Closing in September

Let us begin with the stories that were utterly romance-less, just to get them out the way:

Zachariah Forester. I know, the name alone makes us dry and soft, no matter how dominatingly handsome and downright delicious that man is. The only thing he leaves wanting for us is the certainty about which genetics he will give to our future children, seeing how he’s always been rumoured to not be quite the same as his siblings. At last, he has found certainty. At least for himself as he approached his mother after a deep dig through various Church archives along the coast. One will be shocked to find that good old Mrs Forester is not as pure as she pretends to be, and even more shocked to find that she actually spoke the truth for once! Her excuse for all that she’s done? Men are beasts and girls need to be protected. My, my, might she have said something interesting for the first time in her life?

One man we know for sure is a beast, is the Baron of Talbot, and the past few months have left us wondering if those traits were not in fact given down to his eldest, who quite qualm-lessly punched Deepak Gupta offside the boxing-ring. We have the creeping suspicion that why this might not have helped with the trauma, Mister Gupta did enjoy it at least a little. He is, after all, used to being a mopey fun-ruining martyr who has yet to learn that he should rather protect his pretty face to use it in photographs.

It did come as a surprise, though, when Mister Gupta then turned around and graced Ira Vaisman with a fist to his face as well. Not that Ira did not deserve it, it is Ira Vaisman after all, but it seems as though it could do Mister Gupta well to be the one using his hand for action, rather than being the receiver of acting hands. Perhaps that is why he then went on to join Ira to a socialist labour meeting…

Social alertness is something Samuel Forester also recently acquired. We wonder if it is simply something that occurs to you by being in the mere proximity of Ira (let’s be honest, it might transfer like any other STI) or if the little guy can actually have thoughts of his own.

For Marian Avery, who spent her fair share of time with Ira due to the St Maurs and Conways sharing a house in London, did not grow into a particularly socially alert person. Clever, but not socially alert. To join the families in London, she made a deal with Florence Talbot, essentially selling her labour for the mere experience of coming to the big city – something that had to be quickly rectified by Valentin Talbot who insisted on actually paying Marian. Paying someone for their hard work? How un-English of him! Though whether the hard work was paid justly is another question: The gorgeous dress and suit she fixed and adjusted for Lady Florence and Father Valentin for the Masquerade Ball was probably worth more than any Talbot could currently afford giving her. My, she should consider leaving the maid-business behind and becoming a proper seamstress, if you ask me!

But back to Mister Samuel, and why it is good that he became socially alert: His brother Ebenezer Forester might make good use of it soon. 

To explain what we can possibly mean by this, we must first look into the tale of Roger Smith. All begins with him, Mister Smith, American businessman born but not raised in England, entering London for the Season. His only goal? To become rich. And it became clear very quickly that he is not afraid to charm anything and anyone to achieve it. His first target was Father Valentin, who was unfortunately too priestly to fall for his tricks – boring! His second target was charmed more easily: Mister Ebenezer. Eager to change his life, Mister Ebenezer jumped at the first sight of an offer and gambled away a large sum of money and the promise of the Old Cider Factory here in St Maur Town to be brought back to life. 

Unfortunately once more, we were not allowed to see the whole extent of the drama unfold as Mister Ebenezer told his parents about his endeavour and was promptly sent back to St Maur for house arrest; the contract made between him and Mister Smith was to be undone immediately.  For this they used none other than our dearest Lord Conway – whose potential I still believe is perfectly wasted by him vegetating in offices all day and not even caring to dance with me once – to find out who the Old Cider Factory actually belongs to. Little did he realise – and God bless his soul and tiny brain – that Lady Sofia Pemberly already knew him rather well…

Seeing how she seems rather pleased with the idea that someone will take the Old Cider Factory from her, all Mister Ebenezer needs to do now is convince Lady Pemberly to like him, so he can become the … CEO of … apple … squenching. Or whatever his plans are. And Mister Samuel can, in return, take his seat at university. 

Yes, it almost seems like a perfect happy ending – if one did not remember that Mister Smith is still very much in London, scheming. He has tasted blood, there is a good chance he will not simply let go of St Maur Town now. And he certainly will not, once he realises that his birthplace left him with more than a stubby nose and skin too eager to burn in the sun…

So far, only few know about his true identity, one of whom goes by the name of Augustine Felton, and I am certain she is of great importance to herself in her own life but I find her akin to a side character, at best. A non-playable character in a murder mystery dinner, so to speak. She made the wonderful mistake of plotting against Lady Dinah with the one person who is currently remodelling his whole life for the very same: Ira. What a marvellously stupid idea! No one is surprised to hear that Ira instantly ran to tell Lady Dinah about Mister Smith’s dirty little secret which not even Mister Smith himself is aware of yet – and we can only hope that Lady Dinah will get the hint and start digging through old family records now that she’s back at home.

Let us not forget that a contract hangs over the St Maur Sisters. A contract that is nearly impossible to undo but which might feel a little less airtight if 1) one of the sisters has an heir before the current mystery heir is found or 2) they can prove that the current mystery heir would do harm to the St Maur name, wealth and estate. Wiggle room, so to speak, to crack it open and smash it once and for all. (And don’t at least the two younger St Maur sisters enjoy smashing things?)

So now I wonder, what will come first: Lady Dinah finding out the truth, or Mister Smith (perhaps with Lady Augustine’s help?)? Or rather, them realising that a literal Priest could speak against Mister Smith – or the tying of a happy marriage with a son included?

So, right on cue, let us move on to the stories that ended in a happy end:

It does not get any more romantic than this: Zahir Qureshi is finally engaged! His smile is broad, his steps are light, his trousers are bulging. Yes, how happy he is! Finally he holds his beloved in his hands: The title of first footman. And all he had to do for it was dance the season away with every possible woman out of his reach, work hard absolutely never, and aid the former first footman to pursue his dreams. Congratulations Zahir! Well done! 

