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Post by Formorian Carlisle on May 22, 2008 21:27:21 GMT -5
Formorian Carlisle stepped out onto the stage with an air that she beheld the whole of France before her. The empty Opera Populaire applauded her in a roaring sound of silence, the off-lighting that had been left up at her request barely shed enough light on the petite woman. Each step was dainty, carrying her from one point of the stage to the other, her destination being a piano that sat off to the right just beyond interference of rehearsals, easily rolled away as needed. Small was she on the grand stage, her platinum locks illuminated silver by the new electric lighting. Seeming more succubus, fairy, or other unworldly creature, dressed in a flowing, sapphire colored dress. Formorian had, had a long day, and it was still less than being over.
Here on the stage, while the rest of the Populaire was out and about at revelry, or whatever it was the French did when not working. She had remained, as always, to sit on the stage an odd and off hour, just to get things straightened out on the music. Especially with the upcoming Opera that was proving more pain than gain at the current. Beneath her arm was a large, leather bound, composers piece of music. A copy made for her after much stress with the director of the Opera. An Opera that she felt had no need of revival and was preferably done at the Lyrique.
Never the less, she had been here just over a month and her work had been cut out for her. Reaching the piano, Formorian set the leather bound pages onto the music board, while seating her slender frame down on the bench. Carefully her fingers ran over the polished wood, moving to the ivory keys depending whole-heartedly on her natural instincts to the touch of the piano. Just over a month she was here, and the director, and composers were asking a miracle of sorts from her as far as vocal talent and expression went and came.
What was expected of her was what God might have expected of his 'Son' to remove the sins of the world. Only her task was far more impossible, as her task was to get the entire chorus up to par. That was proving to be difficult as the men were not paying attention as the batted their brows at the girls. The girls were giggling madly and not doing a thing about their parts. Not only that but with scene set up, movements, it was chaotic, but nothing yielded to the Hell on Earth it was in getting the Leading Lady to understand better technique.
Rubbing her temples with two fingers as Formorian's mind took a flash back to earlier that day. The Leading Lady had not liked Formorian's 'gentle' reprimand of poor technique, poor amplification, poor expressive emotion, and poor everything in general. Really, the blond haired beauty had thought her lift cut short as the woman had ranted and raved. Her being the intruder on the stage, Formorian stood solitary, alone against the woman's attack. Eventually Formorian had, had her fill and responded curtly making the woman flushed and making a dramatic exit. If only the 'Diva' could apply that much effort into her work, then the Opera would go off quite well. Sadly, she didn't.
Never the less, Formorian began to play the beginning of one of the more difficult aria's in the production. The revival of Romeo et Juliette by Charles Gounod had been oddly requested. Trying to top the Theatr Lyrique was slight madness as the Lyrique was the Populaire's competing enemy. Whichever the case her job was to make this Opera as beautifully, bitter sweet as the story itself. Softly, her mystical, colorful, lyric coloratura soprano voice began to float from the stage. Her silent, and empty audience listening in complete thrall of her. Formorian had slipped into the world of Opera, she was Juliette at her piano, singing until she was united in death with her beloved Romeo.
"I want to live, In this dream which intoxicates me. This day still, sweet flame. I keep you in my soul, Like a treasure! This intoxication of youth, Lasts, alas, only for one day! Then comes the hour, When one weeps.
Far from the morose winter Let me, let me slumber. And inhale the rose, Before plucking its petals. Ah!-Ah!-Ah! Sweet flame! Stay in my soul Like a sweet treasure For a long time still. Ah!-Like a treasure. For a long time still."
The first aria escaped her lips with complete emotion, rapture, her voice filling each nook and cranny of the Opera Populaire. If one could not think such a sound could escape her, and at such a strong, direct, and accurate way from her tiny frame. They were now placed to the test, to the wrong, and Formorian let her last note float through the air. Finishing on the piano, as she leaned forward, taking great interest in a key-change. Her long mane of platinum locks blanketing her back, and falling forward over her shoulders.
Unbeknownst to her, she had an audience if only of the solitary sort. One person had heard the extent of her voice, and be it that someday she could've easily taken the place of the Diva. All she need do was sing as she'd sung just seconds before and Paris, France.Could be, would be, hers.
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Post by Riffael Dureau on May 22, 2008 22:23:22 GMT -5
Leaning like a cat in the dark of the catwalks, Riff knelt in complete silence and peered through a small crack upon a blonde head that he knew well. He closed his eyes and let her image drift into his mind as he heard her voice ring clearly into the very depths of him. As every note floated away he felt that he wanted to reach out and catch it, hold it to him, too dear to part with.
