#toachromatic

"If it means anything, my hands are clean. I deeply regret the outcome it yielded, how... how angry it made you and others. People doubted me, a feeling I will never forget and don't want to experience again." She shakes her head before looking up at him. A small smile now.

"I... I hope we could be friends, despite it all. You're passionate if nothing else, chasing down what you believe, seeking the truth. Perhaps there is much I could learn from you."

His ear harkens to the title, a simple adjustment from his stint as ‘Monsieur Brunette.’ (Truly, he had never fully assimilated into the role—it was easier being himself, not having to release all he was, even if just temporarily.) He also quickly recognizes the voice speaking to him, one of the last Brunette conversed with during the trial passed:

Reverend Green. (Or rather: Lilina.)

He lets her speak—biting down the will to interrupt, make clear his distaste for the girl. When she says that she is innocent, his eyes can only narrow.

What, then, was the point of being so antagonistic?

He can only forgive it through the lens of what it truly was—a game, lest that be forgotten. At the end of the weekend, all was undone—no murder, no trial, no execution. There was no consequence for the proceedings of the two days’ happenings, and as such, there would be no consequence by his judgement for those present—save of the characters they each had possessed.

“ Is this your method of apologizing? ” For being so unnecessarily difficult to work with? (The words lack in their sting, merely being intolerant for its own sake.) He wants it to bite more—deeper than that, but the will doesn’t mutter, damped down by the remarks surrounding.

‘…seeking the truth.’ (No, actually. That wasn’t right.)

“ I’m… ”

His actions during the trial were with the determination to win—nothing more and nothing less—and though he collaborated with the rest of the innocent, it was only to iron out the details of the work he had already done. (That was the source of his insistence—his ‘good’ character on display.) Had the circumstances been different, he would’ve submitted to his true self—the one who lies and cheats and manipulates to his favor. Brunette was tame in comparison to Valter.

(Eyes fall closed, voice hardly above a mumble.) “ …not so good as you think. ”

There is nothing good to be learned from my example.

“ But if you wish to subject yourself to my command, know that it is not without consequence. ” (Truth be told, he needed time to think it over.) With a scoff, returning to his own business, he finishes:

It’s just a game. (That was the premise.) Though, for Valter it was very real. There had been precautions, yes, to ensure the safety of the participants, but beyond all that, it was life and death and interrogation—the search for truth had been legitimate.

The time ticked down to 11:12pm, when at last, the body fell—hah. (He knew he was going to survive.) He had gone about searching, piecing together the story of the murder, checking clues and making certain that the fragments fell into place.

When the trial finally began, Monsieur Brunette had felt ready. In broad terms, he had an order of events, a preconceived notion of the killer and the story they had orchestrated. That notion proved to be wrong, the first half of the trial a waste.

So it became a matter of placing evidence, tying threads, breaking knots. Eventually they would uncover the truth—would they not?—so long as they kept moving (so long as he kept thinking, deducing, contriving). Just keep marching forward, and you will arrive where you wish eventually.

It circles back to a formerly accused—he doesn’t know why (they had already cleared him)—but time was ticking, and they could waste theirs, but Valter was going to solve this mystery (that was the task he knew he could accomplish).

A new story is fabricated, and the actress fails to dissuade the illusion. It fails, also, to shatter—the other was voted to be the killer.

Had he failed in his persuasion? (His case was clear, founded on solid evidence.) To have been outdone—by a buffoon’s work, no less—was an insult he could never forgive. He withdraws into himself, lest his rage bubble too closely to the surface.

And it boils, quietly, dangerous all the same. He had really lost? Him, really? Please. (It was unthinkable.) But who could deny it? With victory in his palm, he had been careless to secure it, pressured to haste.

The killer stays quiet, little spoken until they are gone.

…It is good, he thinks, that they were cast into their rooms. Logic dictates that it was to keep the killer’s identity anonymous, for her lack of boasting requested it. (It would’ve been nice, to have been confirmed, though what else did Valter expect?)

