#faimstarter

When: Early on the Night of the Masquerade.

Who: Anyone.

Amongst the ocean of courtiers in glittering gowns and jeweled tunics, the stark blackness of Gisele’s mourning clothes makes the scene appear as though an artist mistakenly blotted ink on their watercolour tableau. She drifts past the people around her like mercury on water-- brushing against the expanse of skirts or bumping shoulders, perhaps, but maintaining a distinct, immutable separation from all those around her. Had the usual undesirable facets of the events - the grotesque waste, the hideous noise, the unmerited reverence of Calandre - not already predisposed Gisele to a dour mood, watching the crowds fawn over Yvon was sure to completely do away with any cheer she might have otherwise summoned. With her acrimony burning far hotter than the pyres outside, she trails far in the wake of her sister across the ballroom, until the younger Duval is out of view, swallowed up in the admiring crowd. Once it’s become sufficiently clear that watching her sister and further stoking the flames of her resentment can no longer occupy her, Gisele turns sharply towards the bystander with the misfortune of happening to be near enough to her to be cornered into conversation.

Impatience, thy name is Medraut Galant.

Espionage is so mundane, all work and no play, and Medraut hasn’t the faintest idea why Roth would send him to gather intel and sniff out Amelie’s whereabouts when the veteran Chevalier’s well of patience runs thrice deeper than his own. If he thinks too long on it, he’ll no doubt connect the dots of Roth’s design, and will see with clarity the blueprints of his intentions: mercy culminated in a sly attempt to keep Medraut occupied while also keeping him far, far away from the eye of the storm that nearly swallowed him whole all those years ago. For this reason, he doesn’t think too long on it.

Cloaks and daggers have never become him, and though he sits at a lone table in a dark corner of the Mane, and though shadows limn his person, and though he’s dressed in shades of black and gray, there’s a kind of restlessness that rolls from him in waves, one that conspicuously marks him as unbelonging to this place, these people, this city. He's ill at ease, too unfocused to convincingly break bread with the Mane’s patrons and ply their tongues loose. With a quiet huff of frustration, he surveys the room for what must be the thousandth time, searching for clues hidden in plain sight. He knows he’ll find none, not here, not anywhere in Val Faim. In the marrow of his bones pulses a truth that he’s loath to swallow: there’s only one place in Celestine where secrets grow like weeds, and his stomach turns at the thought of returning to his motherland. 

Impatiently, he drums his fingers against the tabletop, eyes tracking the sea of faces before him, trying in vain to find the devil in the details. His gaze drifts to the right and snags on the two bruisers circling each other in the Mane’s makeshift ring, knuckles bloody, teeth bared. Longing colors Medraut’s eyes a brighter shade of blue, and without meaning to, he leans closer to the ring. An itch that he can’t scratch pulls the skin of his arms and hands taut, and he clenches his fists to ward off the restlessness of them, the draw to violence, the hunger for it. 

“Amelie!” he hears a girl shout, and his head snaps to the left, eyes scanning the crowd. The Amelie in question embraces her summoner, and when she turns to greet her other companions, Medraut can see that she bears no resemblance to his Amelie, not by any stretch of the imagination. It’s a dead end, as he knew it would be: another fruitless lead. This is useless, he thinks. There’s nothing to be found here. Only in the Underworld will he find fruit ripe for harvest. 

He teeters on the tightrope of his emotions, legs wobbling, one misstep away from falling right into the waiting maw of his anger. Only in the Underworld. Only in the Underworld. Only in the Underworld. Prone to intense emotion, and cursed to always be moved by it, his frustration reaches its boiling point, and he finds himself caught too deep in the quicksand of his anger to tread it. With an angry swipe of his arm, he swears colorfully and hurls his tankard of ale at the wall to his left. The wood of the tankard splinters, clattering to the floor in pieces, and a spray of ale rains on the table adjacent to the wall. The patrons nearest to him huff and puff in equal parts surprise and outrage, and he earns some sidelong glances from others across the room, but none are brave enough (or stupid enough) to approach Calandre’s wardog, who everyone knows is keen to bite any hand, even those that try to feed him. Only one person, it seems, has the gall to step forward: a looming figure that he can sense more than see, for his eyes remain shut tight, the bridge of his nose pinched between his thumb and forefinger as he tries to recollect the reins of his temper. “If it’s the mess that troubles you,” he bites out, voice scathing, “thank Odeline it’s only spilt ale, and not spilt blood.” And not your spilt blood, he doesn’t say.