Oh, he had fallen pray to the beauty of a woman's voice before. Yet she... she! He did not know her name. Castle... carl... thistle... he shook his head, banning the thoughts from his head. It was a good thing that he did not know her name. He was nothing but trouble, and he knew it. A drunkard, wanderer, philanderer. Yet as she sang, he wanted nothing more in the entire world than to descend and fall to his knees, beg her to love him, a new him, worthy of such an angel. This was the difference. It was a difference that scared him. He could worship a voice easily, and even the small exampling notes that she had trilled for the benefit of the chorus had sent thrills through him. Even the cantankerous Mademoiselle Gerras had sent him flying out of himself with a song. Yet it had ended with the song.
As silence fell again for Mademoiselle Thistle, er... castle?...his heart still pounded. He thought of her voice, speech, the purposeful way with which she walked about the stage. A smile--rare, rare thing for he--crept onto his lips at the recollection of her constant frustration with the chorus. They were an insufferable lot of apes, of course, but her perseverance impressed him. He had been watching her for a long time, as terrible as that was. Watched the curve of her lips as ropes slid through his leather-covered palms; watched her determined eyes sparkle in anger as he climbed, sweat upon his brow; watched with ever growing admiration the 'new woman' who had taken the stage. The backstage. It was not fair for her. She deserved the limelight, he thought with not just a bit of ferocity. A sigh escaped his lips. Stay away, vagabond. He began to slowly, quietly stand. A few boards swayed, creaked. Stay away.
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Post by Formorian Carlisle on May 23, 2008 21:43:23 GMT -5
The tinkling of the keys flooded the stage in the still of her voice, the absence of her reciting of the song, perfecting it inside her mind, inside her soul. There was no room to be a choral instructor when fixing these most intricately written trills, runs, octave leaps, and so much more. Did no one understand how trying it was to perform these roles? An audience member most certainly could hardly decipher with what technique and physical endurance as to ones support it required. A most easy occupation as compared to the labors of being a stage hand, a stable hand, or something much worse. Even so the demands were high, the composer's art had been written and it was her misfortune to ensure that the dream was realized.
Lightly the sound of the piano died away, letting her silent audience applause to its content. She never hearing the thunderous roar until she was standing a nervous wreck off the stage along with Madame Giry, the Scene Managers, and whomever else had reason to worry. That's when she heard the applause, flesh against flesh, hands contributing to the ego's of the girls and leading lady that were already high to even greater heights. Making her task the next day all the more difficult, even more so after a Gala night.
"Hmmm...." Came her soft tone, musing as she thumbed through the pages. Shuffling through the fabric of her skirt at her right hip absently searching for the hidden pocket. Another ivory hand continuing to thumb through the pages, taking time to mentally take note of this or that. Finding her item, she drew out a piece of charcoal and from there she leaned forward to the score. Using the coal to mark this page and that page, making varying lines where she would incorporate this or that. Crescendos, staccatos, accents, mixing tempo, the liberty to take a run and make it more appealing. As for stage presence that was sadly in Monsieur Reyer's hands.
Somewhere in the Populaire wood creaked, swayed, and her head came up causing that silky mane of platinum curls to sway. Her halo of hair tumbling ever so slightly against her back, as she upturned her face around her. Sapphire eyes searching the darkness, as she pursed her pink lips together in the still of her thought. All gone at the sound that made her heart flutter in her breast. Tentatively she spoke, the gentleness of her tone caressing the air around her. Not knowing where that noise had come or perhaps she was losing her mind finally.
"He..Hello? Is someone there?" She inquired, awaiting a response with a baited breath. Hearing none after sometime she exhaled and gave a little laugh at her over-active imagination. "Silly...There's no one here. 'Tis far too late....Now then...Concentrate...Or else the managers will have your hide if Carlotta cannot be a decent Juliette." Formorian said lightly to herself, returning her gaze to the score. Continuing to mark the pages as she went along, humming a few things instead of singing them full and true.
"No no. That wont do, knowing the Signora she'll sing on a 'Eh' rather than an 'Ah'. It'll make it fuller, better..hmmm.." Tinkling the keys again, as she lightly let her agile voice do a very intricate run. Lasting a total of twelve measures, it was in the voice to make it seem less, more colorful, before dropping off into sorrow that she'd not be permitted to marry her one true love, her one true enemy for his name was Romeo. Just as the first time, wood creaked and she stopped, standing slowly with alarm. Taking hold of the score and bringing it against her like a shield.
"Who..Who is there?"
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Post by Riffael Dureau on May 24, 2008 21:32:39 GMT -5
Who's there?
He fell still, even stopped breathing, however foolish and unhelpful that was. He pulled his face back from the small hole through which he had veiwed her, and had to suppress joyous laughter at the way that she talked outloud to herself in reassurance and self-condemnation. He found it unnerving to speak aloud when no one was about. He didn't know why. She didn't seem too shaken, continuing on her way. He surmised that it must be a habit of hers.