Lady Augustine must feel quite the same minus the trouser bulging part. For years and years she was obsessed with the oldest Talbot brother (for who in their right mind would be in love with the younger one?) and finally her perfectly manicured little claws have dug themselves into his skin, sucking him into her possession as she clings onto him like the male angler fish during mating season. We must admit, however, that we are a little surprised. After all, for someone who cares so much about status, she sure picked an odd family. We dare not speak of it but … might she actually have feelings for him? She ought to be, as instead of a great Westminster wedding with a bishop present, she will have to contend herself with Saint Mary’s and the tiny mole creature Father Valentin leading the ceremony. We can only hope the latter neither forgets the words – this is his first wedding – nor begins to blubber mid-ceremony at the fact that he might be the protagonist of the next ‘happy ending’ section but shall never get a wedding all the same.

No one missed the Donkey and Victorian Lady excessively flirting at the Masquerade Ball, giving the impression that whoever was hiding behind those masks (intriguing mystery, never uncovered) had not been speaking for almost two months. How lucky then, that Donkey was sent home for house arrest with Victorian Lady following without hesitation, allowing them a whole month of private togetherness to catch up. I will not hide that we fans of Oscar Wilde do enjoy a lot of talking, after all. 

Now we can only hope that the happiness won’t be disturbed by the bet Lady Dinah and Father Valentin placed, about telling the world about their secret love affairs. What secret love affairs, you ask? Good boy. 

And lastly, let us end on the stories without definite conclusion yet:

Any attentive reader might have noticed how the town’s gossip about the second St Maur sister having caught a Prince and dragged him ashore was left out in the happy ending section. What? You ask. Trouble on the horizon already? Well. Any attentive reader of previous issues might’ve also noticed that a certain name has fallen in sections far, far removed from romance – and how could that be? Yes, Ira went to the socialist labour meeting but that was not where his political endeavours ended. Far from it. He, along with Mister Gupta, went to the protest which shook our little fine society in Hyde Park at the end of May, and as we all remember, the police came to save us with their massive, impressive, awe-inspiring cudgels, something Ira needed protecting from – for the first time in his life, I presume. And who was there to protect? Lady Dinah! And her saving did not end there. She also protected both Mister Gupta and Ira from the inevitable termination of their contract.

Yet, no matter how desirable and attractive this made her as a woman (no, seriously, I am quite in love with her myself now!) the efforts lasted only a few weeks before Ira himself terminated his contract as footman to the St Maur family. Why? Perhaps to truly appreciate this desirable and attractive woman, properly this. They might have been masked that night, but not few noticed their … deep connection during the Masquerade Ball all the same. Funny how Lady Augustine and Lady Dinah are enemies, seeing how they both enjoy clawing so desperately at their chosen men.

Now our readers might ask, well, what is the issue with that (though who would sensibly ask such a thing, seeing how even as a famous politician, Ira will still never be of Dinah’s status)? Oh, none, no issues at all, no, not at all. You know. Except that it’s such an open secret at this point that Prince Alexander is on the verge of asking Lady Dinah for her hand in marriage. And not only would we need to call Doctor Zachariah if she really were to turn down a Prince for the love of a working class protester, but we would also undoubtedly witness a new side to the ever placid Prince. For which man who is used to having the whole world yield to his demands would react kindly to rejection? 

Not to mention that Prince Alexander might be direly in love with her now, but we have all heard about the sickly sweet exchange between him and Lady Bernadette Talbot, who he deemed to possess as much poetry as Lady Dinah. If he knows how fickle Lady Dinah’s love is, why would he force his love to be steady?

Speaking of the Talbots. Lady Florence has successfully found the single most wretched man in the whole of England. A scoundrel, a witless creature, a minautorous bastard, yes, a man daring to weasel himself into our beautiful St Maur: Abbernath Weston. How dare he! Oh, one can only hope for a big éclat when Lady Florence finds out that her oh so charming Lord has kissed not only her brother but also her brother’s secret beau! A whore! A whore is he! When will the world realise! 

And all this after a mysterious and irresistibly sexy stranger had put such selfless efforts into educating beautiful Lady Florence about her marital duties – all for him to, no doubt, spend the rest of his life failing to pleasure her appropriately! Tragic! 

So, on the bright side of all this agony, it must be said that no matter the outcome of all these stories without definite endings, I cannot wait for Lady Cynthia St Maur’s reaction and just how many of her forehead veins will burst when she finds out…

♠♣♥♦

OOC:

While this contains meta knowledge and is mostly meant to inform you all about what has happened on the dash in the last week, you may use this knowledge for future plots.

Keep in mind that all players reserve the right to decline plots concerning their characters.

𝕆𝕆ℂ 𝕀𝕟𝕗𝕠𝕣𝕞𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟

Name: Amos

Pronouns: He/Him

Age: 24

Roleplay experience: RPing on tumblr for the last 10 or so years.

How you found us: An angel visited me in a vivid dream and told me to make the pilgramage here.

Triggers: None

“To enjoy a roleplaying group, I need…”: a good mixture of ‘this is fun for the sake of fun’ type threads and ‘this is serious character/plot development’ type threads. And a wonderful lovely community that I know we have here in St Maur!

ℂ𝕙𝕒𝕣𝕒𝕔𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕀𝕟𝕗𝕠𝕣𝕞𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟

Wanted faceclaim: 1) Brendan Gleeson 2) Ron Cephas Jones 3) Duncan Lacroix

Name: Richard Weatherstaff

As a child and younger man he was often nicknamed Dickie, and occasionally Dickie bird, particularly by his mother. A common nickname for Richards, but he fuelled it by being a habitual whistler. He would pick up any tune and spin it round and round, much to some people's annoyance. He would later pick up bird calls as well. Nowadays, it is not uncommon to hear a whistled tune carried on the wind across the grounds of St Maur, or to hear what sounds like two birds chattering away to each other, only to find on closer inspection that one of them wears a cap and holds a walking stick.

There are few who still call him Dickie, these days he is much more accustomed to responding to Mr Weatherstaff.

