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Vivienne had been looking forward to this night for months. She’d heard fantastic things about the combined efforts of Ernst and Miró, whispered about with hushed reverence in the wings of her theatres or at avant garde gatherings, and with raised, skeptical eyebrows in Motmartre cafés.

Modernist, psychological Romeo & Juliet wasn’t for everyone, clearly.

Vivienne, however, had been buzzing with excitement. And it certainly was striking, she must say - with all those dancers in their masks and slight lines barely suggesting a setting.

But she couldn't say it was setting her imagination alight, exactly.

As the lights faded up for intermission, she shifted in her seat, tempted to flick through the program again, in the hope that she could squeeze even a drop of clarity. As she looked around, scanning the faces of fellow ballet-goers for their thoughts, she spied a familiar form not too far away and raced over.

“Well!, she said, a bright smile crossing her face, “Who would’ve expected that we’d all be graced with your esteemed company tonight?”

She crept a step or two closer, and dropped her voice to a whisper.

“Now, tell me if you can, my dear. . .  what on earth does all of this mean with our star-crossed pair flying off by plane? Is it some kind of odd symbolism? And the dressing gown? They haven’t slipped anything into the champagne on offer, to cause such confusion, surely? Though, I wouldn’t put it past them, at this point.”

                                           「THE PLAYBOY 」

                   30+  •  SOCIETY  •  OPEN - APPLY!

ABOUT:

War took the country you cared for and turned it upside down. The streets were empty, save for the beggars on the corner, the newsies hollering death tolls, and… you. Left behind as the parades tumbled along and the marching columns passed, you watched as all of your classmates and friends rallied round, as the draft was announced, as your mother and father fretted and planned. You hadn’t volunteered, not wanting to break their fragile hearts; but the recruiting officers would come, soon, and you’d be summoned to join the rest. At last. Then your parents couldn’t protest! They’d understand, when you returned with medals on your chest, a dashing scar or two, and honor, won on the field of battle. It would be such a grand adventure!

Except, no summons arrived. Impossible - except, it wasn’t. Money, as your parents used to say, could get you anywhere. Or keep you anywhere, as the case might be. They revealed the truth to you, eventually: they’d paid, handsomely, to see your name scratched from the list. No regiment would take you, for fear of their displeasure. You would go off to the Sorbonne, as planned. And you would survive. 

But that wasn’t enough, somehow. You drifted through your lectures, threw off your assignments, listless, resentful. Then, you discovered it; the bohemian heart of Paris, wild and free, beating even in the throes of la Grande Guerre. The bright lights, the giddy music, the shimmer and sway of the courtesans in their costumes… they were the perfect distraction from all those brothers and friends, serving and dying while you finished your studies and went to work. Once the smoke cleared, you discovered that the ruination had gone so much further than you realized. The land, the cities, the people you once knew… blasted and burned, almost beyond recognition. How could you ever return, to face all that? And so you stayed. Comfortably, anyone would guess, from looking. You have money to spare; your estranged, desperate parents and your plush career have made sure of that. But is there enough wealth and wonder in all the world to make you forget how badly you wish it had been you, in uniform?

CONNECTIONS:

The Angel: She is one of the most beautiful things you have ever seen, descending from the clouds of Le Ciel to grace the eager crowd with her presence. A blessing ,truly, a balm, whenever you get to overthinking. But, sometimes, you wonder if she wants more than you can give her...

The Emigré: They had the life that you desperately wanted. While you were working behind a desk, they were on a battlefield. You don’t know why you find yourself resenting them so much, but your jealousy can get the best of you at times.

The Artificer: Their love for this city is similar to your own. Maybe that’s why you’re able to be some sort of comfort to each other when life gets a little bit too heavy. Drinks, dancing, and cigars – they’re your first call when you want to spend an evening on the town.

Possible faceclaims: Luke Pasqualino, Michael B. Jordan, Tom Hardy, suggest more!

When: Afternoon, August 1926

With: Anyone!

Vivienne had always felt quite at home in museums and art galleries. It wasn’t that she was particularly knowledgeable about art, not at all. She’d spent hours upon hours in these places as a young actress, pretending to admire the paintings when, really, she was watching the people.

The rather daunting world of art collection had really only become available to her once she had come into possession of enough spare coins to seriously think about spending one minute admiring some of the especially beautiful pieces she saw on gallery walls, and the next minute taking them home with her.