Thoughts fled once again as she sang little bits to sound them out. Perfect. Why was she not the diva? Why was it not she centerstage, instead of the true genius backstage? She was far more than just a decent Juliette. She would have every man in the Opera House, young and old, ready to change his name to Romeo. Ah, just like he at this very moment. You are a lovesick fool, Riff. Fool, fool! Yet he didn't get up and leave. He slumped down against the rail in self-loathing, wishing for the millionth time in his lifetime that he were more like Aiden. Handsome, talented, charming Aiden. If he were Aiden, he would lean confidently over the bannister, singing her praises and then perhaps playing a lovely composition written by himself to she on the violin as an expression of undying love. Hm. The vision of Aiden doing just that made his blood boil.
Riff wasn't usually like this. Quiet, observant, unmoved by anything out of his ordinary--caught by no woman for more than the time it took her to finish a splendid aria. He was worried he was going to get himself into a big, big, bunch of trouble.
Who's there?
DAMN.
He thought for a moment, letting the silence flood the theater once her voice faded off. Then he took a deep breath, speaking before his mind could tell him otherwise.
"What is your name, mademoiselle?"
His voice was gentle, soft, and very quiet, but it echoed down and around the auditorium with the ease the great arena had been designed for.
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Post by Formorian Carlisle on May 25, 2008 10:36:34 GMT -5
How was it then? As she asked the darkness a second time to answer her, nerves on end for although she enjoyed the stage. Loved to sing, to play the piano, to sit hours on end perfecting this or that. Darkness in the Opera Populaire unnerved her. Completely and utterly fine elsewhere, she'd been most thoroughly traumatized by every other-stage-hand trying to make her believe in the famed Opera Ghost. At first of course they'd teased her, the younger hands had teased her taking pride in scaring her. The older hands bid them to leave her be, but no, the youths had to have their fun. That fun had turned into a noose around her neck with a strong young man carrying her screaming over his shoulder.
All she needed now was for one of them to pull another prank on her and she'd be near to hysterics for a goodly amount of time. Worrying her full bottom lip until the soft pink turned rosy, moistening the folds. Her heart drummed inside her breast, softly the sound of her inhalation and exhales filled her ears, silent to the rest of the area around her. Ivory hands clutching the score against her slender, petite frame, active and observant aqua blue eyes searching the abyss beyond her lamp, and the dim lights. No one was there perhaps, no one! Goodness how could she let those bratty men get her nerves worked so quickly?
Well truth be told it hadn't been just them, it'd been everyone and anyone that finally found out that she was not French. As English as the blood that coursed through her veins, she was the outcast of this house. An outcast in a position that demanded respect, and an outcast in a position where non-wanted to respect her. Having to fight tooth and nail to get their attention until she was just as stubbornly vicious as Madame Giry who thankfully helped her at times. Yes. Outcast, foreigner, intruder, informed by many to get the next boat back to England.
Sighing at the recollection of just where she stood in terms of social standing in the Populaire. It was a wonder she didn't just audition, steal the lime-light and be done with France. Yet she was a simple thing, simplicity made her smile, like this love-story in her hands. The plot was all very complex, but in the end it was Love. Love conquered all, even if a tragedy befell for those blind to the beauty and glory of it. Love. Simply love; that for her did not exist beyond Operas and well woven fairy tales she'd read. Prepared to let her guard down once more, relaxing, a voice echoed into the Populaire with a resonance of gentleness, soft almost quiet.
"What is your name, mademoiselle?"
It inquired of her, disembodied as far as she was concerned, a gasp hitching in her swan-like throat. Twirling in a semi-circle as she tried to find where that voice had come. It was male most certainly, almost enlightening in her opinion but when had she ever succumbed to a males tone, much less a male in general? She was a blushing Maid for certain, but that wasn't at all in the hat of tricks. Right now a man, a 'ghost' was asking for her name. Yet she'd heard the story, his voice was a beautiful tenor, almost sing-song, enthralling, none-could resist. This one sounded neither tenor, nor sing-song, but it did entice, it did attract and enthrall on its own accord.
Worrying her full bottom lip, she stopped her half-frantic little twirling and shifting to plant herself firmly there on the stage. So alone, so forlorn now to this unknown man's eyes that he could see her and she could not see him. She swallowed lightly, her fingers toying with the page endings at the corner of the score.
"My name Monsiuer?...You bid my name, command it, demand it it seems in a most gentle way. If the gentleness can speak of the Monsieur's character, or persona I have no qualms of telling it to you Monsieur. If only you'd grant me your own name, and by chance...where ever it is you are." Formorian said, her silky mane of platinum curls falling in waves moved as she spoke around to the darkness.
