|
Post by Les Jondrette Femmes on Sept 25, 2008 23:17:12 GMT -5
Little patter of feet on carpet, and then on grass. Colette turned from her quiet reverie and knelt to receive her daughter into her arms. The seemingly always-frightened mute girl stumbled out behind, her bottom lip between her teeth and her eyes anguished. Apparently Marie had taken it upon herself to run away from the last-minute preparations for the ball and into the horde of guests prematurely. Through them, as it were, and out into the dark gardens where her mother loved to come at night. The air was cool and gentle here, much better to breathe. Parisian air was thick and bore a distinct stench in contrast to the pristine winds of the country, but she had begun to get used to it. The pain was a constant companion. Colette lifted her daughter up to balance her on her hip, though the child was getting heavier and Colette more frail every day, it seemed. The little girl was dressed in a deep royal green in velvet, with a circlet of cloth and little bells around her head. Her long, thick tangle of black curls was let loose down her back, interwoven with some ribbons. The costume was that of the Masquerade scene from the upcoming performance of Romeo et Juliette. Marie's cheeks glowed with excitement; it brought a smile to Colette's lips, to see her daughter so beautiful. Colette was dressed for the evening in the green kimono that Jean had brought her from Japan. The soft silk reminded her with every movement of her husband and his affair, but she had promised in front of Marie that she would wear it, so would. Her hair was up in an elaborate coif designed to imitate the geisha's fashion and she wore no jewellery. Her fan was also brought to her from Japan, with painted flowers where the wood met the paper and the glorious Mount Fuji to set it off. Her mask covered the upper half of her face and was in pinks, browns and oranges, to match the sunset on her fan. Marie's mask was a shining gold silk. Colette brushed her nails through Marie's hair to tame it, trying to ignore the difficulty of every breath. Many guests were here, and she had greeted many of them, though had retreated into the garden to catch her short breath. She thought that Jean should be arriving if he hadn't already; she would not know, as she had determined to avoid him when away from the public eye and had holed up in the music room during the time she predicted he would arrive to prepare. Surely he would come, she thought with a tightness of her lips, familiar anger boiling up in her. He had no right to cause a scandal for his own comfort. She had sat in her room for hours staring at the shining little object on her widowsill, completely at a loss for why she had chosen to take it in the first place. It was stealing, though she doubted that it would be of much use after the lock had been so jarred. The ring of keys had glinted back at her like many sly eyes, knowing something that she didn't. Why had he let her go? Because they had made love? His final words played through her head day and night: hunter... prey...Turning her thoughts back to an excited Marie, she smiled brightly. "I have a present for you, but you will have to get it yourself." Marie tipped her head, curious. Colette strained to lift her up and Marie giggled, reaching her arm out for the highest pear on the tree beside them. It was always just so: the most difficult fruit to reach was always the sweetest. --- Colombina watched the scene with wide, uncertain eyes. It warmed her to see the Madame so happy with her daughter, as she never seemed happy otherwise, but the woman quite frankly frightened her. Her brother frightened her more. Her flushed crimson with shame and regret that she had written and handed to Formorian her paltry little anonymous love letter. How foolish of her! She wasn't sure if she was even in love with him, for how would someone like her know what love felt like? It just felt... anxious, and painful, and somehow rather good. That didn't seem like love to her, just momentary insanity. She wore a nicer dress in the form of the Jondrette servant's livery, for she was hired to assist guests with tailoring throughout the night. Her price was low because of the language barrier, and the Marquise was a businesswoman. Colombina thought of Liana and Formorian and longed to see them. She hoped desperately that she could find Mori before she handed the letter to the count, and mourned for the loss of her painting. Her little wooden canvas had been stolen from beneath her cot in the night, probably to be sold for whatever little value could be squeezed out of it. It had been intended as a gift of friendship, but the masquerade dress, tailored quickly but with care, would have to do. --- Gerard Deloncre alighted from his carriage with a triumphant gleam in his eye. Finally, he was close. So very, very close. He was impeccably dressed, his suit finely tailored to his tall and slightly too-thin frame, his shoes polished, his cane clicking time as he strode to the door. The butler there nodded and took his hat, cloak and cane, and Gerard did not fail to notice the harried look on the man's face. Apparently Nicolette's disdain was no secret. He would have to correct her. He imagined her, calm and with a sweet social smile in place, ignoring the whispers that echoed the halls: poor girl... It was the woman that talked. The men did not care much that Jondrette had chosen to take a mistress, as many of them had them themselves, but their wives would cluck away through the night and pretend that their own husbands had not chosen to do the same. Women were dim and ineffectual creatures. The throng of guests in their brightly coloured masks pressed and shifted, but many parted for him. He was very rich, after all, and generally well liked. He greeted many an acquaintance with a friendly smile, recalling names and occasions of note (to comment on, of course) with relative ease. He made his way to the edge of the room and up the stairwell a few steps, a head above the crowd but still inconspicuous. A tiny portrait of a blonde woman rested in his pocket, and he patted it with a smile. It was a thin slab of wood, one half of the painting that had apparently held another portrait broken off. The background was very obviously a section of the stage of the Opera Populaire, the establishment for which this party was being held. The woman smiling kindly out of the portrait was his key to finding Nicole, and most likely an employee at the Populaire. He had to find her, and so he set about searching.