it was simple really: victoire did not have time to go for a drink, to parade around the lion’s mane, to rest --- he did not have time for such a thing, but the night was quieting. his shift had ended. there was breath in his lungs, and the thick smell of flowers was settling on his skin with an ease he could almost appreciate. ( almost. he so did love to complain about the flowers on occasion. ) maybe he would have time tonight. 

victoire was walking away from the summer palace, but he could not help it; his eyes roamed over the bushes, seeking danger. expecting it. and as if not to disappoint him, he heard the sudden footfalls of another. 

“i’ll bet half my pay it’s another assassin,” he muttered to himself. “alright,” he called with a flourish of his hand. please don’t be heading to the summer palace. “step forward, if you please. let’s get this over with, yes?” 

Dismissed for the evening, Hector finds himself on the steps outside the palace and in the company of small group of unarmored chevaliers he shares a brief, however fond, history with. He’d trained with these men for a brief stint, slept in their barracks, crawled through mud, hunted and rode with them. He’d also rang their heads like bells in spars with them, and they’d tried to ring his too. Now, they’re dragging him to the Lion’s Mane in the familiar way old friends do and forcing a thick bottomless cup into his hands. It’s been years since he’s seen the few of them, years since they’d heard his stories of the stories of dragons that burrowed and flew and breathed fire, and how Hector slew them all. He’s goaded into entertaining his stories and humoring his brothers, and before long, the man who drinks least and talks less so at banquets and galas, has now put a dent in the barkeep’s barrels and attracted a crowd.

Hector sings his stories to the songs of praise and he’s heralded after each one. Dragon’s bane, beast-man, dragon knight, stone-man, he collects his fair share of titles from jeers and cheers that end with raised mugs punctuated by the hollow slams of them on tabletops. It’s after the fifth story Hector’s finds that he’s allowed himself to become drunk, or has at the very least guzzled enough of the Mane’s finest to step into the fighting ring for a demonstration of a dragon slayer’s strength...

When it’s done, his count’s up to seven men flattened. He’s lost his jacket and the strings of his sweat wrinkled shirt hang untied and open, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The ridge leading down his chiseled chest is flushed and heaving, the chorded musculature of forearms littered with scars of curious shapes and glorified origins. He’s led back to the tables smothered by a pack of men he’s inspired who praise him with shouts in his ears, pats to his back and elbows to his ribs. Hector’s more drunk on their attention than he is on ale at this point, he’s got to admit, and he can’t for the life of him remember why that’s a bad thing.

With his head in a swirl and his body in the highs of adrenaline he throws himself onto his chair, his knuckles reddened when he wraps his hand back around his cup only to find it empty. 

“Another!” Hector shouts to command, shoving his cup against someone, anyone, within his arm’s reach as he plucks the mug from his nearest comrade’s lips to finish off himself. It’s only after he wipes the corners of his mouth with the back of his hand that he turns to look to who he’s bestowed the honor of being his cupbearer. 

          𝐈𝐓 𝐃𝐈𝐃 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐀𝐍 𝐀𝐋𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖 a person's efforts were best dedicated to something aligned with their strengths, something, Nella, Etienne’s only employee at Terra Noire, assured him several days ago, but that did not change her decision to take the week off, and leave him to run the shop, and most dreadfully, interact with customers. A bonus, nor a raise would sway her either, though Nella still welcomed the idea of either in the near future, she’d assured him. Perhaps this was when having multiple employees would have come in handy— but he knew the odds of stumbling across another person he could tolerate long term were slim to nothing.