"I'm just a Silly thing you see, and 'twould do my heart a great bit of relief to know both those things if you're so inclined Monsieur....A small end to this bargain Monsiuer, is what you bid. My name....'Tis Formorian....Formorian Carlisle." Came her answer, her voice soft, gentle, searching, caressing her name and that of this hidden 'Monsieur' since she had no name to call him. Curiously she took a peek down into the orchestra-pit, and found nothing. Stepping from the edge she continued to look around, and finding that she had no right-mind to flee from a possible hidden danger. A halo of hair following, she sat upon the edge of the piano bench, still holding the score securely in front of her.
[ooc: Very bad post I apologize]
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Post by Riffael Dureau on May 25, 2008 13:57:23 GMT -5
Riff's heart pounded in his chest. She looked so frightened, he almost regretted speaking. He had not meant to scare her, of course. He was neither Phantom nor prankster, however connected those two often were. He was an idiot, truly. A blasted idiot. What would he do now? Jump down and act as if he had even an ounce of charm in him? As if he weren't a man with the worst of reputations? She worked daily with the chorus, and they were brimming with gossip. The girls both taunted and feared him, more for his silent, unnerving stare and suspicious looks than actual condemning action. Alright, so he frequented the less wholesome establishments of Paris (and their women), but he had some scruples at least. Shame burned him. He didn't want her to know who he was, for surely then she would know what he did. What if she was new enough not to know? Ah, well! She would know eventually.
Her voice caressed him and he sighed, his heart pounding faster, harder in his chest. His fist clenched harder around a rope that he still held absentmindedly, the leather of his dirtied fingerless glove making slight noises as it slid over the material. She had given her name. Formorian Carlilse. So trusting. Ah, yet, she wished to know his name and location. Fair enough, but he was afraid she would have to do without.
"An Irishwoman...?" He guessed, his voice drifting out to echo about the place again. "Formorian. A beautiful name." His eyes drifted closed, imagining her face. It fit. Pale golds and sweet, light eyes came to mind. He had always imagined the Formorians of Celtic lore to be beautiful, deadly fae folk. However, there were far more gruesome descriptions that were the generally accepted. Why would such a sweet, beautiful creature be named after monsters? He recalled the war goddess and a picture of her he had once seen in a book, with lips pulled back into sharp toothy snarls on her breasts, a hideous face, and four bloodshot eyes down her back. Needless to say, she looked far better than that.
"Do not fret, Mlle. Carlisle, my intention is anything but to harm or frighten you."
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Post by Formorian Carlisle on May 25, 2008 21:38:51 GMT -5
In the rapture of darkness, held in the caress of those arms that the void around her could hold her with. Formorian had eased down to the bench of the piano, questioning God knew who or what. Well the latter was easily answered: A man. After all she wasn't one to believe in ghosts, or even in the little tales most frequently offered to give her a minor attack of the heart. However this was different, none had bothered her so late in the evening, for they were too busy at their festivities or other daily life. For herself she was here, doing what little she could, what little could be done to make the Populaire stand against its rivals. They were years behind, and quite simply for a manager, and instructor alike: There was no rest.
Silky locks fell, tumbled as she looked around once more, the silence deafening; overwhelming. She placed her chin down onto the leather of the score, fingers still holding the pages dearly with arms criss-crossed about it. Seemingly young with the way she curled herself into the material object as though it were her only saving grace. Continuing to worry her full bottom lip at her own uncertainties when no response to her words, to her name was forth-coming. Perhaps she had indeed lost her mind all together? The pile up of the work, the demands of the managers, the girls, the diva? It wasn't too far-fetched...
"An Irishwoman...?" Came the man's voice floating down to her simply to condemn her as well for what she was. Could she not escape her blood even from a man that she could hear but not see? It seemed impossibly not. "Formorian.A beautiful name." Said the voice, it was odd in the way he said it, as though she were ethereal or at least her name was. Like a succubus come to enchant the man that so beheld this voice, mysteriously hidden as he remained. Sighing the sound floating up as it had been a loud sigh, he'd hit one of her sore spots: Her breed. As the French called it, a Breed of woman or in French cases lack there of in Breeding more to tainted. Even the English had given her cold shoulders at her being more Mutt than English-Bred.
"No." Formorian said lightly, no matter how beautiful he thought her name, or anything else for that matter. Humbly she responded the truth of her origin, he'd seen through her words, through her alabaster flesh so easily how could one deny and claim to be French? Flawless accentation, proper word placement, could never drive the minimal 'tis', 'twas', nay's, and aye's that escaped her on a regular basis. "No, Monsieur. I must regretfully inform that I am not Irish. Half English, half Scottish, English born though." She offered trying to find peace, balance in this world that stood so high on status, noble class, rank, money, and above all: Lineage. At least the proper world revolved around that.
"Do not fret, Mlle. Carlisle, my intention is anything but to harm or frighten you." Came the reassurance that was most terrifying in itself. The sound of something, leather, against another surface could be heard only faintly. Causing her to swallow any further fear or tightening of her chords so she could speak.