|
|
|
Post by Jean Jondrette on Sept 26, 2008 15:06:01 GMT -5
Le Marquis Jondrette rode in his carriage quietly as he made his way towards his old home for the masked ball that Colette was throwing for the reopening of the Opera Populaire, with all the staff and patrons invited. Jean knew that he would have to go and he wanted to, mainly so he could subtly insult the gossiping women who spread false stories about him. They had known of the affair, but they tried to make it more exciting by adding new parts to the plot. Jean heard in one version that he had Hana secretly living in the house and that she had attacked Colette. Horrid gossip, salt to the earth, it was! But Jean had no time for them, he was going to see his daughter again. How pretty she'll look in her mask and costume, dancing the night away, if she wasn't clinging to her mother's side. Jean wished Marie would grow out of it, but she had trusted Colette so much it was hard for her to let go and be her own person. Marie would learn once Colette had... passed on. The night would so awkward for the two of them,him and Colette, which is why Jean would be avoiding her whenever he could. He wouldn't make eye contact or speak with Colette if he was with Marie and she was accompanied by her. Jean would use this plan and try not to stray from it. Then again his plans never worked out the way he wanted them to, curse his luck. Finally he arrived in front of the house and saw that some guests had already arrived and were inside chatting away with wine in their hands. Some of their costumes were strange and humorous, while others were quite formal. Jean had took to both styles, a black tuxedo with a crimson vest underneath and a cotton shirt. His mask was also crimson, with a few designs glued on that sparkled in the light. It was a very nice thing to wear to such an event and he had gotten it from a shop near the opera earlier that week. In the house, Jean was alone with no one to speak to, without a friend to say hello to. He wished Hana could've been here with him, he told her before he left that she could come anytime she wanted to and gave her the address. Jean thought that she would probably feel uncomfortable around the nobility and most of all, his child and former wife. Hana had told him to go on though, so he did, wanting to see Marie again. Besides, he always liked a good masquerade.
|
|
|
Post by Celestine Leroux on Sept 26, 2008 20:51:11 GMT -5
Celestine sat in her room getting ready for the masquerade. It took a good four hours to get herself fully ready for this event but it was well worth it. After all she had to look her best when going to a party full of nobles. She was what some people called form new money. Which meant her family was not always as rich was they where, which was quite true. Her family had her brothers Andrew and Jacob to thank for that. Once she knew she was ready she left her house and made her way to her carriage.
Once in the driver pulled away form the house the began the drive to the Jondrette Maison. It was a little bit of a drive but not to bad, tough awfully bumpy. She sat by herself moving back and fourth. It felt odd going there alone, but she knew she mos likely met up with her brothers who where busy doing something or rather. Slowly the Maison began to come into view. It was light up and she could see many people still entering. Her carriage pulled put and her door was open for her. Before she slipped out she put on her mask.
She got out and made her way into the house. Any one that saw her saw she had on a pretty light blue ballgown that as adorned in a sliver flower design. Her mask was pure white with silver jewels on it, her her neck she wore a stunning blue necklace that had been a birthday gift to her. Her hair was curled then pined up with little blue flowers in it. She entered the house and took in the splendor of it all.
|
|
|
Post by Formorian Carlisle on Sept 28, 2008 4:39:35 GMT -5
It was the night of a celebration for the patrons of the Populaire, mostly for the Marquis who had recently returned. Formorian only knew as much to the chatter she heard in the halls of the Populaire when she was bustling about. Of course she had heard other things, but she paid little attention as none of it pertained to her. Today though was a generous day as the wife of the Marquis had extended an invitation not only to other patrons. But to the entire staff of the Populaire that could have themselves in good order.
Oh she'd been so happy at having a reason to get herself dressed! She'd even pressed Riffael to attend and set about to having Colombina to making some costumes. Of course she had trusted the girl who had worked so hard with the fabrics that Formorian had purchased for her. In exchange for the dresses it'd been writing lessons, as well as a promise to give a sweet little anonymous letter to a certain Count. That settled she'd awaited with anticipation for the costume Colombina would produce.
Astounded she hoped the rest of the Masque would be to with the finery, especially she hoped Riffael would approve. His would be of course something to either contrast her own or match. It was one thing to give him the costume an entirely different one to get it on him and have him attend. So far she'd not seen him, and as she stepped down from the carriage so offered by her new acquaintance of the Duke. Formorian was carefully helped down as she had declined the offer to attend the Masque with the Duke. She had however accepted his generous offer to being given a ride.
His footman quickly helped her, the Duke would most certainly follow as she began to ascend the steps. To the large home of the Marquis she had never been to such a function since she'd been in England with her family. A few times in Calais yes with her Cousin. Daintily she walked on slightly heeled shoes her costume was as she felt breath-taking.
Up to the door she came, to where all could of course see her having placed her mask on before arriving at the house. The Duke being so kind as to have tied it for her and hidden away the strap with her hair.
Standing before the stair-case she looked around with her pale blue eyes to see if Riffael had taken into consideration attending. It had taken her nearly three-hours to be prepared quite a good time frame actually for how long it might've taken other women. In her costume she was radiant.
It was made of some fine fabrics of satin, and lace Colombina had outdone herself. The skirt hung down to the floor and trained behind her just the slightest of a fraction. In a pearly-white gown possibly an off ivory color that had a tint of blue like the sky, the heavens itself. Studded with stars of fake gems around the bodice, and in the decorative way the lace furled around her breasts, up to the slight sleeves that hugged her upper arms than her shoulders.
Her mask was of equal intricacy hand made of papermache and hand painted with silver's and whites. Almost looking an equal pale blue accented with glitter that designed intricate curves and patterns. If that weren't extravagant enough it was the fairy-wings that had been added. Cut with fine wire that had silk pulled over the skeleton of the contraption. Light of weight it barely felt there the colors of the silk ranged from a dark teal, and slowly faded down to the bottom like an aqua blue. Large fake crystal flowers made for mirror images on either side of the wings. This fairy she had become.
All that remained was her pink lips that were plump with the coloring she'd placed on them. Her cheeks rosy, and the crown of platinum blonde hair tumbled down in soft curls just past her hips. If ever there had been a fairy princess she felt it and most certainly looked it. She'd have to give Colombina an extra hug for this!
Beaming a smile she began her descent to the people below. They stunk of riches but she'd toss herself into conversation anyway.