Now that she did have the cash, it was all too easy to part with it, in pursuit of just the right item. The lure of beautiful things was intense, intoxicating – intoxicating to the point of foolishness, quite often.

She could feel that push towards foolishness come on now, actually. The pressure to buy just about emanated off of the painting itself – wafted off it, like the aroma of sugar off of a pastry. Oh, how lovely it was! How nice it would look above her dining table.

But. . .no, there was something odd there.

“Excuse me,” she said, leaning over slightly to catch the attention of whoever was directly to her left. “This is going to sound ridiculous, but . . .will I look like an utter fool if I buy this? Or, is it the best thing you’ve ever seen in your life. I have no idea, you see, so any and all input would be entirely welcome.”

                                           「THE MUSE 」

                   25+  •  ARTIST  •  OPEN - APPLY!

ABOUT:

You’ve always been beautiful, ever since you were a child. So very, very beautiful that, apparently, it was and is the most important thing about you - how your cheeks dimple when you laugh, the way your eyes sparkle, the gloss and tumble of your hair. But there’s so much more to you than that! Your education was refined, your travels wide and worldly. You could be anything you want to be, but what you crave, above all, is to be truly seen - to be recognized, at last, as every bit as fine an artist as those you sit for. It’s true! You know it. And so would they, if they just bothered to look.

Unfortunately, so far, the art you’ve made has gone unnoticed... even as the art you inspire graces the walls of chic salons and prestigious galleries, the globe over. These days, you hate to see them: the paintings, the sculptures, the prints plastered across the walls and billboards of Paris, all you, and not. Admired, bought, sold, while your pieces gather dust. It’s infuriating, but. Your artistic endeavors aren’t exactly cheap, and you’ve got bills to pay. So you draw that famous smile on, and strike a pose. This is just a placeholder. You won’t settle for a life spent as just another pretty face. One day, they’ll see you, and your creations - and then, you’ll change the world. 

CONNECTIONS:

The Poet: They remind you so much of yourself - once upon a time. So talented and eager, hopeful about the world around them. You hope the world doesn’t wring that out of them, and not only because you find them wonderfully refreshing.

The Benefactor: You two have run in the same social circles for a while now, and you have the talent they have always longed for. It was flattering at first, gratifying, the way they took interest in your work; but all of their direction, well-meant though it might be, is starting to get on your nerves.

The Noble: You know. Maybe less than they fear, but. Enough. The scandal they tried to leave behind could ruin them all over again - if you let the story slip. They’d better give you a good reason to keep it to yourself...

Possible faceclaims: Amber Rose Revah, Sonequa Martin-Green, Morena Baccarin, suggest more!

                                           「THE SCOURGE 」

                   35+  •  ROGUE  •  OPEN - APPLY!

ABOUT:

You’ve only ever done what you had to do, to stay alive, to care for those you considered your own. So it went, from that cold, rough childhood, through a hard, rawboned youth… to the Western Front, and back again. War hardened you, sure. But you’d never had much chance to be soft, in the first place, and when you turned that uniform in, you didn’t feel disjointed, lost, like a different person - like so many did. Just a little older, that’s all. And not much richer for it. Struggling from payday to payday, bearing the blows of fate the way you had, all your life… that was a young man’s game, you decided. Not for you, anymore.

Determined to carve out something more substantial for yourself, you found your answer behind a badge. Pinned on, funnily enough, by an officer you’d known on the battlefield. Someone who remembered your gallantry, under fire. Was that what it was? You’d never much cared how your bloody service was defined, but if that’s the take that’ll keep you in a comfortable desk and a comfortable wage, you figured it would do. Only, turns out serving with the Sûreté, in Paris, is about as thankless a job as you can get. A city so sinful as this cares little for the light of law and order. And if they’re so eager to stray into the darkness, why shouldn’t you join them? A bribe here, a little extortion there - what’s it matter, when the wealthy feast on champagne and caviar while the poor starve on the steps? So what, if you mete out some brutal justice of your own when the courts are too corrupt and spineless to see things through? 