"I....should pray that your intents Monsieur had little to do with either harm or frightening me. 'Twas simply that....I was unaware you were here....and I was startled. You know how the ballerinas are, the chorus, the hands with stories of....well....you know....le fantome. It's enough to even get me a bit jumpy." Formorian offered a light bit of laughter for her benefit, his benefit if felt inclined to be amused. Sighing again, she slowly began to get a bit comfortable, resting the score down onto her lap.
"Although Monsieur I would very much like to know your name? If not that then of course the other of where you are. 'Tis a bit unnerving....speaking to the dark...."
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Post by Riffael Dureau on May 25, 2008 22:56:37 GMT -5
Riffael shifted a bit, daring to stare down at her through the knothole in the wood once again. Oh, she was pretty. More than pretty. Her head was bent down down a child's to rest in the nest of her arms, She nibbled gently on her bottom lip in a way that make it seem pinker, more full. Kissable, as it were. He shifted back and forced himself to comprehend her words and not lose himself completely. This, speaking to her thus, was risk enough as it was. Better to stay anonymous and enjoy this conversation while it lasted.
She seemed hesitant, but polite. A smile came to his lips at her reference to her practicality. Yes, probably the most sane of all the occupants of the Populaire. English, though? And Scottish? Well, he'd never been to Ireland. He had been to England though, and parts of Scotland. He had traveled quite a bit, and he couldn't help but recall the overcast of those countries. It was something that he liked. The heavy, chill rain soothed him, made him shiver with sensation. Like her. It fit, like her name: cool, light, but so beautiful.
Oh, get a grip on yourself, Riff.
WIth not just a little bit of hesitance, he started, "My name is..." Should he give a false one? No need, no one aside from Aiden and Cain knew him by his first name here anyhow. "Riffael." Like the angels, ironically. He quickly moved on, changing the subject. "England, Scotland... they are beautiful places. Do you miss England, if I may be so bold?"
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Post by Formorian Carlisle on May 26, 2008 18:56:51 GMT -5
"My name is..." the hesitation started before the confirmation of the name could be given. Formorian heard it of course in every fiber of his vocal chords as though this mystery man were deciding whether or not to give his name, if not that then to give her a proper name. He could easily lie she figured and she'd readily trust, foolishly trust something that might one day be her undoing. However awful that could possibly be in reality to her gentle demeanor. Hesitation was hesitation and he had her enthralled on that pause, that seemed to last an eternity. She refused to breathe until he said it.
"Riffael." So simply did he say it, almost as though he held an irony in the entire saying or meaning. Hardly taking it for what it was worth, Angelic as it were, Formorian smiled when he did give it. Something in the tone be-spoke that he did not lie of the revelation and for that she was grateful. Wondering why exactly she smiled at all, she schooled her pink lips down into a serene line of rose-petals. Keeping her face like a porcelain doll of sorts where she sat so intently on the bench.
"England, Scotland..they are beautiful places. Do you miss England, if I may be so bold?" Inquired this Riffael. Tilting her head to the side, she remained silent a moment somewhat surprised he'd even inquired. No one cared what she as an outcast did, cared for, felt for, or even though about other than music, and the progress of how the chorus and Leading Lady and Leading Male were coming along for the next opera. Not even persons in England had been so unwittingly caring to know if she missed....home.
"I...." She started and gave a little breathy-laugh as she exhaled. "I cannot say I sorely miss England...Monsieur Riffael....I can say I miss the countryside, the bloom of and heather. The rain as dreary as it might get after a prolonged bit of time. Yet..I do not miss England, I miss the smaller things that most do not appreciate.
"I believe I am well off here in France, 'tis a place better. If I cannot find a niche here I suppose I might get onto the next ship that heads out to America...." She said sweetly. "And you? And you Monsiuer? Riffael. 'Tis a glorious name, God's own healing hand for it's meaning, Angel just the same.
Are you native to France? If you don't mind my boldness of asking?" Came her inquiry, sincerely wanting to know slowly letting the subject of his location drop off from her mind at the for- front.
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Post by Riffael Dureau on May 27, 2008 22:46:50 GMT -5
Now that she knew his name, however worthless he had deemed it, he felt strange and unnerved. He felt as if he wanted to fidget, get up and run, hide somewhere in the dark and lick his wounds. His mind jumped ahead of himself. Thinking of how he was acting, so cordial and sociable, when if she were looking him in the face he would have no words whatsoever. He felt suddenly as if he had played her false and the giving of his name might reveal his lie. A cold sinking in his stomach underlined that fear.
She spoke on, seemingly more comfortable now with speaking to a disembodied voice. She still came off as timid, though. How often had she met with incivility from his fellow stagehands? He wondered if it was nature of experience that made her so, despite her obvious personal strength. He admired the capability of strength without pride or cruelty.
