✰ — / 𝐄𝐆𝐎

          𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐙𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒 is undeniable in Violaine’s expression. He does not need to speak for Violaine to guess the reason for his approaching her. For he had not approached her at any other moment since his rearrival.  How heedless they’d been in delivering Amelie’s letter, so much so that they’d been spotted. And by Patrice Cherón, of all people. Indeed, there were worse people that could’ve overheard the conversation, but there were also far better. The distance that deepened with each moment Patrice spent away from Val Faim, was something still to be remedied— and she still hadn’t known how. They mustn’t let this information circulate further than it already had, for that only created new opportunities for this information to travel back to Ghislain. It would only introduce a new fissure in their fiancé who’d been liable to shatter at any moment— and she was not convinced of her capacity to keep them both afloat, if he ventured to those levels.

—

Iseult lists his head to the side as they recite his name. Listening intently as if, in their carrying of it, he may discover the very same. Only, it lands as it always does; a moniker two degrees from center. A mask in need of adjustment. A coat with a frayed seam. Through the cut-outs in his mask, dark eyes crinkle in a palpable grin.

Geroux informs him of what he should know, here. “I certainly hear it,” he muses, treading ground akin to well-natured humor, “the knowing I look forward to.” a playful substitution for ah, but we’re still strangers, are we not? Violaine addresses such in her next remark. “You pose quite the conflict,” he entertains as he weighs her proposal with a theatrical gravity. He comes to a decision — no small shred of willpower needed to resist resigning it to a dor flip.

“Semi-intact is a tall order, and well, my hands can be careless things.” With that, he turns the mask over in them. Offers it over to hers. “And, as I have heard it put, a perfect stranger is simply a friend in waiting,” and why not test the proverbs validity? That is to say, he wants to see what comes of this, for good or ill; his impulse often the last bastion against a bone-deep boredom. Give me anything, he tempts fate often. Just make it bloody interesting.

          𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐁𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘 𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐀 surrounding them, and the continued uncertainty that their conversation roused within in them only prompted Violaine further in their inquiry. The happenings of the street and market became nothing more than background noise, their curiosity growing plainer as the interaction progresses. “I see I’ve managed to invite conflict into our interaction already,” they retort teasingly, unable to prevent the growing smirk on their expression. “I hope this does this not alter you looking forward to knowing in some fashion.”

It’s a little funny, how much pride swirls inside her at just how much Violaine’s demeanor shifts at noticing her. She smirks beneath her mask at the momentary win, their steely gaze looks over her to seize her up, perhaps prepare for their typical matchup. Beau doesn’t have an intimidating stature, she keeps herself as small as possible to get out of any situation she needs to but seeing them prepare to deal with her is very entertaining. Another argument that Beau continues to egg on, refuses to let Violaine drop the topic. The exposure of the affair was too delicious for Beau to pass on and while the true reason behind her teasing has far more to do with Violaine’s spouse, it’s just a little too fun to mess with the noble. 

Beau knows they have nothing on her anyway unless they decided to go digging for it. She knows the noble is want to do so but there’s been no harm, no foul so far. She tilts her head at their response, putting on an air of confusion and wanting to understand. “Dire consequences?” she frowns. “Now you’re making it sound like I’ll walk in on some private performance and I promise you,” she laughs softly. “No matter how highly you think of yourself, Geroux, it’s not enough to warrant me seeing all of that.”

She looks to the side, shaking her head at a server walking by with flutes of champagne. She begins to rock on her heels, standing still for so long bringing an ache to her nerves. She hates being in one place for so long, she wished she had a contract out during the celebrations rather than being cooped up in the palace for Alain. “You don’t have anything on me.” she finally says with a confident shrug. “If you did, I’d be doing my job wrong. Oh hey!” she leans closer to them, surely invading their space. “Do you want some tips, maybe? I kind of do secrets for a living, but I will require a down payment of at least 250 dor. Surely you understand.”