Ty for the costume Victoria!
|
|
|
Post by Byron Maxemillion on Sept 28, 2008 20:50:39 GMT -5
Byron had received a cordial invitation at some point during the last week. It had sat in his study until he was able to attend to the mounting pile. Most of them were invitations to dinners with his current comrades, others were surprisingly; outrageously enough invitations to dinners with women he didn't know. A marriage scheme to the English Duke who had arrived setting the French Noble Society buzzing behind fluttering fans and under parasols.
Ignoring those he had hired an investigator the day following his trip to the Moulin Rouge that had proved to be a night to remember. He'd been given two names by the end of a three-day period only to find an invitation to the name Jondrette a Marquis. Information of the wife, the affair all fitted into what his Madame Murderess had confided. Now having a possible name to call her; Max would not rush into things. After all he had extended with the invitation to a woman he'd met in the Populaire.
A woman that looked startling like his deceased love Adaline, a woman who spoke English, was English; even from the same area as himself. He knew why he could've over-looked her beyond the facts he had been at University and he was seven years her senior. Alongside the fact he was blind for Adaline; had he known this Formorian Carlisle had been so close in Calais he would've been to the city simply to worship her from afar.
Unhappy with his stalking thoughts Byron had invited this Carlisle with him to the Masquerade. To accompany him at his side which she had declined in the most lady-like of fashions. Unperturbed to the possibility he'd insisted on a carriage ride which she had accepted. A man not used to being told no at any given time he was determined for her; to get his Murderess out of his head as well.
Having picked up Miss Carlisle as promised her gown was stunning, it had taken his breath away. Wishing he was Oisin and he would never leave Tir-na-nOg to visit any other lands or worlds so long as he had her. Sadly they were not Niamh and Oisin at least he did not resemble as much. Instead he was militarized in gold and crimson darker than red but not exactly a dried blood red. Gold accented everything else with black trousers cut off by his polished leather riding boots. Ornated red and gold his mask the sun shinning in the middle.
He had made light conversation with his Niamh coming to think of her as his so long as he had his eye on her of appreciation. Miss Carlisle had taken flight with her fae wings up the stairs to the grand house. Leaving him to sprint after her in hopes of taking her arm down. Odd he was so doting; so protective because it was his Adaline fluttering away.
Grumbles took him as he was announced and the mob of presentable ladies blocked him from reaching his Faery.
"Madames....Mademoislles." He was resigned to being a proper titled man and not chasing after a women who as he recalled was beneath him.
|
|
Celeste Gerras
Understudy
Diamonds are a girl's best friend!
Posts: 76
|
Post by Celeste Gerras on Sept 29, 2008 17:38:29 GMT -5
It was strange to think how at the last ball she had so wished for connections and now that she had them she had not moved. She had the greatest connection a girl could hope for in the dark sinful world of the arts: she had the devil himself. He had promised her everything and she had taken his offer on her terms. As far as it was, they understood each other. When their eyes met they saw a challenge. For her, a man who kept himself from her control and the challenge of following him without actually obeying so she could become the polished star she wished. He saw an infuriating woman who he wanted to bend to his will and a pupil that he wished to mold to become the best there was. And yet they were together still. She was alive and he still had a promise to keep.
She was here to play her part. She was here to see that she kept it despite her desire to stay behind. She could not. Soon she would be the diva of the Populaire and these things would be expected no matter what she may use as an excuse. She would show what she could do, that she could do what they wanted, now before it was time. From what she understood of politics, the more credibility one had the easier a transition to power was. She was more than a ballet girl to so many now, it would be a shame to loose that over one missed appearance, or a faulty one at that.
In a world of glamor one had to strive to be glamorous. One had to blind the good senses of those around them and capture them. Celeste was an expert. She had learned for a long time. From the minute she had stepped foot into the opera house she had learned the arts of movement and song and vanity. So far it had served her. The stage hands called her the siren of the stage. The patrons knew her to be enchanting, their wives knew her to be a danger. She had captured the interests of the devil with her dark looks and now she would aim to capture a city and keep the devil at bay. She would succeed and do so quickly for it was all she could do to keep herself alive; if she did so carefully she would stay alive.
The reflection of the creature in her mirror told her that she had done more than adequately this evening. Celeste chose a peacock for her disguise, a creature of beauty, royalty, and pride. She knew that it was her crest. She was a creature of beauty according to all of her admirers and all of her enemies. She was going to be the next queen of Paris if her dark patron was correct in his actions and true to his word. She would have all Paris fall before her beauty and talent and that would only feed her pride which she knew she had; most knew she had. God forgive her but it was the one fault she would allow herself and she would not try to fix it, so far it had served her well.
As it was she hearkened back to the days of successful royalty at its most harmonious with the arts. She chose an Italian Renaissance style gown. It had been a gift to her from her teacher to make her stand out at the masked ball this evening and she could not have chosen better herself. It was long flowing and elegant with velvet as its mode of brilliance. The elegant emerald colors were broken along the delicately slashed sleeves, the narrow empire height bodice, and the parted mid section of the dress. All these sections yielded to bright feather like pattern consisting of lighter emeralds, creams, royal blues, all tied together with carefully embroidered strands of gold. But a dress of this richness was not all she required to make the people of Paris star in awe. It was true that all the women would wonder where a ballet rat got enough money to gain a dress that detailed and well made. There would of course be talk of an affair. There always seemed to be talk of an affair when it came to her name, but they were merely friendships without promise of the physical; though the men did not know that. Indeed, in some sense there was an affair; she had eloped with Apollo the God of music himself.
The thought made Celeste smile as she put the final curls in her hair and piled them on top of each other. The dark pile shined in the dim light of her room at the Populaire as she added the final touches, a gold pin for her hair that held three small plumes taken straight from the tail of the bird she imitated, a strand of alternating blue and gold beads which she believed were straight from Italy and the mask that had been provided for her in the package with everything else. She was ready. The light approved, the dark approved, the mirror approved, and she hoped her patron who had furnished her thusly would approve. He would approve or she would be hanging from the rafters of the Jonderette house before she even took the stage of the Populaire.