"I would miss this place if I left. I love the expressions on the faces of the statues, the smell of lye and musk from the floors and curtains, the murmur of many voices a ways off. To me, those little are the Opera Populaire -- perhaps those things are England to you. Or not England, but... home. A place does not have to be the same for everyone, after all. A person on the street who passes without a glance may be a stranger to many and home to one. Those are the best kinds of homes; the ones that are people, I mean. Maybe you haven't found home yet. It doesn't have to be where you start out, just where you end up being happy. I was born in France, yes, and I have seen most all of it and everywhere else in Europe. I hope that I may go home sometime before my death. I hope that I may be a Romeo to someone, with a more pleasant end to my story."
He had only half an idea what he was babbling about. It was the longest speech he'd made in his entire life, he was sure. It felt like while all of the truly well-formed thoughts bubbled about heavily in the general area of his stomach, the other ones that had been buried down like a sediment settled to the bottom poured out of his mouth unchecked. He was a terrible mess, now. He couldn't imagine her knowing of all of the things that he had done. What if she somehow heard about Celeste? Celeste didn't know his name, did she..? Could she tell? Would she? And would Formorian be privy to such information? His stomach did another flip, and he promptly forgot in his distress that he had spoken at all.
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Post by Formorian Carlisle on May 28, 2008 11:16:08 GMT -5
Silence answered her words for a time, perhaps she asked things that were too bold? Too harsh? Who knew? She rarely spoke so openly, to anyone much less a man she could not see. Still unsettled by the voice that could respond and yet she could not see, mayhap the man had a reason for keeping himself hidden. Was it really any business of hers? Not at all, yet she found his voice soothing enough to respond to. Giving answers to his questions that were so simple, small, trivial in the eyes of the persons along her life-time that she found it quite endearing another soul would even ask such simple things. How readily she answered was another astonishment, perhaps this was a day that innocence would mark her.
Whether marked or not, truth be told as well the girl with her alabaster skin, and platinum locks of her own personal halo. Could sit here on the bench for the rest of the evening speaking to this Riffael. More delightful if there was a face to place to the name, exhaling at the thought that he might be afflicted as persons claimed Le Fantome had been. Formorian would not press that issue the man would so show himself in good time: She hoped. Ever so gently he began to speak again, bringing her never idle mind to complete attentiveness.
Rich tones that were intertwined in every rise and fall of pitch on a word, a vowel floated down to her, assailing her hearing. Tense muscles began to relax even further, closing her eyes to imagine his words and to take into account everything he considered as good as home would get until further notice. From the smell of the floors, curtains, the faces of statues, and the sounds of persons talking, singing, rehearsing somewhere in portions of the Populaire. Those to him, little things that no one paid any attention to were his ties to the world he knew. Opening her eyes she smiled as she could see it all, smell it all, and simply hear it all for how he saw it. A different view point did the world and soul so much more good, or at least it did her.
His insight was wondrous almost worth making her longing ache to remain and see the things this man saw. Or at least comprehend how he saw things. A smile curved her pink lips, fingers idly toying with the end of the leather binding of the score in her lap. Lightly tossing a few locks over her shoulder and when that did not work she tucked them ever so gently. Her smile remaining so sweetly upon her serene features. Hardly knowing that he was worried of not his words that he spoke, as he bid to be a Romeo to someone, how ironic.
"Such a wonderful way you see the world Monsieur Riffael, as you are a well traveled man, if only other such persons could see it the same. Even me, 'twould make France all the more easy to settle into, or rather the Populaire. Seeing as I'm some sort of recluse and remain here more times than not, but with this new way of seeing the Populaire. I dare say 'tis quite a bit more than tolerable." She responded, looking down timidly at her hands a moment, as his distress consumed him without her knowing.
"Yet I must agree whole-heartedly, that one day I shall find home, or happiness just the same. Not in a place I pray....but....in someone." Formorian wondered why she was even confiding. Because she'd not spoken so openly with anyone before? He didn't seem biased that she was foreign, and just another nobody in this grand place. Easily lost beneath the voices of the stage, costumes, curtains, and out-going souls clinging to patrons. "I to would have a care to be a Juliet to someone, and be it he also find it that I so call him Romeo a hundred times over. God knows I am a sorry excuse for an Operatic Juliette. Even so.....my Romeo I dream, I pray would take me as I am, faults and all." At that she giggled. "And I'd gladly do the same for him, even if on both ends work is required to reach a Happily Ever After, rather than sipping at poison, and blood upon a dagger.
Aye. 'Tis what I want Monsieur, not some fairy-tale as I should be too old for them, and still: 'Tis not a crime to dream, hope, and pray that one gets a Happily Ever After." She sighed smiling as she laid back on the bench, her silky mane of golden hair spilling around her and reaching down to the floor. "Do you think so Monsieur Riffael? As you are to be someones Romeo, what think you? Advise this unclaimed Juliette, I'm eager to hear your view."