          𝐖𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐈𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐅𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐑 across their visage as Beau goads them further— and an annoyance visible, if only for several fleeting moments between their practiced and polished conversations and expressions.  There is nothing concrete about Beau's inquiry, something that should've led relief to wash over her, but still, Violaine wallows in their initial vexation, eyes fluttering distractedly across the gardens in search of anything but Beau. What had it mattered that she'd acquiesced to her tauntings, succumbing to their provocation at record speeds, something entirely out of the ordinary for them? That was the effect that Sidonie inspired within her, something Beau was more than privy too, at the very least. This, of course, would not prevent Violaine from partaking in some festivities of their own. “I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about,” they retort with mock perplexion, expression softening into something more playful. “My private performances would not be the consequence itself, silly. To think that I refer to them in any capacity as a consequence would negate how highly I think of myself, don't you think?” The actual consequences that they hinted at were ones still unknown to either of them– but Beau does not need to know that. The installing of uneasiness alone would be enough to serve their purposes. 

Read More Now!          

𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐓 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐂𝐑𝐔𝐄𝐋𝐓𝐘 𝐎𝐑 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐏𝐋𝐔𝐂𝐊𝐒 𝐀𝐖𝐀𝐘 𝐀𝐓 𝐀𝐆𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐄’𝐒 𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐄, unraveling each thread until all that is left is what lies at the core of all things: breath and blood, fear and desire, a primal need for life and an innate fear of the unknown? They are completely still as they listen closely, for who else has lain it before Agrippine so clearly? It is as their intuition warned them, every jittery moment of panic confirmed true: if they cannot make you one of their trophies, then they’ll settle on poking and prodding you until they unearth what they believe to be your layers…

What layers does Agrippine have? A name they borrowed from the language of the very beasts they’ve learned to love, a home given to them by a stranger who is as kind as he is dangerous, a career funded by the fiance of the very same noble who illustrates with startling, black-and-white precision their future at court. They have what is given to them, what they stumbled upon by accident — and then, nothing. A few confusing and crimson-stained memories. 

Without memory, without a personal history, the core of Agrippine brims at the surface, and even moreso as they consider their options. Dark eyes drawn wide as Lune’s, body almost unnaturally still, Agrippine grasps for words. Clumsily, they offer their answer. “I want to remain myself. I don’t want to be torn apart like a machine. I am no mere object, but I don’t…” Like a child, they stumble; and like all children do, naive and ignorant of the cost of hope, they try again. “I don’t understand… this,” their gaze flickers to the nobles who watch them like a hawk eyes its prey, “I never asked for it.”

Agrippine looks at Lune helplessly, as if their steed can explain for them. She blinks amicably at their rider, and Agrippine sighs. Thy son’t know Violaine — not enough to confess the one thing they desire, the one demand they have of the world and its mysteries. If losing their memories has taught them anything, it is that a story is a precious and priceless thing. If living at the Mane and lurking in the shadows of Val Faim has shown them anything, it is that there are plenty who will take everything from you for sport.

Perhaps more for themselves than for Violaine, Agrippine steps away from the racetrack and heads toward the stables. “Yes. I have to take Lune back anyways.”

          𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐒 𝐀𝐆𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐒𝐎𝐋𝐄𝐌𝐍 𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒— never looking away, even as the filaments of their existence unwinded and popped in tandem with her every warning. They walk side by side, and her solemness deepens the farther they draw away from the nobility. She did not take pride in the jockey's undoing, but if it were not her to orchestrate it, there would always be worse, and never better. So why not Violaine? There was no one better to address the finely woven intersections of noble society, with minimal cruelty, and even grace when possible.

         In the now of it, it was honesty that took the present priority. “Who are you, Agrippine?” they query seriously and searchingly. “What are the facets of your sense of self that come to mind when hearing that question? What makes you you?” Their gaze flutters to the distant nobles. “Remember them, carry them with you, and don't let them take you from you. Knowing yourself inside out is necessary if you hope to be able to distinguish yourself from the you that they'll be receiving.”