It’s awfully easy to bend the rules when you’re the one enforcing them. You know you’re not the only flic to cross those lines, either. Far from it. But you’re certain you’re more careful than the rest, smarter, better at covering your tracks and impressing the right people. You know your new position could take you places, ever richer, cushier places. If you play your cards right. So, for now, you walk softly, and carry a big, heavy stick. You’re willing to use it, and whatever power you can muster, to get ahead at last… and stay there, no matter what.

CONNECTIONS:

The Hostess: You’ve been friends for so long that you’re certain the pair of you could weather even the worst of storms… but you’re starting to get the feeling that she’s heard a whisper or two about your less than savory side jobs, your malicious moonlighting. How much does she know? And how much would it bother you, if she turned her back and closed her door, after everything? Would losing the gentlest part of your past break what’s left of your heart, or are you just too far gone for that sort of thing to matter?

The Diamond: You aren’t too choosy about the courtesans you spend your time with, but she has such a genuine glow, incandescent, really. You’re willing to spend a great deal of your dirty money to bask in that, privately, upstairs at the Folies Bergère. There’s something to her that makes you wonder how much you have in common, hidden away in those sad stories neither of you seem to be telling. Of course, that’s probably all in your head.

The Effervescent: That sparkle of theirs brings out the best in you, somehow. But such brightness seems fragile, to one who knows Paris as you do; this city could eat them alive. You make a point of patrolling their neck of the woods, doing what you can to make sure that pretty little shop of theirs stays safe.

Possible faceclaims: Liev Schreiber, Mahershala Ali, Ian McShane, suggest more!

                                           「THE SAILOR 」

                   30+  •  PUBLIC  •  OPEN - APPLY!

ABOUT:

You’ve always thought of yourself as a simple kind of man, with simple ambitions; make decent money, for decent work. One day, you’d have a home of your own, and someone to share it with. Perhaps a few orchard trees. A garden patch. A dog, to bother the sparrows. It wouldn’t be much, maybe. But it would be perfect.

It was all going fairly to plan, you thought, as you sailed along the Seine, as your father and father’s father had before you. Until war spilled out of Sarajevo, and pooled across the continent, the blood running deeper by the year. Your simple story, like so many others, quivered under the shadow of all that terror. So you fought. For brutalized Belgium, ravaged France. For all the people like you, caught between the heavy guns and bayonets of a conflict that, really, had nothing to do with them… but threatened all they had, all they could have. That’s what you held close, in the trenches; your dreams, grasped so tightly you could feel the warm sunlight, taste the ginguet. They were enough to bear you up, through the mud and blood. Well, dreams, and your brothers in arms. Some of them even listened to your hopeful tales, and smiled, instead of laughed. That would be lovely. They’d visit.

When it all ended, you were still standing: dreams frayed, but not past mending. That was why you came to Paris. The City of Light was a town of opportunity, you’d been told. Only, you found so much more than you’d hoped for. There were jobs, certainly. But the people. The possibilities. Nobody prepared you for those, for the marvels and shocks and discoveries of such a busy, modern place. There was freedom, here, vibrant, real, beautiful. You just had to know where to look - and some of those dear friends you’d made in the trenches had survived to show you the way. Clair de Lune welcomed you with open arms. So did the men who’d found safety there, and joy, and love. Perhaps you haven’t saved up enough for that little house you’ve been hoping for, not yet - but in the meantime, you know you have a home.

CONNECTIONS:

The Novelist:  You can see a familiar loneliness, here. How familiar, you’re not sure. Still, you feel for them, and you wonder what it is that they spend so much time scratching down into those little notebooks. They look like they could use a friend, and probably a drink; so could you, honestly.

The Artificer: You do the odd bit of work for them, now and then - moving set pieces and materials, heavy lifting. They can’t pay much, but that’s alright. It’s nice to get off the water and take a look around the city’s many corners, now and then. And they’re entertaining company, in their own way.

The Smuggler: Your employer, and a good one. For a given definition of “good,” sure, but. You were there when it all began, when their kingdom along the river was born. Far as you can see, they’ve spared you and your crewmates an awful lot of trouble, and that’s enough to earn your loyalty. You’ve witnessed worse crimes than theirs, anyway. The above-grade pay is certainly nice, too - your little dreams are getting closer by the day.

Possible faceclaims: Jon Bernthal, Isaiah Mustafa, Manny Montana, suggest more!

                                          「THE CRITIC 」

                   45+  •  PUBLIC  •  OPEN - APPLY!