Slowly Celeste rose and slipped into the small gold shoes that she had been given to go with the dress. She smiled at her reflection for a mere moment and then straightened her mask and left. The minute she had left that room the whispers had began. First the girls that she rode in the carriage with. Next the doormen and patrons who had arrived early and then the world within the doors of the great house hold they visited. Celeste merely smiled invitingly and beamed as best she could waiting for the moment when perhaps she would be given a sign that her dark teacher approved of her; a sign that she was safe for another day. Until then she would remain present and banter carefully, not seeming too inviting as she would in the past, but not too distant as she needed the attention to become great.
|
|
|
Post by Riffael Dureau on Oct 4, 2008 0:24:02 GMT -5
Colombina looked up. A sudden stir won the attention of the occupants of the room in a ripple, beginning murmurs of excitement from near the entry and then spreading through the room. A multitude of eyes turned to the newcomers. The males thronged forward to see the blonde beauty and Mademoiselle Gerras enter--two women famous for their beauty and respective dispositions. The women surged to be the first to capture the interest of the new arrival, the handsome, rich Duke of Northumberland. Romantic whimsy flitted through their flighty French heads. The dark eyes of the Italian girl, who was simple enough to sink into the wallpaper, smiled from across the room. The murmur of admiration that greeting Formorian Carlisle warmed her heart--it was the closest thing to a murmur of appreciation that she would ever receive, for she had worked long and hard to accomplish that dress. Liana's dress, too, had taken great effort. She could not wait to see her two friends together, looking so breathtaking.
Remembering that Mori's entry was her queue, she suddenly departed with one last glance over her shoulder to check that the young Lady was still occupied with her mother, heading toward the servant's hall. She slipped stealthily into the dark passage as if carrying a great secret and beckoned to the tall, dark shadow that stood within. Despite that she knew of his softer side, Riffael Dureau intimidated Colombina. He never smiled unless it had anything to do with his beloved, and his silence was so disturbing that it unnerved the mute. Furthermore, he was a tall and muscular man, though lean, and prior to his association with Mori had not had the best of reputations. He was endlessly ridiculed now for his mended ways, but he did not seem put off by the criticism. He was obviously tense, but looked quite dashing in his costume. He was Oisin, with a deep blue well-fitted velvet tunic over dark grey tousers. Silver embroidery decorated his chest area, images of nature and of branches of trees. His mask was the same silver-blue of Mori's, but in a simpler and more masculine style.
Riffael slipped out the door after Colombina reluctantly. He was not really invited, he knew. Such parties sent out invitations to the leading performers and to the patrons. By 'staff' they generally meant 'important persons', which did not include stage hands or ballerinas that did not enter on the arms of patrons. Even so, he was dressed the part, and was determined to request Formorian's hand in marriage that very night. He and Colombina had met for her to make his costume, but she had since then communicated (with great difficulty) to him her wishes and they had come to a compromise. She would make Formorian's wedding dress. He had saved up a great deal for the money for the materials, and Colombina had already begun to work on it. It was to be a surprise gift. He had practically starved himself and went without purchases for the past month, saving also for the ring. Finally, he had been able to get it. It was not as grand as she deserved, he thought, but it had a precious stone and it was the best he would be permitted to buy without falling under suspicion for theft of his own money. The ring was a little band of silver with a tiny sapphire set into it that had a very extraordinary colour, much like his beloveds eyes. He had been practising his English, for he knew how she loved to hear her native language. He wanted to request her hand in her own tongue.
Riffael looked up and saw the descending Formorian, and only her. Suddenly the room wasn't so crowded, the murmurs less irritating, the whole situation less aggravating. A slow smile crept onto his lips, slightly crooked, but his dark eyes shone with his admiration. She was stunning, absolutely radiant. With sudden confidence he began to make his way through the crowd toward her, the smile still in place.
---
Gerard watched the entry of Niamh (as he knew her) with elation, though his pleasant smile did not go nor did his casual small talk break its beat. The Viscount to whom he had been speaking was called away by his wife to discuss a titbit of new gossip; that was when he noticed Nicolette. She would always have a hard time of hiding her identity. She was extraordinarily pale (more so than before, he noted) and her lithe, long-limbed frame had grown slightly more thin, narrowing her curves. She had entered from the garden and crept up the stairs without seeing him, and now stood gazing over the balustrade at the English Duke with an unreadable expression. Her daughter clung to her side, watching the swirling colours and finery of the crowd in complete absorption. She had not yet recognised him, he knew, else she would be outraged. He had not been extended an invitation. He would use her momentary lapse in awareness to his advantage.
He moved to stand behind her and dulled his voice as he spoke, subtly imitating the inflections of the Viscount to whom he had just been speaking. "It seems that Monsieur Le Duc has a fondness for blondes," He commented, and she did not move from her perch. He smiled slyly--he had won. She answered coolly, in a distracted manner, "Yes; English Blondes, it would seem. Though, it is a shame that he should set his sights on that particular one. Mademoiselle Carlisle is purportedly involved with a stage hand." She turned from her silent vigilance, abandoning the thought of the Duke altogether to face the gossiper. She caught his familiar smirk of triumph and felt that she could burst into flames of rage. Her blue eyes flared with her anger and restraint, but otherwise her manner did not alter. He schooled his features into a friendly smile as he took a glass from a passing tray and lifted it in toast. "To English Blondes--" He paused meaningfully, and then added, "and to the women who are neither English nor Blonde." Nor sweet or likeable in any aspect.
She caught his implication and arched a brow behind her mask, and then said coldly, "My best wishes, Monsieur." She turned away from his chuckle and began to make her way down the steps as she caught sight of her husband, pulling her awed little one along with her. Marie sighted Jean and gave a shout of delight that was barely heard over the din of conversation and rushed to close the distance between them. Colette eyed him coolly behind her smile, making it clear that this was something that they would both have to endure. Stopping just in front of him, she gave him a quick peck on the corner of his mouth and then gave a smile of appreciation to the many people who clapped, smiling scornfully, in celebration of their hosts.