          Every moment spent above the surface meant another moment spent away from the lab, and Etienne progressively grew more irritable in its absence, busying himself with straightening several enchanting fragrances displayed on the shop counter and opting not to look up at whoever entered the store. He could only hope his performance of obliviousness was convincing enough. Only several moments pass before he decides identifying the customer would be in his best interest, perchance he fell victim to another assassination attempt. “Have you come here with a purchase in mind, or are you just browsing, as they say?” Etienne asks point blankly, for this would determine the remainder of their interaction. “If you are here to browse, consider arriving more prepared next time. There are only so many options to be had with a perpetually unchanging inventory.” Every customer meant a new opportunity to break the record for least amount of time spent with him in the store.

Like any shadow that follows after the light but does not dare join it, Agrippine stays on the outskirts. They duck their eyes away from the few who notice them, and awkwardly nod at the nobles who offer their congratulations or prattle breathlessly of their victory. A few ask them to dance; Agrippine does not oblige them. I never learned, they shake their head, and would rather not. It seems to surprise them, for what noble knows what to do with the truth as a stone and not the glitter of dor? Agrippine has neither the charm nor the desire to entertain them and hold their attention, and so it flits away without concern. Thank goodness. They are content to watch, to observe, to let their eyes roam across the crowd. Unknowingly, they begin to sway; without realizing, Agrippine begins to hum.

As much as Val Faim and her time spent here has caused Sainte to question things, to question herself, it has not shaken her faith. Nothing can, she has concluded at this point - Among everything unsteady, Odeline, her prophet, is as steady as a lighthouse in a storm, as a rock against the crashing tides. And with the week of festivities behind her, and more questions than she can answer herself ahead, it seems only right to visit the Tomb, perhaps to get some answers. Perhaps, Odeline will make whatever purpose Sainte has been called to serve clear - She isn’t sure, anymore, what the Empress intends or her position here. So far, it hasn’t been much, but it feels as though there must be something more. What other reason would there be, to tether Sainte to Val Faim, like a guard dog sent out on occasion to bare teeth at the Empress’ enemies? It doesn’t add up, and an uneasiness has settled onto her, thick and heavy as a woolen blanket. 

She slips her mask off as she enters, and pulls her cloak over her head. The tomb is the large one, the one where so many go to worship, nobles and peasants alike. People who’s sins are small, who may have stolen a loaf of bread, to people like herself, who have killed and still kneel at Odeline’s feet for forgiveness. In her other hand she holds a small bundle of flowers, an offering for the Prophet, in hopes that this will get her the answers she’s looking for. Or, at the very least, will bring peace to those who have died under the eye of the Empress in the last week, and, perhaps, for the man who had done the killing himself. 

She has kneeled before the statue, carefully laying the flowers at its feet, opening her mouth to whisper a prayer, when she realizes that she is not alone. She turns, leaving her mask lying on the ground, hand reaching for a sword she hasn’t brought. “Who’s there?” The words fall from her lips and she feels stupid for it - if someone is trying to sneak up on her, they’re unlikely to give themselves away. And, more likely, if it’s just someone coming to pray to the Prophet as she has, she has an undue amount of suspicion in her voice. 

They don’t know much of Odeline, save for bits and pieces. A few lines in old songs, a prayer they’ve borrowed and tried to make their own. Every orphan needs a God, after all, so Agrippine finds some faith in a prophet who appeared to the world as a girl. It is poetic, Agripine thinks, though they know so little of poetry. It is profound, to Agrippine, though most things seem profound to them, without memory to explain the simplest of things.

The Obsidienne must not be not so beautiful as Agrippine imagines Odeline to be, but it has an appeal of its own. At times, they feel that they are like the Obsidienne; an endless desert where many have entered and no one returned. Is that not the heart of grief? Is that not the loss they carry? They have tried to return to themself again and again in vain, emty air running through their fingers like coal-colored sand when Agrippine grasps for their past.