Birthday: 15 November 1840

Chapters

   1. Childhood:

Richard Weatherstaff was born and raised in Somerset. His parents were tenant farmers and he was the second eldest son in a small gaggle of children. It was not an easy childhood, but it was not without joy and love. He worked hard every day and went to bed tired every night, but it seemed less of a hardship when that was the reality for everyone he knew. Only the very young or the very old and weak got out of chores on a farm.

By the time he was growing into a young man, he had never travelled much further than the next town over. The same was true for his older brother, Edward. Hoping to remedy this Edward enlisted in the army, optimistic and ready to escape the small future farming promised him. Richard had always looked up to his older brother, and so the next year, when Richard was finally old enough he followed in his brother’s footsteps. He had a dream of them returning home one day, cresting the hill just beyond their land, and being welcomed back as heroes.

The realities of war were a harsh teacher.

Both he and Edward were stationed for a time in British African territories and fought in the second Ashanti war. It was a war not won by armies, but by pestilence. A sickness spread quickly on both sides and took far more lives than their weapons could. Before the stalemate was called, Edward caught the sickness and succame to it. In the days and months after his brother’s death Richard came to terms with the fact that there were no heroes in war, that there was no victory in fighting and destruction, and finally, that there would be no glorious homecoming like he’d imagined.

Despite his disillusionment, Richard remained in the army until the end of his service. Where he had once been an eager volunteer for the most dangerous and daring jobs, he gradually found his place in the stables, store rooms and kitchens. He honoured the contract he’d made, but he no longer willingly risked his life for causes he could not put his heart into. His favourite position during these years was looking after the cavalry horses. It reminded him of home. It reminded him of honest work. Things he had been so quick to dismiss in his foolish and fleeting youth.

He did return home for a short time after he was discharged. He did not crest the hill with the sun at his back, but trundled down the lane on the back of a wagon, arriving back at their cottage long after the sun had set. Though it healed him somewhat to be home, his heart could not quite rest in a place where his brother’s memory could haunt him so readily.

He set about looking for work, and found a place at St Maur Castle as a groomsman. His rise through the ranks was not a fast one, but a slow and natural progression. He worked hard, he was reliable, and he also knew his worth. He was not the type to cower and avoid eye contact when the Earl came to inspect his horses, he knew his work was good and that the Earl would recognise that if had any sense. He did have sense, and what grew between them over the years was a deep and mutual respect. When he finally became groundskeeper, he was not promoted because there was a position that needed filling, but rather because he had, through many years of nurturing and dedication, already become the caretaker of these lands. There was no other man more qualified for the job.

   2. Present:

It was through his work at St Maur that he rediscovered his true calling. Making things grow. He took it for granted as a child, burying his hand wrist deep in earth to plant seeds, and watching that same earth break around a fat vegetable months later when he ripped it up. Plucking berries from the bushes, whispering secrets to the honey bees, sleeping deeply in the hay meant for their goats. Most of all noticing the seasons go by, through the things they resurrected and sent back to sleep with their passing.

Now he cannot imagine a life without it. From dawn til dusk, his mind is on the things growing in the grounds that he keeps. Plants and people alike.

He has called St Maur home for over 30 years. He remembers each of the St Maur children being born just as clearly as he remembers planting each new sapling, or birthing each new foal. He cares for them as he cares for plants in his garden, and mourns for them as he mourns the felling of a tree and the rotting of it’s stump. Birth and growth and death, it is the cycle of any living thing, one he respects, and possibly the only thing he believes in. Yet it does not make it easier to bear. The only thing that makes it any easier is the knowing that after death, there might be rebirth.

From the outside, his days must seem mostly the same. He unlocks the gate, he assigns tasks to the other grooms and gardeners, he surveys the grounds, he digs or trims or plants. Then at the end of the day, he locks the gate once more, has a simple supper, and takes himself to bed. There is a kind of reverence in the steady routine of it all, but within this structure, he has the whole world and all of its variety at his fingertips. Each day is as different to him as each snowflake that falls in the winter. He knows that two weeks ago on Thursday he pruned the roses, and a month ago on the 3rd he cleared a patch of nettles near the borders of the woodland. He can recall them all clear as day. His age may be creeping up on him now, but his memory is as sharp as ever and his body just as strong.

He is not a talkative soul, but he does enjoy company. He’ll stop and make time for anyone he meets on his rounds, he’ll answer any questions and talk of his work if they seem interested, but mostly he’ll let them speak. He is a patient man, willing to let things bloom in their own time. He has a tendency to reserve words until they are necessary or until he has something important to say. And he has never once relinquished a truth that was told to him in confidence, unless of course it was whistled to the birds, or whispered to the bees.

He is content in his job, and for the most part, his job is his life. The longer he lived and worked at St Maur the less he had to live for outside of the castle grounds. His parents died some years ago, their farm got let to new tenants. He still has a few living siblings, though they communicate mostly through letters sent at Christmas or significant birthdays. He rarely meets with anyone from his days in the army, though he will spend the occasional evening down at the village pub. There are times when he stands at the gates of St Maur and he wonders if there could have been more for him, more than being a caretaker in the lives of others, a passive participant in his own life as he coaxes the growth of all things under his care. Then he remembers there are far, far worse things he could be, and far worse fates that could have taken him. He is happy here. He is comfortable.

   3. Dreams:

For Richard, this is it.

After his brother’s death, he fell out of the habit of dreams. He plans as far into the future as is useful, but other than that, he accepts his present and assumes this is how it will be for the rest of his life.

He has achieved a great many things he’s proud of. Grown food that has graced great tables,  birthed foals that have been ridden by great lords. He’s watched squirrels eat the acorns of oaks he’s planted, and deer drink from streams he’s nurtured from spring to sea. If he can fit in a few more acts like these, he’ll be content.

Occasionally he’s considered handing Rose Meddley a bunch of flowers and pressing a kiss to her cheek, but that’s just stuff and nonsense. He’s an old man now and he missed his chance for love. Besides, what would Rose Meddley want with a man like him?