         If they were to assist Agrippine in the making of themself, then it was necessary they took hold of these scattered, wayward threads, and directed them toward a common goal. From a jockey she would propel them and into a performer they would become. “There's much to learn, Agrippine, but eventually it’ll all start to make sense. Just remember to be kind to yourself, for this is knowledge I've gained directly over a span of nearly 30 years. It won't be easy, but it is the way that will allow you to retain your sense of self.”

         As they near the stables, Violaine draws a hand affectionately across Lune's head. “Some advice if we are to work together moving forward— dwelling on the fact that you didn't ask to be in said circumstance does little but deepen your misery. Instead, ask yourself, how can you take a circumstance, not of your own making, and come out on top with all of the influence?” Violaine gives Lune one final farewell caress, before turning to Agrippine with a hopeful smile. They would work well together. “Rest a few nights on what we've discussed. Feel free to reach out to Ghislain or I if you need anything.” It would not be Ghislain they reached out to, Violaine figured, but she never discounted a surprise from the jockey. Their farewell glance is one of promise and potential. “Au revoir. I'm happy to have become better acquainted with an ally.”

The corners of Gisele’s mouth curl faintly upwards, yet it doesn’t seem quite like a smile. The expression drifts somewhere between wry amusement and an oblique, deadened wistfulness. “Is that so? Ah well, I suppose obvious scowls have their uses. We can’t all be blessed with smiles like yours.” It’s true, Gisele traffics primarily in the consuming compulsion of dread, in danger implied and overt, in all things both vague and cutting. Her mask certainly was meant to amplify that, the silvery gleam reflecting the light that happens to strike it as a pale lustour, ghostly under the pitch of her veil. “Coercion and charm are both just persuasion.” Persuasion, influence, seduction even, all one in the same, all relying on promises, those of violence or of adoration, it mattered little. Coercion and charm: One might even call them sisters.

Finally, the indefinite mirth of expression clears, her face splitting into a wide grin. Gisele laughs her approval, with a short, fond shake of her head. “Mm, yes, dreaming of the perfect patricide, the very mark of an idealist,” she shoots back, adopting a teasing smile and a tone to match.

She waves a hand dismissively, returning to the bottle once more for good measure. “I’m afraid the obstacle here is physiological, not sensory,” she explains, and though her words are imparted with a certain gravity, it seems to be at least partially self-mocking, “If anything, I find the idea of an ale of the sort you’re describing a great deal more revolting. Call me jaded, but I find the honesty of hard liquor’s burn to be the most charming thing about it. If at all possible, something should advertise itself plainly, without pretense.” Not that she herself doesn’t often do exactly that, but she doesn’t make the rules of the game, she simply abides by them. Compliance and approval were hardly synonymous. 

“Even more than usual? The mildness of the claim makes it seem all the more drastic. ” Gisele raises a skeptical brow, fixes her friend with a discerning look, but almost immediately relents with a brief, one-shouldered shrug. “I can claim no such eventfulness on my end. There are… negotiations, I suppose, but they’re halting at best, de trop at worst.” Her tone carries no attachment, no feeling. There is only an admission of fact here: as if she is explaining a bad business decision made years ago. In a way, that’s exactly what she’s doing. “I can never understand why everything at Court should not be so simple as trade negotiations or drafting contracts. It’s a dreadful thing, the capriciousness of favour. I’d venture so far as to say Celestine’s lost more good people to the turn of trend than to any natural cause.”

          𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐓 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐄𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐀𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓 in Gisele's steely visage. It was reminder enough to ground them back in their original cause, the plight to their companion's enjoyment becoming more tangible than ever— if only through the phantom of the emotion they'd just bore witness. “Was that a compliment I just heard, or am I mistaken?” Violaine inquires with a teasing expression.

          “Coercion and charm’s differences are located in their performance. People introduce difference based on how the performance is received, but they carry the same purpose in mind.” It was one of the common practices of the nobility, grounding the conditions of their approval in pride and vanity, and that made charm the most effortless school of persuasion. Though she hadn’t objected to other methods, they were better left to someone more versed in their workings. There is a mutuality attested by only the two of them, and Violaine relished in this knowing, as if it were the most piquant of gossip she alone was privileged in understanding. 