"So strange.....I rather like speaking to you Monsiure..." Formorian mused lightly, but fell silent awaiting his verdict on one Romeo to a Juliet.
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Post by Riffael Dureau on May 28, 2008 19:05:23 GMT -5
There was a bit of silence after he stopped speaking, and it unnerved him further. Had he chattered? He heard her sigh, and peeked back down upon her. He could see the top of her golden head, tilted slightly back as she stared thoughtfully into the middle-distance, churning his words with active intelligence. Some of his inhibitions slid away as he stared in fascination at the graceful curve of her jaw, the little tilt of a smile that he could just barely detect from that angle.
His doubts were allayed as she praised his way of thinking, and he couldn't help but feel a little pride. They were his innermost thoughts--those that were made of smell, sound and texture--and he longed to share them. Often as he had watched her he wondered what it was that was beautiful to her, for it is different for every person. What was it on her mind that made her head tilt like that, her sweet eyes wander? How did she imagine home? That... someone. Lucky someone, to be sure. He felt a pang, and it felt disturbingly like jealousy and want.
His face positioned over the slat through which he had watched her, he stared up and around the walk on which he was positioned. He wondered if he could move to get a new vantage point. The rail concealed enough, he guessed, from where she was. He didn't notice her slide down onto the bench as he answered, readying himself to move silently along the catwalks.
"Perhaps I shall be. I am not very charming, truthfully. I am certainly not the stuff of fairytale princes." He said absently, buying time while he measured his trail across the way. "As for you, Mademoiselle, you should not fear a thing. You are beautiful, intelligent, kind, and exceptionally talented. Your Operatic Juliet would put any lady to shame--and I am sure any other Juliet you may be would far outshine any other woman as well."
Unclaimed. The word echoed in his mind as he lifted himself and paced silently across the catwalks into another place of shadow. He often slept there, despite the taboo. He may have to reconsider now that he was on the bad side of the Phantom. It was late, and the day's work had been rigorous, as always. Relieving his aching muscles, he lowered himself to lie along the sheltered niche. Her voice was like a lullaby, lulling him into a peaceful state that he had not experienced since childhood.
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Post by Formorian Carlisle on May 29, 2008 3:18:16 GMT -5
Faintly in the darkness she could swear in all silence that she heard the gentle rustling of clothing. From where she knew not, but she had heard it, giving her new found friend in this voice some reality. Reality that she should fear for herself, for something in general whether it be her life, her sanity, her trust, or what other she had to offer. Formorian was contented to lay there upon the bench, like an angelic offering, a lamb to slaughter, sacrificial and merciful: Forgiving. May it be her downfall all those simple things that made up her soul, her every-day life as she was a gentle creature. Having heard the voice that was so soft, whispered at first, now confident it was pleasing to her ear.
Unknown to her that this man spied her as he'd worked throughout the days in the Populaire, or even that he was able to look upon her now. Through a hole or slit in his hiding place, no matter she was happy there on the bench, the score resting over her abdomen. Listening to him, wanting to hear each cadence his voice had to offer, even if she could catch the echos of his breathing. It was all so strange to her, that she enjoyed it, him, this stranger that she should best not be speaking to. Stranger Danger however had not been something worth her worry.
"Perhaps I shall be. I am not very charming, truthfully. I am certainly not the stuff of fairytale princes. As for you, Mademoiselle, you should not fear a thing. You are beautiful, intelligent, kind, and exceptionally talented. Your Operatic Juliet would put any lady to shame--and I am sure any other Juliet you may be would far outshine any other woman as well." He offered and she furrowed her brow tenderly at his words. There was something now that she did not like, not of him, but of the way he thought. Not of the world around him, but of himself. Inhaling now, filling her lungs she spoke then, her voice directed up and floating around like a song in itself.
"I find Monsieur Riffael, that I cannot agree with you. For you claim that you are not charming and yet never has anyone so complimented me so sweetly. I find charm in abundance for you, all that would be needed now I'd say is that you believe you could be Princely. If anything your intellect is fascinating as to ones views and out-look, not only that, but you are kind, most tender to speak to me which could most certainly be considered a wasted bit of time. Yet I cannot compliment your talents for I do not know them, nor can I be sweet and compliment your visage for you do not show yourself to me.
Truly Monsieur Riffael, there are many aspects of yourself to be proud of. Wont you come here by the light with me? That I might so place a face to this Charming Prince by which I will call Romeo? If Romeo could waste his time with this plain Juliette, surely twould be kind to come forth?
Will you not Monsieur Riffael? I'd very much care to see you."