He also thinks he might quite like to see all the St Maur daughters happy and settled in the lives of their choosing. He’s not foolish enough to believe that marriage and children are the ambition of them all, especially the youngest, but he’d like to see them bloom in all the colours he knows they’re capable of.

If he allows himself a small dream, it’s that when he goes, the only burden he’ll leave behind is a garden to be tended.

Sample Writing:

The last traces of daylight had disappeared beyond the horizon and Weatherstaff was picking the last bits of meat from the bones of the fish he’d just baked. Before him sat a crackling bonfire. Not too big, not too much for him to control, but big enough to produce a strong and steady heat. He imagined, from the right vantage point, the warm flickering light it cast would be seen for miles around. Which was what he assumed had drawn the approaching figure to his fire.

He turned around on the stump he was sitting on. He noted the features of the visitor’s face, now illuminated by the firelight, and tipped his cap in greeting. Then he got up and pulled another substantial stump from the pile of wood still left to burn and set it down as a seat for them.

He leant towards the fire and plucked out two large potatoes wrapped in foil which had been baking in the ashes. “Don’t have no plates, wasn’t expecting company.” Though no apology was actually given it was spoken as one. “But you can use this glove. It’ll cool down soon enough.” He had pulled off his thick leather gardening glove with the potato still nestled inside, then offered it to his guest like a plate.

He retook his seat on his stump.  

“Were you worried?” He asked. Fire often sparked an instant panic in people, for good reason too. Perhaps they had come to make sure all was safe. Yet Weatherstaff knew fire also kindled curiosity. He was sure Leone had many a tale of people being lured from the safe forest path by mysterious flickering lights off in the trees. Perhaps that was it. Or perhaps they were just cold.

Fun Fact:

‘Let there be some formalism about the house to carry on the geometric lines and enclosed feeling of architecture, but let us step shortly from that into wood and wild garden.’ Advice on gardens by Henry Avray Tipping (1855-1933).

The Edwardian garden stepped away from the rigidity of the Victorian and flower beds filled with exotic displays. Instead it aimed to blend organisation and nature, incorporating architecture into the garden and creating landscapes like pictures to be viewed from the windows of the house.

Though still in the early days of this movement, this feels very in line with Weatherstaff’s ideals. He is not a designer by any stretch, nor an architect, but he does have some sway over how the gardens look and grow. He appreciates an organised vegetable garden just as he adores the untamed nature of the woods. He would not let his gardens become wild just as he would not impose order on the woodlands, but watching them meet in the middle is a special kind of joy.

If an artist were to look out of a St Maur window on any given day and paint what they saw, they would no doubt have to include the small dark figure of Weatherstaff striding across the grass.

Trigger warnings for this application: Abuse, Alcohol and Mental Health 

𝕆𝕆ℂ 𝕀𝕟𝕗𝕠𝕣𝕞𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟 

NAME: Laura 

PRONOUNS: She/Her 

AGE: 24 

ROLEPLAY EXPERIENCE: I’ve been roleplaying on tumblr for around 10 years. It’s been about 2 years since I last was in a rpg so I’m sure some things have moved on! I’ve been in a few different types of groups, literate roleplays (this is where most of my experience is), gif-chat based groups and groups that incorporate dice rolling in their game play.   

HOW YOU FOUND US: The period rpg tag 

TRIGGERS: none you haven’t already covered. 

“TO ENJOY A ROLEPLAYING GROUP, I NEED…”: I enjoy an active group chat. I am in Australia however, and am often online at different times to other roleplayers so a chat that moves extremely fast and doesn’t have a way to flag information that is vital to the rpg can be a bit overwhelming for me (waking up to 100+ messages is not a great feeling). I can get a bit anxious when plotting, but it’s something I know always makes my roleplaying experience better and I do like to jump straight in. This means I always appreciate a way to flag my interest in plotting with players that doesn’t involve me messaging someone out of the blue. I am very flexible and happy to reach out to admins if there’s something I need/am struggling with so nothing I’ve mentioned is particularly vital to my roleplay experience. 

ℂ𝕙𝕒𝕣𝕒𝕔𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕀𝕟𝕗𝕠𝕣𝕞𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟 

WANTED FACECLAIM:Camille Lou (preferred), Florence Pugh, Sophie Skelton. 

NAME: Bernadette (Benie) Amelia Talbot 

BIRTHDAY:  20 November 

CHAPTERS 

1. CHILDHOOD: 

Bernie and her siblings were bonded by one simple thing. Their desperate attempt to avoid violence. Each had their own way of managing their father, of retreating from him. For Bernie it was her mask. Cold and unshakable. Perfect posture; every action, every word, so carefully considered they almost sounded scripted. Her laugh and her smile were so rarely genuine, even as a young child. As long as she maintained that control, she felt certain, her father would not be able to find a reason to be mad at her. 

In some ways Bernie was just as naive as her sister. Perhaps she was lucky to have such a high standing as a child. Her title and her family name were the only reason she had any friendships, received any kindness, when she was so unwilling to give it herself. To walk into a room and seem to look down upon every other person in it, to ostracise everyone before you have even opened your mouth, that is as something most children will not forgive. Although perhaps not. Perhaps if she had not had the pedestal of her birth, she would have needed to remove her mask earlier. Might have been forced to learn how to make genuine connections with other people. Perhaps then she might have been able to accept the only man who ever beyond her mask, the only man she has ever craved with every inch of her being. 

Bernie wonders sometimes, just how much of her personality was shaped by her father. Does she have anything of her own? Her relationship with money has certainly been shaped by him – She cannot feel secure around it. Money was so turbulent in her childhood. At times her father would be winning, and Bernie would be showered with gifts, the whole house filled with exuberance. Those periods would never last long. Once her father was losing the austerity would set in, it was impossible not to notice the way certain possessions would disappear, the strange men knocking on their door. Alcohol too she can barely stomach, having seen too much as a child of the impact it could have. 

Then, there is the purpose she had always held for herself. She realises now why her father always placed such importance on how well she would marry – “You are so refined, so pretty, my little Bernie. I know you will not settle for anything less than you deserve. The Prince of Wales himself would be lucky to court you!” He had not meant any of it, not really. He had simply seen this young woman as another commodity he could trade to fund his habits. As a child, however, she had believed him. Believed her pretty face and her ancient, prestigious background, made her something she was not. Someone worthy of respect. 