It is good for another purpose though—as a buffer between the Moonstone and the world surrounding, a space for his frustrations to go unseen and without consequence. The time ticks up to the five minute mark; the doors are unlocked.

"Ah, hello Ms. Slate-Grey," a glance to the rose in her pocket, "You know, red roses are symbolic for passion, love, beauty, fitting for who is before me. But, ah, how could a mere rose compare to the sun that illuminates through the parting gray clouds?"

          She takes the note, brows furrowing. Just like Juliette? Then she definitely had to go to the Conservatory if her suspicions were true. She may just have a lead yet! Or maybe at the end of the day she was just chasing petals in the wind.

          "Thank you for this," a kind smile replaces her previous expression. "I'm feeling... generous, so lend me your ear and save your gaze for me."

          She flips the book she had tucked beneath her arm to the bookmark. ( Sorry Emmeryn if you did want to read it from start to finish. ) Index finger points at the exact passage of importance.

'My good butler!' She exclaims, increasing her pace so she can match his even stride. 'Twas a lengthy absence. No doubt your heart was riven quite in two! But sooth, gaze upon the insights I hath scriven from every nook and cranny!' Her words fall slightly short, an intermission dedicated to rustling fills the space as L'Aracgel flips through her notebook. She had decided that Madame Rubie' hand would be as mysterious as her character, a series of short-handed scribbles that had made complete sense in the writing, but now felt glamourously unknowable.

After a bit of deciphering though, she was ready to impart revelations.

'First! Ancient tomes I did survey, and descried in their lines information most perverse. Hisotoxic hypoxia occurs from the deprivation of oxygen in the bloodstream! 'Tis a poison most foul, given form most oft in cyanide...'

Flipping a bit further along, she continues, humming her own celebrations at her marvellous detective work.

'As to the map discovered, the cartographer was nor waitstaff nor Baroness. Our victim was a lonely soul, and self-sufficient. My guess is the map was his art...'

Unconsciously, her hands twitched. The desire to re-enact her next discovery was simply overwhelming. She allowed it to take her in full force, miming creeping up to the door and opening it as she spoke.

'On soft footfall I stole into the professor's room. Scratches upon the handle... suggestive of knave hands opening doors barred to their entry...' here she paused, looking around, modelling herself off of the suave, sly look Rennac would get in his eye when he spotted an unopened chest. 'Inside: fine china a perfect match for a set in the dining room, languishing in the scent of roses. Handkerchiefs akin to the one in his pocket. And...' An appropriate pause for dramatic effect. 'Helpings of sweet bon-bons, equal in number to all other portions provided to guests...'

Oh! It is good to see someone far more sensible about. Madame Rubie has the right idea about this entire ordeal, and he is more than happy to be an assistant to her cause. So, with a flourish befitting only that of Madame Rubie's right hand man he bows, hand to his chest, and lets his wings flutter just a little.

"I'm glad you were able to find so much information," he says. In truth, he would have gotten bored looking through old tomes and trying to puzzle through different poisons. He's much better with physical scouting, anyway. "I actually took a visit to the conservatory as well, I think my findings may be of note."

He pauses, thinks back to all he's found in the last few hours. Two minds working together to solve this mystery should indeed make for faster time. "The roses there were disturbed, and Mr. Scarlett did have rose on his breath. I wonder if it came from the china, or perhaps the flowers I saw in my searches. Or, maybe a combination of the two?"

He holds up his finger, pricked, only a small wound there. "The roses were in disarray, and there was small blood splatters around the base. To be honest, I hated the entire layout of the conservatory."

That's neither here nor there. "I found a tiny amount of blood on one of the thorns."

But it is a surprise indeed to see who else inhabits the library. He would not have pinned that man for someone to be so pious in the art of research, though everyone had things up their sleeves that others did not know about.