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Post by Riffael Dureau on May 31, 2008 21:59:11 GMT -5
He settled back more comfortably against the rough bar, a seemingly difficult thing to pursue but one that he managed nonetheless. He stared up at the boards above him, nothing but faint shapes of black in the darkness of the theater. He felt oddly comfortable in small, dark places. He felt that it made for less places for enemies to hide to spring up on him. Judging by the nature of his current enemy, though, he had no doubts that the devilish man would find a way to do it anyhow.
The few weeks following the incident had left him to mull it over--the thought that this coming month may be his last--and settle with a sort of disbelieving acceptance. He could bear with it, even accept it as the indisputable truth, but the fact that it really didn't frighten him all too much gave him cause to believe that he didn't grasp the situation as fully as it would seem. He had slipped out of the grasp of death many times before in far more incriminating circumstances, and he had a notion that it had made him overconfident in his ability to slip through these things with ease. The still present pain in his abdomen testified that the Phantom would be a difficult quarry to dupe.
He idly slipped a hand beneath his vest to jab at the large rent in the fabric of his only shirt. He supposed that the small hole must have been torn when a certain cane had jabbed and he had unsuccessfully attempted to veer. The rip had been steadily growing until then, and Riff was hard-pressed to fix the problem. One would think that the son of a well-off merchant with his own income to supplement him would have more than one shirt to rot in, but his budget was most entirely comprised of three things: drink, gaming, and nights with questionable ladies. Oh yes, and then were was definitely drink. He felt ashamed of himself for even speaking to the angel down below. He had no right at all to even stand in her presence.
Her voice wafted up to him again, sweetly indignant in protest. She thought him charming and intelligent. That was certainly new for him. He smiled like a preening schoolboy having just received his first kiss, something even more new to him. Then she asked to see him. She sounded so hopeful, he almost wanted to leap out just then on a whim to make her happy. The same fears stopped him. Not only was he of questionable reputation, he bore the weight of the Phantom's wrath. Such a thing, he knew, was like a curse that spread through affection to loved ones and was a penchant for tragedy. What better punishment for the Phantom to render upon him than to harm a woman for whom he had a definite tenderness?
"Mademoiselle, you honor me. To be thought charming and be called Romeo but such a lovely angel as yourself is more than I could have ever dreamed for myself. Yet I fear that I am not free to reveal myself, the reasons for which are some of the things which I wish to conceal. I hope that you will understand. Though..." He trailed off, an idea coming to mind and then being forced down with more than just a little derision, only to rise back up out of the sheer force of necessity. "However rude I have been, there is a great favor which you might do me. Do you sew, by any chance?"
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Post by Formorian Carlisle on Jun 3, 2008 4:35:11 GMT -5
Why was his silence so deafening? It were as though she were begging the permit of a God to see him, to speak to him and yet she knew he was but a man. Had to be. Worrying her full bottom lip as was her custom, she'd lain herself back upon the piano bench. Holding the score securely over her abdomen, with that silky mane of spun gold dangling over the sides of the polished wood. Sapphire blue eyes scanned the darkness and yet she saw nothing, save the small flickering light from her lantern just out of her line of vision. Would he not speak? How she prayed he would, this man, this Riffael fellow whom she'd called Romeo not for his benefit but that he'd know in time he'd be someones Romeo.
Fallen like an angel with his compliments, she searched, the darkness to see him. Seeking his voice if anything, to let his tone assail her ears for he was not attempting to sound beautiful. His tone was original rather than sing-song to tempt her to make him rise in the chorus if he had been. No. This voice, this tone was unique a silent tenderness, a voice so to be trained if only given the right amount of attention. Formorian almost convinced herself of a flowing tenor that could seep into her soul and cause her toes to curl with delight. Snapping out of her momentary dream of fascination over the sound of a males voice. He was speaking, giving her ears the sweetness she'd silently begged the darkness for.
"Mademoiselle, you honor me. To be thought charming and and be called Romeo but..." Even as he called her angel she sat up, slowly, the tone of her muscles in her stomach drawing her up with grace. Absently setting aside the score as she listened, for if she to him were angel, then he could so be considered her own personal Phantom. It was not so far off, that her Phantom had the name of Riffael he was her own secret now as she silently hoped she'd not gone insane. Riffael set her fluttering heart to tears when he bid her that he could not come forward.
That he would be unable to sate her curiosity, or desire to see him, who he was, to give this voice a face. Releasing her full bottom lip now a rosy pink from the worrying she'd done upon it. Sapphire eyes searching still, silently accepting not to press what he was not willing to give as disappointed as she was. It was to the latter of his words that had her baffled. Did she sew? Of course she did, even the lowliest woman should know how to sew. Odd as it was she found the tiny question most humanizing, most...realistic.
"You've not been rude Monsieur, and the honor is mine to be given your time this evening. As you are still Romeo and if ever this unworthy angel could help, what is this favor you might ask of me? Rest assured that even this 'Juliette' has the ability to sew as needed.
Tell me your favor Monsieur Riffael."
[ooc: I apologize for the bad post]
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