2. PRESENT: 

Bernie is confronted everyday by who she used to be. The snickering she hears from the women she once considered her friends; the dresses she is now having to learn to reuse, desperately trying to add trims and scarves and embroidery in the hopes people may believe they are new; and the servants who barely spared her a farewell when they left her service. 

The lack of money has not been as much of a burden as she might have expected. There is something about frugalness, conservativeness, that rather suits her. She stays up late at night, carefully budgeting - accounting for every expense, every necessity. She has no problem denying herself, trying to temper her fathers’ mistakes however possible. She knows neither of her parents will step up, so she is forced too instead. She is certain there is a way to improve their circumstances – not to return to the heights they once reached, for she feels that might ruin them all once more – but perhaps enough to be comfortable. A few servants to relieve the burden, enough that they may be able to move through society as they used to, to give her sister the debut she deserves. 

She was so good at manipulating and demanding once. It would be so easy to do it again, if only she can learn how to use the more limited tools at her disposal. No, it is not the lack of money that plagues her, but the loss of her pride. Pride always shrouded her, kept her safe in a room full of enemies. Now she feels exposed - each time she is seen in a dress that is out of fashion; each time she sells furniture, or jewellery, or art, to a vulture she once called friend; each time she must walk through the society she once belonged to, knowing she is being mocked, or worse – pitied. Despite knowing more now, despite seeing how cruel and shallow her mask was, it becomes so easy for her to fall into her old habits. 

3. DREAMS: 

Bernie wants to be better: to remove her mask, to connect with others, to make choices based off what she wants, how she feels, and not off how best to protect her and her family from the threats she perceives.

 There are so many barriers to this improvement. How may she change when she has been stuck in her ways for so many years? How may she change when her family still rely on her to make a good match, and reverse their fortunes? How may she change when this mask is the only way she knows to protect herself from shame – and she feels shame now all the time. Even when she tries to be better, to be different, those around her seem to only hear sarcasm, or haughtiness. They find her patronising and insincere, no matter how she tries to open-up to them.

 Bernie has written letters to all those she knows she hurt. The friends she passed over in favour of richer, or more established connections; the siblings she neglected when they should have been helping each other heal; the man she loves and wishes she could have back. She pours her heart out in these letters, detailing every thought she wishes she had told them at the time, every mistake she can now see she made, every hope she has for their future. Then she reads them back to herself, becomes convinced they would laugh, or reject her - scold her for writing too late and too little, and she puts them away. She has a whole trunk of them now, filled with pages that she has never sent. Maybe one day she will find the bravery to share them. 

Perhaps there is only one dream that Bernie really has, and that is to break away from the future her father planned out for her. She wants to figure out how to act without the fear of retaliation. How to love without the calculation of class and wealth and status. How to see someone’s core, and to allow them to see her own. How to walk through the streets and feel comfortable in her own skin, whether rich or poor, beautiful, or plain, respected or disgraced. To hold her head high because she trusts in herself, and the choices she has made. A purpose too would be nice. Once she has discovered and selected all on her own.

 Is she an artist? Political? Does she excel in medicine, or writing, or mathematics? She does not know, and that scares her. Without the money and the pomp and the gilded walls who is she? What is left? She would really like to find out! 

SAMPLE WRITING: 

The waiting was always the worst, standing there with nothing but the family’s possessions for company while the merchants ‘considered’ her offer. It made her feel so small, to be reduced to this, desperately trying to sell what she could in the village. The art had not been so bad. She had never really appreciated it anyway, why not let it go to a good home, especially when it was worth so much. The furniture had been harder, but even then, they did not need all of it. So she could no longer play piano - had she really enjoyed it that much anyway? 

But now most of the valuable items were gone. Now she had needed to turn to their books. The process of selecting what could go had been heart breaking. Trying to find what had value, balanced with what she could bare to lose. Calculating how many she would need to sell had been even harder. There were so many variables, so little information with which to make the decision. Perhaps this had been a mistake? It was the tinkling of the bell that broke her from her spiralling. It seemed the bookseller had returned. Carefully she controlled her face, voice ringing out through the store with the authority she had mastered so long ago.

 “If you have returned to offer me pennies for these titles once again, sir, you will be most disappointed.” 

She had tried at first to be the new, better Bernie whilst selling their possessions. She had been grateful and honest, appealing to their sympathy to not scam her, to ensure she received a fair deal. She had learned better then to take that approach. It had left her embarrassed, accepting far less then she should have and needing to sell even more to make up the difference. 

“You know as well as I that the age of these books makes them more valuable, not less. I notice there is not a title in there you wish to turn down.” She raised her chin, ready to face this man with all the pride she could muster in her current situation. “I would rather sell these books to the tanner, to be torn apart for their leather, than sell to you for…” 

Finally, she turned and was quickly confronted by the fact it was not the face of the bookseller in front of her. Face flushing red she stumbled, teeth clenching in shame “I am sorry I thought you were… “ explaining herself felt silly when her shameful situation must be so evident, “well, I assume you can guess my mistake.” 

FUN FACT: (apologies I was inspired by two) 

Ladies are not to go out alone. They must be accompanied by a female friend or a Lady’s Maid.

 This is a difficult dilemma when you are a Lady without a Lady’s Maid or friend to accompany you. When Bernie cannot get her sister or the housekeeper to accompany her out, she has taken to going alone, and speaking loudly before she enters a shop - telling an imaginary Lady’s Maid to wait for her outside. When visiting the village, she will stop when she sees someone she knows in the street and pretend she is waiting for her companion to depart a nearby store. 

Corsets are worn over chemises. 

