#curseofthuringen

I will remove their hiatus now! Welcome back!

both will be put on hiatus for you! best of luck with work!

we apologize for the confusion! she has been readded to the masterlist and we world will be added to the registry again. thank you for pointing it out to us. please do not curse us therese! we really don’t want to be in your troupe of singing dolls ... ... 

Every time his lessons pertaining to sword fighting occurred, he couldn’t help but feel an immense amount of nervousness. His hands often trembled when holding onto the hilt, and he’d often hesitate to hit his instructor. März would not have taken it up, if not for his grandfather’s persuasion. For self defense, the elder man often mentioned to him after seeing him shaken up.

It was far past seven pm, another tense dinner already done with, and März was left to himself. His grandfather was in his study, tending to papers regarding the land. Or more letters regarding marriage. He grimaces at the thought, as he sits in his room, fingers tracing the wood of his desk. His practice sword leaned close up to it, and he reaches out, taking it by the hilt and abruptly leaves his room. März takes long strides down the hall, in direction of his mother’s room.

When outside of it, he wavers, hesitating to go forward. His free hand lingering near the wood, and it takes him awhile to rap a few times. Mother, according to Grandfather, practiced swordplay some time ago. Or at least, it was a rumor, that’s what one of his servants informed him of. So perhaps, she wouldn’t mind–– they hadn’t spent a lot of time together recently.

“...M......Mutti?” He keeps the practice sword hidden from sight behind him, for now.

“May I....may I come in?”

welcome, therese!

your coming has registered THURINGA within the STARGATE. your access portal will be located within the THURINGAN FOREST.

when entering another canon you will be allowed to retain YOUR SWORD.

happy world hopping!

She learns this the hard way: the walls of this world of masks are made of touch.

Seri hears fingers rather than sees them; they resonate in the folds of her sleeves, skitter smoothly over the slopes of her forearms - their tips and the sweep of rosin and brass pace along the shells of her eardrums in a herd-like rustle, again and again. For the umpteenth time, the orchestra sets aside their silence like a bereft lover to take up a far more vivacious mistress, such that Seri feels the shift of all their fingers at the same time she rolls her own long shoulders, a vibrato plus one.

The Awashima woman's red-lipped exhale lingers in the warmth of the ballroom for no more than a golden moment, kept safe from curiosity by that first note of quivering waltz. Ever since she'd arrived, her body hadn't ceased its twitching. Involuntary unsettlings'd murmured across her skin every time she'd thought they'd finally gone to bed, leaving lights on in the house of her heart like spots of heat right where her neckline dove - right where she continually brushed, restless, and where the greatest weight she felt sat.

In truth, Seri should have left already - should have let the late indigo wash over her and swallow her whole, here and along the street, on the steps all the way to her single apartment, where proper black could kiss her eyelids closed with murmurs of city slumber. Instead, lingering close to the wall, unwilling to slink to a chair, the Awashima woman has the crispness of midnight hugging her stomach: blue, the color everyone's always told her she's looked best in - even if it's meant the most coming from only a few people in particular. She's been told it's fortunate she looks so good in white and silver, too, pale hair and rich light eyes only highlighted by the utilitarian elegance of her work attire; the same kinds of comments have emerged, Seri holding herself the same in both a gown and her uniform, in spite of her mask. Her height, fitted pumps a surprisingly delicate augmentation, and her bearing give her away even if the simplicity of her mask, compared to the brilliance of her gleaming hair ornament, doesn't give yet another obvious hint.

Steady cerulean irises trace partners drifting into formation on the floor (for what must be nigh on the last song of them all), saying with a blink and an unfurling of Seri's loosely bound arms that it's true she should have brought a shawl to ward off the shiver of her skin - but, perhaps, the fervor of the room is finally catching up with her, with a turn of her long bare neck and a twitch of her tawny brow.

(There.)

The hall's citrine filigree curves over, curves around, follows the trail of her eyes where her fingertips twitch and at last lie still along the crooks of her elbows. As if the room and the world have simultaneously curled over on themselves, becoming small, small, Seri blinks and a dark head of hair in the distance seems, suddenly, so close she could reach out to lace a curl about her finger - though, of course, Seri knows better than to presume any kind of contact. Though, of course, Seri works hard to be deliberate, aware, with her hands.

Knowing a person by their gait - knowing the roll of their hips and pace of their feet - is Seri's job, but rarely is she as uncertain about it as tonight. As now, when her chin tips forward and her blinks stutter just a little, much like her normal fluid steps.

In fact, the only thing that isn't quite affected is the smile that comes on: a tide, a vermilion blooming, as blue eyes meet blue and Seri dips her frame in formal greeting.

"Do you lack a partner, madame?"

Talent:Do you have any strange talents or skills you've learned but never really had a use for?

As far as treasures go, Paralia's marketplace isn't one of the rarest: all the more reason, then, for Elisabeth to wonder why she'd never explored its myriad stalls.

Maybe she had wandered this lively place many years ago, when she was much smaller, her hand in mother's so as to not become lost in the daily hustle and bustle. Or maybe she dons those rose-tinted spectacles so often used to look back on the past, and she merely confuses the present (she catches sight of a young girl, hand in her mother's, out of the corner of her eye in passing) for a memory; what's thus created is more a 'what might have been' than is anything else, but subconscious makes a memory out of it. She's honestly not to know for certain either way, unreliable - alas - as memory can be at even the best of times.

But she indulges in this potentially illusionary nostalgia now as she drifts leisurely from stall to stall all the same.

Some draw the young woman's attention more than others, usually those not dedicated to home-grown or -reared food produce; nevertheless, she warrants each stand at the very least a few seconds' look (their holders a modest smile in greeting, too, if they happen to catch one another's eyes) before moving on. Nothing out-of-the-ordinary though this might be for some, she revels in this environment ─ not as Marie-Atoinette had in her hameau, perhaps, but with sincere, completely non-sardonic delight.

In fact, it isn't long at all before there rises within her the compulsion to remark, if only (mostly) to herself, how truly marvellous this all is. It's as she peruses a collection of handicrafts - some wooden, others felt, but every one not something one would easily find on the high street - that the words escape gently parted lips--