ABOUT:

The moment you walk into an arts establishment, the whole of Paris begins to quake with nerves. Your name passes the lips of actors, directors, and writers in much the same way that one talks of nightmares and disaster – soft, whispered, but brimming with fear.

You’re everywhere and nowhere, always watching, thinking, choosing your words carefully. And always, always, enjoying the work you critique. It’s why you put up with the letters of complaint, with the dirty looks at industry parties, with being kicked out of some new bistro for words that you felt were true, but may have been just a little too sharp. You know your stuff though, after so many years of offering opinions about every kind of art under the sun. And most importantly, under all of the intimidation, you care about creativity, you really do. You didn’t just gain the power to make or break a career from sheer snark – though that’s always ready to hand.

You’re too confident in yourself to soften, to become sycophantic to those whose work you critique, but it’s been a while since anyone looked at you, really looked at you, without contempt. A little common understanding would not go amiss, but for now you’re content to hope for one of those elusive shows, novels, paintings, or films to set your brain alight, to fill you with life as they always do.

CONNECTIONS:

The Hostess: Your ex-wife. Since your divorce, you’ve both attempted to tactfully avoid each other, but these days it seems like she’s everywhere,  an ever-present theatrical ghost. The natural consequence of sharing many interests, you suppose.  One of these days, some party somewhere will make it difficult to dart out of the way at just the right moment, to spare you both embarrassment. What will happen when that moment arrives? Fireworks of some kind. With the two of you involved, anything less would simply be disappointing.

The Benefactor: As someone who has occupied many an expensive, uncomfortable theatre seat, it’s difficult for you not to seethe with frustration at how deeply, deeply ludicrous you feel their ideas are. Well, most of them. Every once in a while, something pops out that may just be near brilliance. You’re amused by them, even as their staggering lack of creative instinct makes you want to hang your head in your hands.

The Angel: You’re no stranger to their charms within Le Ciel. They have a spark to them that excites you. You’ve even wondered if they have aspirations away from the world of the club, but with someone so mysterious, you feel you can never be sure.

Possible faceclaims: Jeremy Irons, Bill Nighy, Naveen Andrews, suggest more!

                                           「THE HEIRESS 」

                   20+  •  SOCIETY  •  OPEN - APPLY!

ABOUT:

Everyone wants to rule the world, but nobody ever mentions how lonely it can be at the top. Lonely and boring. When you have everything - when you can have anything - even the newest, shiniest, most fascinating amusements start to stale quickly. But you’ve got more than money, more than a name that matters. You have an imagination, and you can picture a different life, a fuller life - like those you find in the novels and magazines scattered about your luxurious estate. You want to create, to love, to sip deeply, as they say - to do anything and everything that feels more real than lounging around with your high society so-called friends, listening to the same-old superficial talk, talk, talk, and spending money like it’s going out of style. 

Truth is, you can’t stand the mean, fake, vapid crowd you were born to. They hang on your every word, laugh at every joke, admire every fashion. It’s exhausting, though. So superficial! Such a performance! If you’re going to take in a show, you’d much rather it be one of the newfangled wonders of Montparnasse, or the glimmering treasures of Montmartre. Those warm lights and jostling clubs embrace you, night after night, whenever you can get away. This side of Paris promises everything you’ve ever dreamed of - but all that glitters is not gold, and the City of Lights has a dark side you’ve yet to truly see. What will happen when you stumble into those shadows? Can you love the city’s ugly angles, too? Or will they break your heart?

CONNECTIONS:

The Spiritualist: They are made of the stars, and you can’t get enough of them. They’re one of the only people you know who's always ready to delve into some deep conversation, probing the mysteries of the world, life, death, and beyond, and you couldn’t be more grateful.

The Newsie: Their article was nothing more than lies and slander, and you couldn’t believe that anyone would dare to smear you so. You spent months doing damage control after their nasty drivel hit the papers, and you haven’t forgotten about it – and neither has most of Parisian society.

The Angel: She is your your inspiration. You were starstruck from the moment you saw her first, so free and beautiful, gliding across the stage. You’d trust her with anything. Is that wise? Maybe not. But you’ve never been especially suspicious. 

Possible faceclaims: Bahar Sahin, Kiersey Clemons, Arden Cho, suggest more!