---
Armand was dressed as he usually was, with a messy sort of formality, though he had broken down and bought a plain black mask that covered every bit of his face but his his mouth, eyes and of course nostrils. His escorted Lucien from their hired chaise and scaled the steps quickly, wanting to get inside and watch the goings-on. He wanted to speak to a few select people to find out more in his investigation, and about a certain Constanza Deville. He also wanted to watch the Marquise, for he was convinced she was involved in unsavoury dealings. Oh, yes, and he wanted to make sure that Lucien met the right people to make advancements. Having fun was not much on his mind.
(Hey guys, here it is, finally!)
|
|
Lucien Faure
Chorus Girl/Boy
Children be seen and not heard? Don't make me laugh.
Posts: 43
|
Post by Lucien Faure on Oct 6, 2008 21:08:35 GMT -5
Lucien walked into the Jondrette home and was shocked at what he found. He stood in the foyer with his uncle at his side and his eyes looked around at his surroundings. It was the most extravagant house he had ever seen, what with all the expensive furniture, the somewhat exotic trinkets that were on the stands and tables and most of all the art that hung on the walls. There were paintings of the Marquise, her husband, the Marquis Jondrette, and Marie, all were painted with detail and care, making the whole family seem immortal and godly.
He looked around at the guests, recognizing most of them from around the Opera. Some of their clothes were beautiful, especially the ladies in their specially designed dresses. The men obviously couldn't take their eyes off them, but watching the people wasn't on Lucien's mind. He was here to have a little fun, all children needed fun once in a while. For once Lucien couldn't have been happier. He wished to explore the party, leaving Armand's side to go search through the guests and glamour.
The chorus boy had seen some of the patrons before, but he wasn't that familiar with them enough to recognize them individually. He even saw Marie running through the crowd, wanting to say hello, but he remembered his promise and who he was. Lucien didn't want to approach her at that moment, seeing that she was greeting her father, with her mother not far behind her.--- (Note: I also play Jean Jondrette) Jean stood near the life of the party, where all the guests and staff members of the Opera Populaire were chatting and laughing. He had made small talk with some of the staff and the patrons, ignoring the whispers of the gossips behind his back. Though once he heard something outrageous and untrue, he sneered in their direction, long enough for them to see, then putting a wicked smile on his face. It was childish of him, but he never really had a chance to be childish. Think of his own childhood, Marie had rushed through the large crowd and ran into him, hugging him tightly. "Marie, mon ange, I've missed you. Have you let your hair grow a little longer, it looks beautiful." Marie was kindly around him, acting like she hadn't seen him in years. It had felt like years since he last saw her, but it was all right now. It wasn't long until Nicolette had approached the couple. Jean expected her to make some comment that would be a cover, but instead, she kissed the corner of his mouth like they were still on speaking terms. He didn't want to talk much with her, unless there was a pressing and important matter at hand, otherwise, he wouldn't be saying much to his estranged wife. "Marie, how wold you like to share a father-daughter dance? I don't think we've ever danced."
|
|
|
Post by auben on Oct 13, 2008 20:27:27 GMT -5
What a disappointment, how boring! Variations of those thoughts kept floating in and out of Auben's head. And it was true, for a wild man such as himself. The extravagance simply awed him and beforehand he thought it was going to be beautiful and fun. Sadly, the latter was not true. The music was looping - and although the costumes were stunning - the sheer amount of people made him want to leave.
Unlike how it usually was, men and women were mixing together. Perhaps in hopes to get laid before the night was through, the rich heir considered with a tiny smirk. Dressed in a dark suit with a golden tie the young man sat sprawled across a fancy couch pushed against the right wall. His mask was both lovely and disgusting; a gold painted V mask that matched his tie and shirt. Swerving lines were delicately painted on the mask so they stood out, giving the illusion of veins popping.
Plenty of women had tried to approach him with hopes of doing the unthinkable but he had surprisingly turned most away. Two had caught his eye however, one a pretty young blonde flitting about the room dressed as a lavender fairy. Yet he had noticed from afar that other men had been admiring her as well and decided against it. The second... was a woman he knew was called Celeste. A little meaner and more clever than most of the ladies there, she looked pretty nice in his eyes.
Finally, he decided to stop moping and step into the game. Swiftly moving off the couch he once held to himself, Auben moved into the crowd and found it was easy to blend in. Auben had standards for the woman he wanted that night, and would find her in time. It would just take some time to find a good target...
---
Although Eilian was an actor she found herself having a difficult time with the masquerade. It took almost everything she had to keep the small smile she practiced with the night before. But either way, she concluded it was good that she was there. Many rich and famous people were there, which meant it would be a perfect time to suck up and get a higher pay...
She wore a simple deep crimson high-waisted gown with some elaborate embroidery of tiny flowers and little onyx jewels scattered all over. It had a diaphanous over skirt with slightly puffed shoulder sleeves bought on clearance. She carried a netted silk shawl with her, which also had embroidered flower motif. Small pleats in the very back made the dress sway, and also very light weight. Luckily it also stopped just before touching her ankles, which made it easier not to trip. Eilian wore a matching red eye mask with fake black jewels and dangling crimson feathers from each side. (Picture coming soon.)
Using a red ribbon to tie her long hair back in a loose ponytail, she watched the figures mingle and dance. Across from the room Eilian could see someone just as anti-social and nervous as she was, but in a flash he disappeared into the crowd. Fine. She would just make do with being by herself, as her pride wouldn't allow her to join everyone else's conversation. If a person looked closely, they would see Eilian was shaking. Where was a good sword when she needed one?
|
|
|
Post by Formorian Carlisle on Oct 15, 2008 2:35:11 GMT -5
As her wings spread about her Formorian was blind to the trailing Duke as they could speak on most any subject she felt appropriate. The blonde had managed to avoid any discussion of her father's land holdings without much detail. Only a small margin had been spared that she answered as sweetly as possible that her cousin who lived in Calais was in charge of all the lands, titles, and income. Carefully with hands on eitherside of her flowing skirt of the gown she began her descent. The handsome Duke just behind her she only noticed when the wave of women fluttered closer.