         “I had you all wrong, Gisele. Whiskey was a more appropriate drink for the occasion,” Violaine notes thoughtfully, cataloging the newly acquired information for future purposes. “Next time. Violetta trades exactly the sort of biting drink you speak of. I’ve grown to enjoy its richness.” There was no specificity in her next time, for she never knew when and where she would encounter Gisele next, but they invited the possibility of such happenings. 

         The looming plausibility of scandal governed her in more ways than she let on, and Violaine sips the bottle grinning wistfully beneath the flowing wine. It was better Gisele was not plagued with the details of Violaine’s dalliances, and her pride precluded her from announcing matters that were presently eluding her control. “I’ll let you experience the news organically with the rest of the nobility, if and when that time comes.” Perhaps the moment would arrive that all her indiscretions bubbled to the surface— in the meantime, they hadn't fit the conversation or occasion. 

         “If only we could divvy up the social and the professional and divide in amongst ourselves. The very negotiations you speak of are ones I've always found to be readily complex of all the dealings of the nobility.” A wistful sigh escapes their lips as they realize just how much time has past, knowing that the immediacy of duty would separate them from their friend once more. They would be back at the center of the action in several moments, their coy smiles and vivacious laughter a currency in the exchange of courtly knowledge— knowledge that would bring them closer to the solution and clarity they needed. 

         They allowed a few moments for any last sips needed to be taken, before disposing the near empty bottle in the nearest waste bin. “Best of luck in your negotiations, mon anime,” they announce amidst securing the clasps of their mask. “May they be without pretense, nor sullied by the capriciousness of favor.” A glimmer of mischief is visible in their smile as they bid farewell to their friend.

Sainte pouts for a moment, but eagerly accepts the dagger, adjusting their dress so they can strap it to their leg. “I don’t think it’s really fair.” They say, arms folded across their chest. But they’re not entirely what it is that isn’t fair about it - the only similarity between themselves and people like Matthieu and Michel is that they’re all under the employ of the Empress. And there isn’t really a reason Calandre would make an exception for Sainte to carry a weapon. But it annoys them nonetheless.

They look back in the mirror, shifting their stance a bit, and adjusting their dress. “Maybe this isn’t as good an idea as I thought. I could always still stay home.” They’re talking to themselves more than Violaine really, and it does feel a bit too late to change their mind anyway. “I suppose I’ll just have to hope I don’t need it.” Though it’s less about needing it, really, and more about the comfortable weight of a weapon against their body, the knowledge that they are safe, just in case. 

          “𝐅𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐈𝐒 𝐀 𝐋𝐔𝐗𝐔𝐑𝐘,” 𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄𝐒 with a contemplative smile, as they began their own preparations for the event. “And a rarity when it comes to noble affairs. That’s why you have to decide how much you’ll be taking the rules into consideration on a case by case basis.” A weapon is not a weapon if undetected by those who would deem it such. It was known to herself and a select few others, and Violaine liked to think of it more as a last ditch effort. An influx of peculiar occurrences kept her more on guard than usual, and that same strangeness was lingering in air of Val Faim.  

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍: 14th of Fiacre 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄: The Silver Quarter, Cyril’s shop 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒: Closed, @vviolaine

One could say Cyril has been keeping herself busy in an attempt to rid her mind of the image that seems to have carved itself inside her eyelids and ears. The young tailor can’t remember the last time she actually allowed herself to be at home, alone, without much to do but keep herself company. 

She’s been actively avoiding that particular situation by turning to her job and her shop has become more of a home than her actual house — that much has been made obvious by the small and portable heater she’d added to the back of her shop, where she’s heating the tea she’s serving both her and Violaine. 

“I figured we could drink something while we talked and played dress up,” Cyril smiles as she speaks those playful words, excitement written all over her expression as she walks over to where Violaine is sitting. Cyril sets down the kettle between the two of them, taking a sit opposite of Violaine and serving her friend a cup of freshly brewed tea. 

