her words have been lost on him already, lost by the shouting, lost through the crowd; his eyes are tracking over her frame, the ugly silver staining her skin- not enough, sight is not enough.

He’s not entirely cognizant of the way he reaches for her, only discerns after he’s grasped her hands with his and the red on his hands is staining her palms (not his own blood- he’d forgotten this, how he’d torn away his gloves and held the red slick hands of a man who could no longer be saved, how he had realized then there was no healing him and his voice had died as it shouted for a healer)-- but that is lost too, everything is lost and he cannot comprehend anything for that moment of time except to know that she is safe, she will be safe, this is over.

“You’re bleeding.” Still he has not let go of her, beyond the initial reassurance of her safety relieved to feel the solid warmth of another’s hand on his- “Are you alright?” Foolish words, he becomes conscious of that as soon as they leave his mouth, how could she be alright- "Do you need a healer?”

The dust settles, the smoke fades. Time will heal all things. Time will not mend the faces of the broken dead.

There is nothing Finn can do. He is no healer, he is no fighter. There is nothing he can do to aid the living, nothing he can say now to consecrate the dead. And yet looking around him, all he can think of is- how did I not see?

(how did i not stop this? nothing is inevitable, nothing is set.)

(and so, the question that remains: why.)

Is it his fault? Was it his fault, at least in part? He could have seen, he should have seen. Stricken, he mourns. Stricken, he wonders.

(but hadn’t he felt it? hadn’t he breathed the clean air and tasted ash on his tongue, hadn’t he looked to the stage and felt the rumble in the foundations of the stone, hadn’t he felt it and- hadn’t he dismissed it?)

(and hadn’t there been a boy next to him, barely more than a child, brushing to the front of the crowd past him, a child he had seen barely minutes later, crumpled, unmoving. it would have been so easily to brush his hand, to contact skin and to know destiny. all those people around him, all those fates and he had not touched one of them. if he had, if he hadn’t made such an effort to avoid touch-- how easily would some things have been averted?)

(would he have known better, if he had listened to the half-murmurs of the winding stone, if he had felt the tremor of the earth beneath his feet- would he have realized?)

(perhaps the answer is no, but the faces of the dead will not allow him that answer)

Home is close- home, the silver estate and the wide gardens, the balcony he had oft stargazed from- and yet. He falters, already begun walking in that direction, as if by instinct, as if by memory. He would not want his parents to see him like this. A dull thud echoes in his chest as he walks, a heaviness as if all the ash, all the rubble has settled on his shoulders, as if for a mere hour he is bearing Atlas’ burden for him.

Fear, warring with uncertainty. And a terrible uncertainty has settled in his bones as he wanders the street. The Scarlet Guard, he hears, as he drifts from West Archeon back to the East, away from his home, back to his little shop. The Scarlet Guard. Hatred, he hears, anger, fear. No, he wants to reply, no, for it is not the truth.

(and yet, and yet, his mind is treacherous. he hears, he listens, he doubts. he cannot help but to think of quiet moments in a dimly lit shop, of wheels of cloth and spindles of thread and a warm hand on his, a touch that could erase sight as easily as Finn would see it. he is not like Beckett, he was not made for some of the things he knew some amongst them would do for the greater cause. and so what if, what if--

                                      no. he cannot doubt, not now. he must not doubt.)

His guilt is not absolved.

Finn wanders, aimless, walks amongst the streets that are suddenly foreign to him. If he does not doubt them, then surely he can only fault himself. In the end, will they doubt him as he now doubts himself? After all, he could have seen. He should have seen, if only--

         The voice is only vaguely familiar, but Emory tenses as he recognizes the face that accompanies it. If Finn were a normal man, just a friend of Eira’s, he was almost sure the two of them would get along. Finn was nice, and interesting enough to keep Emory asking about him when he wasn’t around–but he wasn’t normal. 