To her right she could see Mademoiselle Gerras a talented young Mezzo-Soprano and dancer. She was dressed as divine as a queen but Formorian felt all the more sweeter in her own gown. An ageless Goddess yet she had nothing to look forward to. Other than swirling colors, laughter, idle chatter she had been introduced into as a child. All her courteous gestures, charms, and smiles had to be presentable. Her invitation by the Duke until her eyes looked into the swarming crowd.
A few ruddy faced gentleman spoke to her but there was something about a man who moved through the bodies. Like a dominating wave of power she couldn't ignore as she reached the second to last step keeping her petite frame just above the sea of faces. Watching in mesmerized joy as she looked back at a handsomely dressed man in a costume that would make the woodlands jealous of home. He was like a wild stag that could never be caught, hunted, so very elusive just like that crooked smile that soon curved his handsome lips. Taking her breath away even masked, Formorian stepped down to meet him, carefully placing her little heeled feet.
Releasing her hold on the skirt as the men who attempted to speak to her were simply ignored with a gentle smile. Extending a gloved hand as the distance between them was closed the world forgotten just to look into his dangerous eyes of mystery. Making her heart flutter like a butterflies wing until she felt the hard, tender, firm grip of his hand over her own. Where she dipped into an elegant curtsy giving him the bow presented to a highly titled man. He looked very much wealthy with his rich curls tumbling so invitingly she worried her bottom lip to avoid removing her gloves to sink her fingers into it.
"Monsiuer..." She said softly, sweetly in her sing-song voice. Sparkling pale blue eyes looked up to him as her lightly painted, pink lips curved up into an admiring smile.
|
|
|
Post by Les Jondrette Femmes on Oct 27, 2008 23:41:29 GMT -5
Riff pressed through the crowd with increasing urgency. The nearer she grew, her eyes now pasted on him, so harder pounded his heart. It was like a constant drum in his head now, louder it seemed than the whole crowd and all of its incessant chatter. Many men had gathered around his beloved, some handsome and titled, but she sent them away, and lo! Yes, her eyes were back on him. It was enough to make him arrogant. How had the talentless vagabond captured such a beautiful creature for his own? He could not fathom, yet still rejoiced in its fact. So close now he could feel his chest tighten, as if she sucked the very breath from him through those luscious pink lips of hers across the space that separated them. Two more long strides and that space was no more. She had descended the steps and now her hand fell gently into his, sending shocks through his arm and causing his fingers to twitch and tighten over hers ever so slightly. She curtsied as if he were as titled and rich as any of her more desirable suitors and enticingly, song-sweet, came the single word: Monsieur. He laughed then, joyfully, as he had seldom laughed before. " Ma douce dame, beautiful woman... I am honoured by your attention," He responded in kind and bent deeply over her hand, turning it to lay a gentle kiss in the silken palm of her gloved hand. Murmers erupted at this obvious display of familiarity and affection from an unknown Oisin to the most sought-after Fairy at the ball. He was oblivious; she was his. --- Oh, this would do quite nicely. Gerard sipped slowly from his glass, taking care not to let his mind slip. It would be needed in full capacity tonight, for a very important task was at hand. His eyes remained rested on Nicolette, though his attention was discreetly trained upon Niamh and the newly presented Oisin. Surely this man was the one that 'Mademoiselle Carlisle' was so attached to, a pauper and therefore entirely too convenient. A plan was rapidly forming, taking shape and solidifying into a single horrifying action that would set the ball rolling to his benefit. Why, Nicole was practically within his grasp. And poor, poor Nicolette. Attention in the room had turned once again to her sordid family affair, where she stood smiling as her daughter nodded gleefully and began pulling the Marquis out to dance. Oh, how charming; but there was an unmistakeable wistfulness in young Colette's eye. The harpy had gotten what she deserved. Now, to address the problem of the Duke. He seemed quite clever and capable, and his attentions were quite obviously placed already in a direction which in the end may prove difficult to Deloncre's plans. How to elimate him? Distraction? How could he possibly slip past the scrutiny of Nicolette, the Duke, and that troublesome Faure fellow? The inspector was a clever and observant man, but would be easily manipulated to suit any needs that might arise by the simple knowledge of his passionate (and blinding) vendetta against the mythical Phantom of the Opera, who was a madman now surely dead. Oh, but yes, things certainly were falling into place! --- Colette could not help but watch Deloncre from the corner of her eye as Marie nodded excitedly and pulled Jean out to dance. She smiled and clapped, putting on her show of happy wife, but his mere presence had begun to worry her. She hoped that Liana would not make an appearance, or that if she did she came with mask firmly in place. That aside, what in the world was he up to? He had been fishing for information earlier, and she had unwittingly given it to him. She could only wonder what parts of what she had said he had needed, and what that meant for Liana. What did Mlle. Carlisle and Northumberland have to do with Nicole, though? Hopefully nothing. Hopefully this had absolutely nothing to do with her, and the bastard was after the Duke. The Duke could certainly handle himself; Gerard would hardly pose a danger to him. Though... what? With a last discontented glance around the room, she retreated with an apologetic smile to the stairway. Gerard turned a wary gaze toward her as she passed him, which she pointedly ignored, and pressed on toward her room. Out of the sight of her guests and with red hankercheif firmly in hand, she proceeded to cough terribly and gasp for breath. How much longer would this terrible ordeal last? Liana must be freed, and soon. Everything depended upon it. --- Victoire Leblanc was not Victoire Leblanc that night, but rather Nathalie Durand. For her role she had firmly donned a dull, straight brown wig and darkened the skin that showed with a tiny rub of theatrical grease once used to create Shakespeare's moor. Her full breasts were bound in by a wrap of cloth, and another few layers of cloth thickened her waist line. She had added tiny, flat wooden blocks to the soles of her boots to increase her height. Half of her face was hidden by the customary plain dark blue mask of the Jondrette servants, and the rest of her by the corresponding costume. She had been hired for this particular event a week prior as Nathalie and had received her uniform then. Her character was a meek and nervous girl, who twitched her hands around and talked quietly, highly-pitched and with atrocious street Parisian grammar. She had been specifically instructed by the Marquise to avoid speaking unless absolutely necessary for this very reason. Now, moving among the guests with eyes downcast and a tray of empty glasses clutched tightly in her fingers, Victoire celebrated her first victory of the night: entering.