"Val- no, Mister Brunette, was it? Whatever are you doing in a place like this? Looks like quite the daunting task you have in front of you; say, are you researching something that may be related to this crime that has unfolding? Or is this for your... personal gain?"

Valter was never fond of being interrupted.

Be it in training, combat, missions, his own speech– To be cut short was an irritant, a quick way to lose favor for someone who you were already predisposed against. Knowing the person only ever made it slightly more tolerable—if not many times over worse.

Lucky for Kurthnaga, he wasn’t in the middle of something when the other invaded the library. Rather, he was putting away the last of the books he’d been using, gliding away before Kurth could get close enough to see which one it was.

“ Monsieur, ” he corrects without missing a beat. (He didn’t care for the role, but ‘my lord’ was an appealing title.) His marching ceases then, his attention turned then to the man before him.

“ Though I suppose you have your reasons for being here, don’t you, Mr. Azul? ” A smile twists onto his face, sly and unforgiving. “ Too sickened at the sight of blood? ”

And yet, it's not supposed to be her doing the talking.

It wasn't as if she hadn't tried. Addressing an acquaintance so directly, in such, flowery language, would've been the scandal of Rausten for at least a year!

But upon seeing a familiar face she can't help it, the Princess slips through. She was hardly corpsing (and goodness! she didn't want to brush shoulders with literal connotations of the term) a slight break, that's all.

To surpress such dainty prowess... why in less unconventional contexts, it would've been a brutish crime in and of itself! An impossibility!

The trophy room wouldn't have been her first choice, but a snatch of black wing prompts her saintly duty onwards to edify her poor instructor with her presence. The display in the hall would've left any mortal with less nerve than she scared! These fears, certainly not her own, could be encountered together.

'Say,' She tries for a confident saunter into the room, nearly flying on her cursed heels. 'Hath you been struck with mischance, or nefarious activity as of late?'

Her eyes land on the animal heads lining the walls, legions of the hunted. She pulls a face. 'Perchance we may pass the long hours with conference!' She lowers her glasses, retroactively worried her disguise is too impenetrable. 'It's me, L'Arachel by the by.'

Oh, it's his favorite student! He probably would be wise not to say as much --

( playing favorites is never a good idea, it appears, it results in the higher-ups having a sit down conversation about "equity of education" -- a conversation he has not yet had and certainly had no interest in experiencing )

-- but it still very much is the truth. They all have their roles, and currently he was a very sophisticated butler. He's not going to say he plays his role well, however, as he has been generally more of a nuisance than anything else. Still, play along for the audience and give them a show, hm?

"My lady," he gives her the deepest of bows. One hand goes to hers and he presses his lips to her knuckle. A perfect image of gentlemanliness and etiquette. "I fear we may have little time before the dreaded murder this evening. I have been doing some snooping about myself, and ask if someone of your talents and skills will also assist your poor servant in the task."

He’s slower to approach, but still he does. Maybe out of foolhardiness, or that he knows if he dies, it’s hardly real. Though… dreamland was not a pleasant prospect either. Does he play the part or act as himself? 

Both and neither, apparently, as he comes to a stop. “Hey. You seemed excited by the Baroness’ little show earlier~. You must be eager for the mystery, then?”

After unlocking his room and dropping off what meagre possessions he'd brought along for the trip, Griss had set out to roam the estate with no particular destination in mind, guided perhaps only by the steward's "death" and the impulse to unlock whatever ward now guarded his own body. There were a number of rooms, and within them, a plethora of ways to go about it, but it was the visage of an unrecognized saint dressed in a bishop's attire that caught his attention first, and where he now stands. Mere contemplation isn't enough for him though, and he turns to the approaching voice with excitement that, to any bystanders, could have been mistaken for familiarity. In reality, Griss had never seen or met the man dressed head to toe in peach (he'd remember that paired with the verdant green hair, surely), but he's more than eager for a companion. Or a test subject.