There are words that get caught in Cyril’s throat, torn between speaking them or swallowing them up. “So… The Masquerade,” she begins as she pours her own cup of tea, letting the ambiguity of her words settle between her lips and Violaine’s ears; not even Cyril is aware of where she is going with her own words — will she choose to keep things light or speak of matters that are far more important, in the bigger picture?

“Everyone looked very pretty, didn’t they?”

✰ — /

          𝐈𝐍 𝐀 𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐏𝐎𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐐𝐔𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑, 𝐂𝐘𝐑𝐈𝐋'𝐒 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐏 fashioned a makeshift sanctuary where Violaine's words met new meanings, liberated from the well-accustomed pretenses and performances of noble living. It was where words often met no meanings at all, for silence too was something of a luxury in usual noble circumstances. It was a tranquility that collected in the folds of the fabrics, in their tea, and even the vacillation of gossip.

         Today's space was presently sullied by the events of the masquerade, something neither of them seemed readily willing to bring up. Yet it seems to lord over their each and every interaction, the thing left unsaid as they proceeded with their conversation. Violaine was never one to be squeamish, but they’d be lying if they said the execution hadn’t perturbed her. The effect of the event on her friend had not gone unnoticed either, despite Cyril’s efforts to assure them otherwise.

         “You can never play dress up without a good drink, can you?” Violaine quips as she takes a light sip of Cyril’s tea. For a shop— Cyril’s place of business seemed rather cozy— perhaps cozier than usual, Violaine notes observantly to herself. “I have a spiked tea recipe that might be of interest to you. There’s a lovely cognac that pairs perfectly with the teas we usually drink.”

         It was going to come up eventually— it was all a matter of who would succumb to the subject first— a matter of who would ease out the first piece of rock and unleash the dam of circumstances they’d so carefully avoided. No matter that, though, for the two gossiping nobles wouldn’t be able to avoid such matters forever. “In their own right,” Violaine responds in halfhearted agreement. “Some prettier than others. Though it became very clear whose garments came from you, and who sought out attire from elsewhere.” Her mind lingers on the most eventful part of the night, one unexpectedly so, with a hesitant sigh. “I just hope l'impératrice was right about him. That isn’t something you can take back.”

For as difficult as he may be to place, Iseult carries himself with an air of ease — one that suggests he’d fit into the fray of any quarter Odeline herself could pluck him up and drop him in; or it suggests quite the opposite, that it’s all alien. Always has been. That in itself is a kind of comfort. Whatever the matter, while the Silver Quarter is a favored haunt, he’d always fancied the Azure as the quarter where life happens, careless and original.

A gloved hand raises to the mask’s chip, tracing the valley fractured into the ornate surface. “Much appreciated. If it weren’t for my trust in the tailor’s handiwork, I’d be in the business of worrying,” he remarked. “Pleasure, Violaine Geroux.” The freelancer folds an arm across his embroidered coat and dips into a small semblance of a bow. “I’m Iseult.” Rayne was the recognizable moniker to those versed in the underworld, but to others and in the daylight, he was only ever Iseult. Occasionally, he plays over the words of the women who’d given him the name: in time it will fit you, and so will this country. To this day (years on) he wagers over which will come first.

The spark of curiosity in the other isn’t lost on him. Rayne feeds it kindling, stokes it into a flame. “I’ve been a regular of Mme. Beauchamp’s for a time. With your eye,” and inferring by the noble stranger’s tastes “I’d be surprised if you weren’t?” He muses.

          𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐍 𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐔𝐋𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐘 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐋 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐒 𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑. It was a singularity of a different variety— one different from the histories and lineages invoked in surnames of Celestian nobles. “Iseult,” Violaine recites back to him, for perhaps his name possessed something else to reveal once carried between her own lips. Their attempts at discovery are futile, only fueling their interest further. “The pleasure is all mine. Know that in the wake of Cyril's absence, you're in the best possible hands. You can proceed without worry, if only for a few moments longer.”