|
|
|
Post by Byron Maxemillion on Oct 28, 2008 21:45:30 GMT -5
He was being openly and blatantly ignored by one of his own kind; the thought and audacity of it was sheer madness. Byron could feel the muscle in his jaw twitch on the clench when Niamh flew from him in a gliding descent of the stairs. Looking ethreal in each movement she made it was to him a pity, and a shame that this Niamh wanted little to nothing to do with him. Avoiding the purse of his lips to reveal any outward displeasure to the sight of how her eyes roamed the sea of masks. Really who could that girl be looking for that surpassed even him?
After excusing himself from the mob of fluttering fans; thick aroma of perfumes mixed into one giant, toxic scent that promised to singe nose hairs. Max half-trotted down the stairs to Niamh; intent on catching her to place that little Faery into a golden cage where he'd keep her for all eternity. Niamh had other plans; Byron mused in silence when he came too-late by her side. Standing almost face to face with Oison who stood tall, stronger than most nobles would hold themselves. Surely a man of power, of wealth; who had not invited this sweet Fae creature to the event and still here he stood.
Venom began to work at the back of Byron's throat whence Miss Carlisle's gloved hand touched that of the male reflection of her beauty. Tempering down the desire of unforgiving magnitude to challenge the arrogant oaf to a duel for this blond haired beauty's affections. It was unlike Byron to be so forward in his barely restrained annoyances; ever since Adaline had passed on he'd been boring, shadowed, never tested. Until he'd lain with the thrilling chase of his Madame Murderess laying himself inside her warmth as though he'd belonged there.
Erasing the image of her hair like blood tussled over the coverlet flood Max, leaving his addled thoughts to speaking aloud. A rush of murmurs erupted from around him and he focused his gaze so dangerous it promised retribution as the Frenchman kissed Miss Carlisle's palm. Blood surged into his veins of restrained anger, Byron stepped close then looking down at Niamh. How beautiful his Adaline would've been in such a gown. Knitting his brows in consternation his voice was dark, vehemently displeased as he spoke down to the woman in their tongue of the Old world.
"Abh crein gabhadh ce baidh gille pos sgiunach tairis?" [So you will go with this and turn your back on your own kind?] Inquired Byron with a snap of danger, offering his invited a bow before settling himself off to mingle. Not remaining to hear her answer; seeing from the corner of his eyes a shade he had imprinted into his mind. A pool of bloody hair swayed as a woman ascended the stairway. Cautiously Max made himself seem interested in the architecture of the home, allowing a jovial man to tell him as his rounded body waddled up the stairs. Byron's will to chase after the woman barely being held by a thread.
Once at the first landing Max hailed to a passing servant in direction of an upper floor lavatory. Gaily came the response that sent him in way of the hall that his Madame Murderess had gone. Panther-like stealth took him 'round the area of the lavatory, in pretense of his urge and need to relieve himself. Passing by the door Max followed that flow of red curls from a distance until he came to a complete stop just behind her. Unable to deny the rattling; hacking cough that took her slender frame, threatening to break her in two.
A strong, crimson sleeved arm extended where he wrapped that heavy waist to the enclosure of his arm. Her back against him, shielded from any view as he spoke soothingly as possible for him to this woman.
"Madame? Madame? Are you well?" His voice reached to her accented with his English mixing with his not so well practiced French. If and when she settled he whispered into her ear; how could she forget his voice? His touch? His smell? "I know....it is you...."
|
|
Celeste Gerras
Understudy
Diamonds are a girl's best friend!
Posts: 76
|
Post by Celeste Gerras on Oct 29, 2008 13:34:05 GMT -5
Useless chatter. That's all this was. Useless chatter. Celeste was bored. Celeste was dully bored by all the men and all the compliments. Well, not so much the compliments, she always loved compliments. The attention was nice, but no one intrigued her. No one captured her interest in held it. No one in this room was near intriguing enough. In the older days she would have been flirting with everyone in the room. She would have put up with the idle chatter and suffered the dull personalities, but she did not have anything to look for at the last ball but a patron. Now that she had one the world had changed completely and all there was for her was the every slowly ticking clock as she waited for a sign that he was here to find her.
There were new faces to concentrate on of course. She had caught the Duke of Northcumberland staring once or twice. In the old days it would have been promising but she would not so much as think of it now. To betray her master would be death and she was not so foolish. Celeste smiled to herself and sighed as she was asked to dance yet again. She accepted and navigated the dance floor with grace for the hundredth time praying that soon the arms that would be around her would be those of her master and that soon she would have his leave and his approval to truly enjoy the evening. She wanted him to look at her the way he did at the last ball before their contract. The dance ended and Celeste twisted her ring that had been his guarantee half heartedly around her finger once again. If he had given her the dress he obviously would want to see her in it. He would have to come, but when and where she did not know. She just wished she did so this hideous process of waiting, constantly waiting, would be over.
|
|
|
Post by Gabrielle Hargreaves on Nov 2, 2008 3:02:00 GMT -5
The spell broke momentarily as a new voice invaded their quiet sanctity. It was a language that was very strange and unfamiliar to Riff, but the tone was unmistakeable. His eyes flicked up from hers and instead landed on the dark glower of another man, one that he had seen before. His stomach fell. The man was jealous and angry, certainly. That was nothing unexpected, but the identity of the man most definitely was.