         The future terrified Emory, and because he generally avoided that which scared him, he avoided Finn. The mere possibility of someone being able to read him–being able to know all of his desires, all of his plans–was enough to decide his opinion on the fortune teller. So when he was approached by him, Emory’s first instinct was to walk in the opposite direction. Unfortunately, he was raised to be painfully polite. 

        “As much as I can, I suppose,” Emory stood a little straighter, his arms folded in front of him. He was careful not to make eye contact with Finn, just in case. “I’m not sure it’s possible to enjoy something very much in the wake of a death, but the food is good. Are you…enjoying yourself?”

Glancing around to see Emory Osanos, Finn wonders in the span between one beat of silence and the next- what exactly is it about the man that seems to constantly be sending him mixed signals. On everything.

( i’m not sure it’s possible to enjoy something very much in the wake of a death... but the food is good- the humour is probably unintentional, the smile that tugs on his lips is smothered for a more polite expression )

“As much as one can enjoy,” Finn echoes, partway in agreement. He’s given up on acting as anything around Emory- let the die fall where they will, he’s semi optimistic he won’t get his head chopped off for it. Metaphorically. “How has your night progressed so far?”

( a moment of introspect:          he’s fairly certain emory dislikes him,          he has somewhat less idea why the osanos continues tolerating him. )

date: february 25th location: gathering hall open

A dream turned nightmare had shaken him awake that morning, and he had remained under the covers, eyes still closed, trying to remember what reality was. The news reverberated in his mind, a clashing rhythm urging him to believe it was the truth.

But he had long since stopped believing words — had long since stopped believing in much of anything nowadays. When he opened his eyes and turned to peer at clouds painting the sky, he did not believe. Pulling himself from his bed and forcing himself to change so he could be presentable, he did not believe.

It wasn’t until he saw the hooded lids of mother’s eyes and the downturned lip of his father that the inkling of doubt settled in his chest. And how it expanded, charging forth until his feet guided him to a feast and to people and to mourning.

King Calore was dead.  Suriel Arven had a new master.

Dread seeped into his bones, and he wandered; the only significant movement he made was plucking a wine glass from a passing servant, holding it without drinking. This day — the days to follow —- it was all something left to imagination years prior. The creeping wonder of how Orion would command whenever the heavy pressure of King Calore would make its presence known.

And yet, the passing of chains was something he could not ignore. And now, he didn’t need to wonder any longer: Orion Calore would command him, and he would have to obey.

( there was nothing to be done.   he was used to hope falling through his fingers. )

A bubble from his wine floated to the surface, popping more in show than sounds, and Suriel returned to the present, lifting his head to realize someone was speaking — speaking to him.

“My apologies, I…..lost you. Is it alright that I ask you to repeat what you just stated?”

It was a long time since Finn had returned to West Archeon, longer since that he had ever visited the palace. He had found himself spending most of his savings purchasing a suit yesterday- something more appropriate for an event such as this. While it was probably a cut from what most of the Silver elite were wearing, it was adequate- regardless of however many times he’d wear it in the future, he had had the thought that paying proper respect was important. The King was dead, and he understood mourning, understood the mourning of the princes and princesses.

Clearly, the actual Silvers in attendance were far less inclined to this mindset of paying their respects.

He was wandering again, plucking a glass of wine from the tray of a passing server with a smile and a nod and it seemed like he was walking aimlessly, searching for something or someone- something he didn’t yet know, someone he hadn’t yet met.

There was a sensation of something dreamlike as he walked- the bright lights and the glittering dresses, the words that blended together and the voices that seemed more predisposed to gaiety and ambition than mourning.

In the end bumping into the King’s executioner is almost unsurprising, but then- Finn’s seen enough people mourning, he’s seen enough people broken- and he finds himself unable to walk away when he should have. And when the man notices him, when he finally looks up and meets Finn’s gaze, the knot in his heart does not unfurl.

( he knows this, he’s seen this before, if not in reality then in dreams, the look in his eye and the way the other looks as if a dead man walking )

“No, no-” the are you alright lies heavy on his tongue, hesitating to be spoken. Finn wonders if the King’s executioner- Suriel, he thinks, Suriel Arven- is as lost as he looks. Had they been close- or was this something else entirely, was this a different kind of mourning from the one the guests in the ballroom did not even try to feign.

