#chevalors

AS A ONCE-NOBLE social customs and the culture of Orlais was not lost on Augustus, however every once in a while it would still catch him off guard in the most bizarre way possible. In this case, it was in the form of a ring—a gift. Not to him, but for Elise. 

The ballroom was filled with milling upper-class citizens and nobles. Augustus himself wore his best clothes reminiscent of his previous life—a deep burgundy suit and a gold half-mask he had dug out of his closet. It was from his pocket that he drew an intricate ring and presented it to Elise near the sidelines of the ball.

“One of the lords insisted he gift this to you as thanks,” Augustus explained. The ring was reminiscent of popular Orlesian art works. With the care of someone who was handling fine china, he lifted the chevalier’s hand, giving her all of the time needed to withdraw if she desired. His hand was warm and rough against hers as he slowly slid the ring onto her finger until it fit snugly at the base.

For a moment, he just stood there, looking with her hand in his.

mahanon laughed as he felt strong arms pulling him in to a body, strong and muscled. the chevalier, elise, had grabbed him, had grabbed him by the waist. he offered her a wicked grin in response. he also rolled his hips into hers, just for a dramatic affect. he looked up at her, enjoying the fact that he was smaller than her. 

Standing in golden armour, a hand resting idly upon the hilt of her sword, Élise felt strangely out of place and yet a part of the scenery; a gilded ornament to be admired, standing out but only to herself. She noticed how some actively avoided coming too close to her, put off by the warrior’s presence, others passed her pleasant greetings that she met with a small smile or a nod. She was far more comfortable on a battlefield than in dealing with small talk and nobility and niceties... even though, technically, she was one of them.

It took her quite some time to meet the gaze of the merchant and a few seconds longer to acknowledge that he was smiling at her. She had stared back, brow barely lifted, until it hit her that his attention was on her. Once it did, Élise returned the smile, small but genuine unlike the sly smirks of those higher ranked.

She smiles back, so small, so sincere. He slinks forward and spreads a hand down the bannister. "It has been long," his echo oozes softly, "that I've seen an honest smile. A kindly one."

Eeenie-meenie-miny-mo, catch a black sheep by the toe. Here is the chevalier, glinting bright and out of place. She fits better in war with her boots suck-slapping in the mud, still warm and gushing red. Instead she's here as the nobility party. They drink wine. Rumors drop juicy plump from their lips.  

By the end of tonight, someone will try to have the host stabbed in the back by a dagger or three.

Chevalors Sent : [ guard ]

Word Prompts! || Accepting ! @chevalors​ [ guard ] for your muse to step between my muse and danger

Finishing his last mug of mead, Sverre seemed content. The tavern provided good food, better drink, and atmosphere that felt like home, of course the Bear was thinking a fight would fit right in! However, he didn’t engage, if only because he had just finished dealing with constables in another town. Told him to get out or he dies, just because he killed a man in a bar brawl. Maybe don’t go around smacking people over the head with a bottle! Just the thought sparked ire in him, and he decided to leave before something broke out.

Stumbling out of the entry into the night air, he gave a sigh of relief, quite enjoying the brisk night air. But even in his enjoyment he didn’t miss the fact that someone had followed him from the bar. Was he going to get his fight after all? A smile curled his lips, stretching his arms above his head in a drunken way, playing it up in order to make it look like he was too inebriated to put up a struggle, stumbling his way to a darker part of the night. 

They followed, perfect. Obviously his purse was the prize, but this man was going to die. Once he was sure he had been followed into the far darker part of the road, Sverre turned, those blue eyes slowly turning color, visible even in the dark. “Hello there~” He cooed in an amused way, making the man freeze. He was aware now that Sverre had known about the man following him, and now there was a decision to make.

And then a woman was standing between them.

Sverre leaned back in surprise, finding himself staring at the woman’s back while she confronted the man in front of him. He might be some level of drunk, but that didn’t stop him from paying her a good bit of attention. Tall, taller than him, and big. She looked like she was going to bend the thief in half and not notice she was doing so. He didn’t mind a woman like that.

“I shouldn’t even be here.” Michel voiced from out behind his ornate mask. To wear a mask, especially at a party, was typical of almost all Orlesians, but it was something foreign to him.  As a Chevalier, albeit former now, Michel had never worn a mask. A luxury afforded to few others, as Chevaliers enjoyed a kind of exemption from that expectation. Though his need for disguise was obvious. He would not be particularly welcome or inconspicuous here. Yet the known threat Corypheus posed to Empress Celene’s life was too exigent for him not to come, champion or not. 

Ah , rain. something he had started to love so much. the sound of storms always temporarily waved away the dreadful thoughts he so often had —— for once Kolren felt at peace. though , in Crestwood , there was no peace to be had here. demons , as always , did wander. the inhabitants of Crestwood were cautious people , having seen their fare share of Hell , just like everyone else. Kolren has met only a few in his and his companions journey for shelter —— they had been refused by everyone. he simply looked for somewhere to dry off and replenish energy after quite some time spent walking.

THE TOUCH IS SOFT AT FIRST, gentle against Élise’s cheek. His hand is almost reverent in the way it moves while his finger traces along her cheekbone and cups the side of her face. A statue—that’s what she reminded Augustus of. One of those marble statues. Maybe it was the height, or perhaps it was her demeanour itself: stable, calm, grounding. Opposite of everything he was used to—so unlike the rough tossing of the ocean.

Augustus leans forward and captures Élise’s lips with his own. The kiss is not a peck, it’s distinctly insistent—but there’s an attentiveness that does not match how brash he usually is. With a resounding sigh he pulled away an inch.