𝕆𝕆ℂ 𝕀𝕟𝕗𝕠𝕣𝕞𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟

Name: Am

Pronouns: She/Her/Hers

Age: 28

Roleplay experience: I have roleplayed a lot on Tumblr and for a long time. My last roleplay kind of reached its natural end so I went off Tumblr for quite some time, hence why I am now excited to return. I am in awe of everyone’s writing and I hope I will do you all justice. Please never hesitate to let me know if there’s anything I can do to improve.

How you found us: In the tags.

Triggers: N/A

“To enjoy a roleplaying group, I need…”: … the other writers to understand that just because I am not online often it does not mean that I am disinterested or on the verge of disappearing. I think I also always feel most welcome when others reach out to me first about plotting especially when I am new in a group. Otherwise I feel like I am intruding.

ℂ𝕙𝕒𝕣𝕒𝕔𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕀𝕟𝕗𝕠𝕣𝕞𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟

Wanted faceclaim:  anais mali (1) Audreyana Michelle (2) Kylie Bunbury

(3) Cheyenne Maya Cartey (4)

Name: Hyacinth “Cynthia” St Maur

Birthday: 28th of December.

Chapters

1. Childhood: 

Hyacinth knew her mother the countesse the longest of all three daughters. Everyone thinks this is the reason why the countesse’s death hit her the hardest.

Hyacinth wasn’t always like that, you see. She was a child born of love and she was raised with love. Many children are taught by the stern lectures of their nannies, Hyacinth was raised by the loving lessons of her mother. The countesse taught her the names of flowers and riding horses, as well as the art of how to read between the lines. She was a quirky and willful child and her father the earl could never keep her from running after him on shooting days. That’s how she learnt how to hold a gun and shoot better than most grown men. The servants grew used to her presence in the kitchen quickly and appreciated her witty humor which for a child was quite advanced and sharp. No one doubted that she would become a bright young woman one day with a luminescent future. 

Then her mother died in childbirth and Hyacinth changed. She sat outside the room when her new sister was carried out of the room by a nurse and waited. She sat outside the room when the doctors came out and waited. She sat outside the room when even her father came out at last and waited. Her mother never came out. She waited until her governess told her: “Don’t cry. It was the countesse’s duty. She died for her duty, this makes her a great woman.” 

Hyacinth henceforth knew that greatness was achieved through applying herself to duty, no matter the pain or cost. She stopped playing with her sister and demanded at the delicate age of 11 to wear a corset and her hair up now. She no longer regarded the flowers in the garden and instead began learning about the estate business. By the age of 17 she came out to society, ready to marry. Ready to have a child. And another. And die for the third. That was her duty. 

2. Present: 

Hyacinth is an exemplary woman. She rises in the morning at exactly eight’o’clock, neither ever scolding her maids too harshly nor allowing them to slack off. She wears a hat for lunch and replies to her correspondences without ever missing the posting hour. In the afternoon she ensures to always have someone to call or to call on her and that her tea is of the right heat, the macrons of the right color, the sandwiches of the right size and the silver polished to a shine. Her dinners are legendary. The guest list is always of the most enviable connections and in return she is invited to the most honorable houses of England where dukes and princesses cherish her opinions on the bouquets.

In return she expects exemplary obedience from those around her. Her father is never to be disrespected, the middle sister is to put that book away, the youngest sister is called for dinner two hours early to make sure her hair is combed before she meets the guests. As for men, she scrutinizes them. Not many people successfully meet her standards at all times but they succeed, whereas men never do. She will always find a flaw. Brows which are too wild or shoes which are too small. “This one is too meager, he looks as if he’s going to be sick too often” and “This one is only a knight’s son, what can you possibly want with him?” She is relentless in her search to find someone who can be as exemplary as she is. For her sisters but also for herself. Must we not forget that she is to die for his child one day no less. 

3. Dreams: 

Despite it all Hyacinth has a human heart. Early in the morning when the St. Maur Castle is still asleep she sneaks out and goes to the stables where she prepares her horse to ride out in the misty dawn. She loves the peace she has in the fields and forests of St. Maur and more than that she loves that those are the few hours of her day where nothing is expected of her. There are no duties waiting for her and no society expecting her to be an exemplary woman. Her hair will fly freely in the wind and sometimes she even allows herself a tear or two, mourning the love she has lost in life. 

Deep down there is a dream which she does not dare to address or even think about. She wants to be loved just like her mother loved her once and how she loved herself when she was still little. She wants to laugh and be witty and when she rides along on shooting days she wants to hold her own gun again. Her knees are pressed together when she rides her horse now but one day she wants to sit in a straddle again and be free. 

Sometimes those aspects of her come through like when she is tired or feels too comfortable around someone. Then she gets a bit more sharp tongued and allows her natural humor to slip through. It’s rare though and she is not even sure if she wants people to know about this side of her. Maybe one day but for now she has to fulfill her duty and find a husband first.

Sample Writing:  Some men truly thought the world lay at his feet simply because they had gorgeous blue eyes, brilliant white teeth and a posture fit for an army general. “Look at him.” Cynthia thought or maybe mumbled out loud. “He truly thinks a smile and a bow will be enough to buy himself into our precious society.” He wasn’t talking to just any woman either, he was talking to her darling sister who stared at him with sheer admiration in her eyes. Her sister had gorgeous brown eyes, brilliant white teeth and a posture fit for a princess. She was too good for him by miles. 

It was Cynthia who had organized the evening and written up the guest list. She knew everyone by name rank and wealth and so she was positively certain which men here tonight were perfect for her sister. That was why she had invited them. In the same breath she wondered why she had invited him. Ah of course because of his relations to their father. Something about business which she cared a great deal about but now decided she didn’t care enough to let him stay. He was making her sister’s eyes shine too bright. 

Cynthia stood with her empty champagne glass surrounded by her guests and watched the two of them for a while. Not long before she had been talking to someone else. Someone of importance who she cared a great deal about too. He had complimented her gown, a pastel blue silk and cotton mix cut in the latest fashion. Some called her vain for trying to keep up with fashion but she thought it was an investment. To show society that she cared about its rapid spouts of opinions it was vital to play along. No one called an old woman powerful when she still dressed in the fashion of her youth. They would call her “irrelevant” instead. Cynthia didn’t want to be “irrelevant.” She cared a great deal. 