“I simply wanted to ask if you were well.” He keeps the fragment of concern in his voice, though he takes a step back now- he hadn’t realized he had stepped in so close, that he was on the verge of breaking any social protocol related to distance. “Should I... accompany you elsewhere?” Away from the crowd, the implication that goes unspoken- he hopes it is just the crowd that has the man this way.

-Ah.

And there it is, he realizes just a moment after that, social protocol completely trashed after all. For an utter stranger and a noble, nonetheless. He wonders if the man even has the heart to be offended by his offer.

le corps de l'état open

“I never understand these sorts of events.”

Without their twin sister around to be their mutual mouthpiece, on occasion Rahul felt it necessary to pipe up and say the unspoken thought on any mind that was truly paying attention. Worst case scenario, no one would pay them much mind for being unseemly. Their lack of sympathy was well-documented and rarely seemed to cost them any serious value in others’ eyes. Loyal and rebellious souls flocked to them alike. Of course, they had never spoken on the subject of a dead king before, but it wasn’t as if this was any different from every other lack of respect they showed.

Or, perhaps it was, because the king was not their target.

“It is a solemn moment, which assumes we are in mourning,” they continued, their floating wine flute tipping gently as a form of invisible gesture. “Yet, it is a party, people are enjoying the food and the music, so the tone is markedly less mournful.”

Impatient eyes swept the room, remarking with satisfaction the beauty of it all, and yet dissatisfied with what lay underneath the finery. Somehow they were finding it hard to be proud that they could pick their own designs out of the crowd when those that chose them did not act as if they deserved them. “How are we meant to act, then? Could someone please inform the crowd? As it is, they’re doing a terrible job feigning any feelings of loss they must think they should show.”

Rahul Provos. He recognizes them, recognizes their voice even before he turns his gaze onto the other. He takes a sip of his wine, content to let Rahul finish their words before he gave a reply. He finds himself agreeing with their words- indeed, they seem similar to his own thoughts at the very least.

Unafraid to offend, he thinks, amused.

“I have always taken such events not to be one of mourning, but to be a celebration of a life well lived.” Finn’s lips curve at the edges, “Although it seems the latter is hardly present here either.”

He hadn’t yet heard a word of the late King except in markedly dismissive murmurs at the beginning of some conversation. All the talk seemed to inevitably string back to one thing only- and he was growing sick of the word.

“Perhaps a loudspeaker might be of use if you wished to declare a period of mourning upon them.” A smirk threatens on the edges of his smile. Truthfully, Finn has never been innately drawn to bluntness, nor to irony- but perhaps it is the incredulity of the entire situation, the inanity of the entire Feast- or the candidness that rings in the bluntness of Provos’ words. “But, how would you suggest we act.”

               She floats through the crowd like someone weaving in and out of an illusion. And perhaps it truly is one, with dream-like candlelights painting deeper shadows onto walls and faces both. If she knew how to paint, she would have been fascinated with the scene, looking for a way to capture the feel of it with brushes and pigments. As it is, she can only look and commit it all to memory, marveling at how non-mourning-like the party feels.

               At last, Eira spots a familiar face, moving towards him in a flutter of glittery golden fabric and drawing a few gazes in her wake. If anyone frowns upon the familiarity with which she approaches a Red, she pays them no mind. “ You could say so, ” she replies with ease she rarely ever shows at this kind of event, nudging Finn’s shoulder. “ I don’t want to bury myself six feet underground never to be seen again, that is. I have a feeling there’s a little bit of you that’d like to be elsewhere, though. It may or may not have something to do with the fact you’ve been watching from the sidelines since the beginning. ” 

He blinks, before a slow smile spreads across his lips. “Eira.” The other is a welcome- if entirely unexpected- distraction from the night, “I confess that is indeed the case, or would have been before you arrived.”

She’s almost glowing, he thinks halfway unintelligibly, gaze lingering on the silver flush of her cheeks and the unblemished smile on her lips.

( beautiful, a faint murmur in his mind says, and he agrees with it completely before he even realizes what he’s thinking )

“Well, I’ve never been good at mingling,” he tells her ruefully, a blink and a moment later. “And aside from dancing, that’s all anyone seems to be doing.” And mingling, in truth, seems a little bit further than anything he can do tonight; common Silvers trying to ingratiate themselves with nobles, Reds lingering here and there in clumps around the edges, the scions of the High Houses all sticking together. He’s fine with staying on the sidelines and watching.

“You look wonderful by the way.” His smile curves lopsided, almost a smirk, “I’ll have to take your word that not burying yourself underground already grants an enjoyable experience. Have you danced yet?”

The alcohol on his tongue is bitter, fizzing as he swallows. He would have preferred tea. There is, needless to say, no tea.

 Queenstrial, he hears as he lingers near the shadows, quiet murmurs in every conversation- and barely murmurs, barely quiet, ‘Queenstrial’.

The pretence of ‘remembrance’ for the late King seems hardly a pretence any more, it seems arguably forgotten. The bitterness in his mouth could be from something else entirely. His perch close to the wall offers him a view of the entire hall, of the couples dancing and the guests- revelers- mingling. Glamorous dresses and glitz, alcohol flowing freely into the night.

He would not have thought this odd, only months ago. Perhaps moving to East Archeon had given him more perspective after all. It seems odd to fall back into this way of things, or perhaps it only feels natural, but at least he realizes it is strange even if he does not feel it- there’s that, as contradictory as it seems.

“Enjoying the night?” He asks, not glancing back to see the figure who has drawn up beside him.

DATE: February 25th LOCATION: Any Hallway OPEN TO: All.

Kassiopea was not on shift. If she were on shift, she could have brushed off the “caring” platitudes of her mother. “A Nolle hasn’t sat on the throne in years. You’re our best chance in a long time. Who else would we send? Lei?” While she saw her mother’s point, it still rankled. There was no ambition in her to be a queen and sit on a throne and pump out adorable little heirs so the cycle could start again. Kass was not about birth. She was about death. And her mother still couldn’t see that.

Thinking that her mother had come after her after Kass had stormed out of the room childishly, when she felt a presence behind her, she whirled irritatedly, “Look! I don’t want to compete, and I don’t want to be a damned queen! I don’t even want to be a gu- oh… My apologies.” That was most certainly not her mother.

Kass is a welcome sight amidst the hall, one he has not seen for several months- and if not for the Feast he doubts he would have seen her at all for a long time yet. It’s for that reason that he begins weaving through the crowd to her, plucking a glass of champagne from a table and excusing himself from his current conversation- realizing, upon being several metres away, there’s another woman next to her. He pauses.

Ah. Lady Nolle.

A moment of dithering and then, wisely, Finn decides to keep his distance. He sips the champagne while casting his gaze over the banquet hall, a pretense at not completely overhearing the conversation going on between Kass and her mother.

Banalities and inanities. Platitudes on platitudes. Largely stringing into, he presumes while sipping champagne, the Lady Nolle’s desire for her daughter to compete in Queenstrial. Quaint, he might have commented in her ear if he were next to her, out of a desire to jest.

At the sudden whirl of movement and Kassiopea striding out, barely centimeters from his spot in the shadows, he doesn’t spare a moment of focus more on Lady Nolle and begins trailing Kass out. Nobody notices, too drawn into their conversations and their food, not a care in the world for the woman stalking out with an apparent vengeance. But he knows without a doubt that someone is noticing- there would be a rumour floating about by the morrow. Such was the way of things.

He leaves the glass of half empty champagne on a banister, the sound of festivity behind him receding into the silence of a hallway. Honestly he half expects Kass to notice him sooner, and barely flinches at the tirade of words that follow her flurry of movement.

“That’s fine,” he says, after a moment of silence passes. A grin tugs on his lips, “I overheard your conversation. Your mother is being insistent again?”