But apparently not enough to notice that the gentleman who had spoken to her moments ago was presently no longer by her side. “I think it’s time we get ourselves a new glass of champagne and introduce ourselves to my sister’s new friend.” 

Fun Fact:  “Courtship was not permitted among the servants. To marry, a woman had to leave domestic service, a kind of forced independence that set her to work on her own household.”

Her lips were pressed into a fine line. 

“You can’t fire him!” The maid shouted. She put herself in front of the footman spreading her arms. “It’s not his fault, it’s mine.” 

Hyacinth pressed her lips together harder. There was no sympathy in her eyes. “Are you admitting to being a seductress? Should I fire you as well?” She would not let herself get soft. If she was not permitted to love, no one was. 

𝕆𝕆ℂ 𝕀𝕟𝕗𝕠𝕣𝕞𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟

Name: Cody 

Pronouns: She/her, they/them, use whatever you want or mix and match- I don’t mind she/they 

Age: 18  

Roleplay experience: None! I have no idea what I’m doing but I’m gonna have fun doing it!  

How you found us: A friend who does do RP found you guys, knows I’m a nerd for history, and sent me a rundown. I’ve been stalking you for around four months trying to decide whether or not to join…sorry.  

Triggers: Occult things, hyper-religious stuff (religion taken to a creepy cult-ish level, not someone who’s devoutly religious)  

“To enjoy a roleplaying group, I need…”: To start plotting immediately! I have ADHD, and by the time I finish this application I will probably have become hyperfixated on my own character to an obscene level. I need to get all the headcanons out of my head and into a plot! Also if I drop off the face of the earth, I’ve probably become hyperfixated on something else and been dead to the world- please send me a message and remind me to get active again! 

ℂ𝕙𝕒𝕣𝕒𝕔𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕀𝕟𝕗𝕠𝕣𝕞𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟

Wanted faceclaim: Tumblr is stupid, which is why I’m resending this because it screwed it up. It also ate my faceclaim images. I can send them as a message if that works, it will not let me add them.  Ben Barnes (technically first choice, but I picked faceclaims that all work, so whatever one works in the story context is fine by me)  Orlando Bloom (specifically the Will Turner look)  James MacAvoy  

Name: Asa Collins 

 Birthday: October 22

ℂhapters

Childhood: Liverpool. High Street. House number six, identical to number five and number seven and number eight and number nine and number ten. The Collinses- John, Mary, and their children, George, Helen, Frank, and Emma. All of them stout and plain, with dull blonde hair, dull blue eyes, dull heavy minds. A family completely unremarkable in every way.

   That’s why they were chosen, Asa tells himself now. A family so completely and utterly ordinary would have been overlooked by even the most dedicated Russian socialist. That was why Nanny Anna left him there. She chose the safest place.    It started when he was seven. Really, he tells himself, it started before that, in Russia when he was just a baby. But the clear memories start at seven. The Collinses made no secret of the fact that Asa was adopted. John and Mary- he refuses to call them Mother and Father now, even in his mind- didn’t make much of it, save when they were angry. Their children, however, brought it up every chance they could. Asa did not belong there, and the Collins children knew it. They fought constantly, especially the boys.

  It was Frank, he thinks, or perhaps George- probably George- who shouted it at him. “You don’t even know who your mother was!” A child’s taunt, cruelly simple. Cruelly true.    “My mother,” Asa hissed, “was a princess!”   He meant it only as a smug retort- George couldn’t say he was lying. But as soon as the words left his mouth, he knew, knew like he knew his own name, that they were true.    From that moment he clung to it. He pieced together the rest of the story during his twice-monthly visits to Nanny Anna and his school lessons. Nanny Anna had a name that could pass for both English and Russian; she sang sometimes in a foreign language and muttered words under her breath that didn’t belong in Liverpool. In a geography lesson, the teacher wrote down a list of Russian nobility and the dates they ruled- from that, he found the name Repnin. A royal house. His house.   

 Asa rarely spoke of it as a child- once John and Mary heard him, they were quick to stamp out any mention of his “fancies”, quick to admonish him for lying, quick to remind him that whoever his parents were, they had left him and had never come back, were never coming back. Mary Collins had a sharp tongue, and John Collins had heavy hands, and their children had both, and so between the lot of them they made Asa feel like nothing at all, and certainly nothing close to a prince. But oh, the thought was always there. Nothing and no one in Liverpool could dissuade him from it. He bore it all with clenched teeth, and to himself he whispered, “My mother was a princess. My father was a prince.” He could endure Liverpool. Princes, after all, often had to endure hard things.    

Present: Asa is more sensible now. He no longer daydreams of his royal parents appearing to whisk him away. He no longer imagines people frantically apologizing for the wrongs they’ve done to him when they find out who he really is. He no longer imagines how shocked everyone will be when the littlest Collins boy from Liverpool turns out to be somebody, after all. 

He has accepted that his parents will not come for him. There’s no carriage and castle waiting for him in Russia. Fairford House is as close as he’ll ever come to that. He is as high in the ranks as he can be, and if he must play the role of a servant then this is not a bad place to be one. He would much rather be here than back in Liverpool, living as a fishmonger or a farmer or something else so low that no one of any standing would look at him. Here, he can at least glimpse the world those Russian socialists stole from him. He is at least part of it, even if he is playing the wrong part.

Asa still tells himself, and others too now, that his mother was a princess and his father was a prince. But now, it’s to tell them what he should have been rather than what he will be. 

He knows they laugh at him, of course. How could they understand? Working class, true working class, not like him- not only pretending. They could never understand. Society is changing, and Asa cries out against it. Whenever someone comments on how modern life in St. Maur is becoming, it hurts him like a dagger in the back. When people like the Whispering Protester try to start trouble, Asa sighs and shakes his head. Don’t they understand? The nobility are constantly struggling to keep themselves noble. Standing in such a high place is not easy. You can always fall. It is not a position to be resented. It is a hard place to stand, made a little easier by the servants’ work. “Heavy lies the head,” goes the old saying, and Asa agrees wholeheartedly. 

The other servants- well, who could expect Asa to fit in with them? They’re working class. He is not, even if he must pretend to be. He is in a place between, standing on the edge of both worlds. Always looking into the world he knows he truly belongs in. Why would he step back into their circles, lower himself to their level? 

They may not be Russian socialists themselves, but they are still responsible for taking his parents and his place from him. Asa has not forgotten that, and he certainly will not forgive. There are those he gets along with, somewhat. He is polite to most of the other servants, and there are a few he will deign to be friendly with. The Found Orphan, for one. 

Oh, she’s curious. Asa cannot understand her. When she speaks of where she came from, it is with hope and longing in her voice. Asa cannot imagine what it feels like, to think of your past and not hate every memory. She makes him curious, and sometimes she makes him want to find out the pieces he doesn’t know. Of course there’s bitterness for the family sometimes. There always has been. 

As a boy, he used to imagine waving a hand and sentencing all six Collinses to the dungeons whenever they hurt him in some way. As a man, he sometimes thinks ill of the Foresters and the other nobility in St. Maur. “You don’t know how lucky you are,” he sometimes whispers. “Why was fate so kind to you and so dismissive of me?” He is rather derisive of his employer, although he is careful to hide his scorn. The Hopeful Doctor is not what a true gentleman should be. Asa knows better than any of the other servants how nobility should act, and the Hopeful Doctor…well, the country doctor part of him suits him better than his title. But his son, the Scintillating Bastard- Asa doesn’t mind serving him. He is far more of what he should be than his father. And still a doctor! If anything, the son shows his father that it is possible to be both. The Hopeful Doctor, as nobility, is, well, hopeless. The Scintillating Bastard is far better at it, and Asa privately thinks he is even better at it than some of the folks in St. Maur or the other houses. 

The bitterness, when it comes, never lasts long. All Asa truly wants is for them to realize how fragile their high pedestal is, to cherish their place and not take it for granted. His royal birth didn’t shield him from the world. Their coins will not shelter them, either. Once they step down from their pedestal, there is no stepping back. 

“Treasure it,” he wants to urge them. “Treasure this high life. I would have, if it were me.” He cannot bear to hear someone speak ill of what he would give anything to be. And if that structure crumbles, what happens to him? The word prince would mean nothing. Asa will not allow it to mean that. The working class has taken too much from him already- they will not take this from him, too. Asa is employed as a servant. He doesn’t mind it too much. Only a twinge of resentment here and there. He has accepted it, for the most part, though it was a hard pill to swallow. Princes, after all, must often endure hard things.

     3. Dreams: His childhood was built on dreams. Now that he is older, he has very few. The most fanciful, of course, is the idea that someone- perhaps a lady of such low standing that it doesn’t matter if she marries below her station- helping him, pulling him up a little further than being a servant, even if it’s nowhere near royalty. Asa knows it will never happen. If he’s honest with himself, it’s only a fantasy like the ones he clung to as a child. 

    He’d like to visit Russia. At least once. It wouldn’t be with the fanfare and the headlines that he imagined as a boy. But he wants to see his kingdom, even if no one knows it’s his. He wants to walk as close to the palace as he can, just to wonder what it would have felt like if his parents hadn’t had to send him away.      He thinks he wants to go back to Liverpool. Not for the Collinses. He’d like to find Nanny Anna again, ask her outright what happened to his parents that night she fled with him in her arms. He wants to know what his parents’ names were, perhaps see a picture of them. In his mind they’re only Prince and Princess Repnin. He wants to know what they would have been like as Mother and Father.  

   Asa has smaller dreams too, many of them. He wants to learn to speak Russian, because of his parents, and to play the violin, because he likes violin music. He’d like to have a horse of his own, and he’d like his cat to have kittens so he can watch them grow up. And, solely for the fun of it, he’d like to slip into a party one day, introducing himself as a Russian prince, and then vanish like Cinderella at midnight, leaving everyone wondering.    

 Only a day, but it would be enough for him to taste what his whole life should have been. He calls it a small dream, but it may be his biggest dream of all.     

Sample Writing: Shopping for a masquerade ball costume was very different than the usual clothes shopping Asa was used to. There were far more things to consider- more fabrics, more colors, more designs- and he had only a rough idea of what costume he was supposed to be looking for. The rules about what a gentleman should wear would be somewhat relaxed, so that was one less worry. But there was still one very important reason why this errand was a frustrating one.   Asa hated the very idea of masquerade balls. Not all of them, of course. But ones like this, when everyone was invited no matter what their standing- they grated on his nerves like nothing else. 

  “It’s a stupid idea,” he complained as he stalked from display to display. “Shove a bunch of people together, and let them all have at it, dancing and drinking without a care in the world who they’re dancing and drinking with. This? This is where you get ridiculous and impractical situations such as chambermaids waltzing with counts and dukes.” He ran his hand over a bolt of fabric. “And of course they’re all masked and costumed so no one knows who they are. Right. Yes. Brilliant, whoever came up with that idea. Some young lord could fall hopelessly in love with a masked maiden only to find out she’s a kitchen maid who borrowed one of her mistress’s dresses, and then it’s a big to-do and no one knows how to fix it, and the young lord ends up broken-hearted and the kitchen maid has no idea what she’s done and goes on her merry way. It’s a recipe for disaster.” 

  The tailor shop floor creaked as he moved to a new section. “What’s the point of it, anyway? I tell you, all this modern drivel, trying to foster camaraderie between upstairs and downstairs, it’s going to lead to no good, no good at- hey! Are you listening to me?”  

 Fun Fact: “Reading at least one newspaper every day was a must for respectable men.” And a prince is the most respectable of those respectable men! Every morning Asa sets aside enough coins for the day’s paper, and every evening he makes time to read it. Usually in his room with his cat Victoria Sandwich on his lap, but sometimes he can be persuaded to join the other servants in the kitchen and read the day’s happenings aloud to all.