A Duke! Riffael was all too familiar with English geography and not at all familiar with rank and gentry, but it hardly mattered. A fool would know that a Duke outranked a stagehand. That man was probably even more powerful than many of the others here combined, more powerful than even the hosts. A Duke! An English, handsome, rich, and powerfully determined one at that. How in the world could he compare? And that being said, how in the world could he condemn Formorian to the life of a foreign pauper's wife when she had the choice of being a Duchess in her own dear country? He reminded himself quickly that there was no telling if the Duke's hopes were that honourable. His eyes turned back to his darling, more troubled than before. "A friend of yours?" He asked quietly, just barely audible above the room's chatter, and he looked again over her shoulder to watch the crimson, retreating back of the Duke of Northumberland with a slight glower. However his mind might turn, the thought of Formorian as wife to any other man made his blood curdle like hot milk.
---
Nicolette shivered as a strong arm snaked around her waist, covered in a fancifully rich and elaborate crimson sleeve. A man's chest pushed into her back and she knew instantly the feel of it, and the familiar spice that assailed her senses was a confirmation of her good memory. Her breathing soon came to rights and she sagged back against him, her head rolling to lay upon his shoulder with her face toward the window, on the sill of which lay the keys to that ramshackle room of the Moulin Rouge.
She had, despite the great complication that had consumed most of the night, met with the assassin. Oh, how she had been surprised! Still, business had been negotiated and had only to be confirmed. Like a true businessman, the assassin had wanted to get a good look at Deloncre before considering the deal. This was the risky part: allowing them to discovery the difficulty and danger of the mission. If her assassin deemed it approachable, then a quarter of the payment would be given up front for faith and the rest at Gerard's funeral.
Now she was back in the arms of the Duke of Northumberland, where she had never expected to be again. Never once had she considered that she might be close enough to fall prey to that scent again, so enticing and heavy with memory. "How can I lie to you?" She murmured, finding that her breath was not as recovered as she thought. "It is I. A fortnight hence, I was your lover." Eyelids drifted closed on a thought, she placed her hands over his arm and pressed in an attempt to dislodge herself from him; curse her reluctant body, which seemed to ache and groan with the effort.
"My health is exactly as it should be, I assure you," she managed to say, albeit a little snappishly, now pushing away with a little bit more force. No, ground out her mind, finally realising that she was close to letting a single mistake (it took much time and absence to convince herself that her night with him was a mistake, and that conviction was now beginning to fail her) turn into an affair, which she refused to do. The impropriety of the situation was immense. Just in the adjoining room was her large bed, neatly made up by a maid, and the thought of its proximity to herself and him made her skin tingle enticingly.
"You must leave me be, Byron. I am a married woman--what we did was a mistake." The thought had to be voiced before it disintegrated into his touch. And how had she come to call him by his Christian name? She had not meant to. For persuasiveness she added, "Furthermore, your reputation with Mlle. Carlisle would be significantly hindered," and coughed once more into her red kerchief, slightly dampened in the middle. Folding the cloth into her palm and then tucking it into her bodice (where she always kept it, comically) to hide the barely detectable dark stain from his eyes, her body trembled with fatigue.
"We are strangers." The assertion sounded weak to her ears.
|
|
|
Post by Formorian Carlisle on Nov 2, 2008 14:56:28 GMT -5
There was no way that her eyes could be drawn to anything else in the room, or anyone else. They were fixed on those eyes that mesmerized her for their silent strength. Knowing the softness of those lips that drew up into a smile that could bring her to her knees. Even to his voice that had kept its own mysterious quality since he'd spoken to her in the night. Allowing her imagination to run rampant when she so allowed, but tonight nay. Spreading her wings she'd come from the land that one could never age to take him back with her. To live a life with her beloved no matter the hardships that may stand in their way.
Feeling the strength of his hand, the warmth sweeping through her glove to burn her skin. Formorian resisted a shiver of delight, recalling how she'd longed for his touch that night. His eternal kiss of love, devotion, even when the hard callous of his work-roughed hands had sent shivers all around her. Deep into her body when his palm had ghosted her nakedness, a night she had felt so impure as to her thoughts how she'd give to be in his arms unabashedly as nature intended.
Settling for the sweet warmth of his hand her smile beamed from her ornate mask as he laughed, the sound filling her to the core until she over-flowed with joy. It was like being drunk or something close to a wonderful drug flowing through her veins. She'd pray to hear that sound again, for forever as he spoke her little giggle echoing after his laughter.
"Ma douce dame, beautiful woman...I am honoured by your attention," He said making her blush brightly as he bowed over her hand. It was proper of course but for Riffael to do it so openly made her flustered yet nothing compared to the moment he kissed the palm of her hand. Knowingly, telling the room a familiarity that was too close to the truth of their love all except for its lack of consummation. Saving herself for that day she'd hold his name with her own.
Before she could respond joyfully, ignoring the murmurs surrounding them after his kiss. Formorian exhaled on a longing sigh as she gazed up into his eyes. Ready to offer him a little something more just to hear him laugh again. It was cut off before it began by the voice of the Duke invading them, invading them both and her pale blue eyes looked up at the more intimidating of the two men. Swallowing cautiously at his words that cut deep but not enough for her to abandon her love. Holding to his hand she watched as the Duke stalked off, worrying her full bottom lip as she looked back up at Riff.
"A friend of yours?" He inquired, her answer was a silent shake of her head. Seeing the concern in his gaze made her feel shattered the gentleness of her hand gripped his with a tender squeeze.
"He is...Nothing more than an acquaintance." She responded in equal quietness, smiling just after as she drew him along with her to the twirling bodies. "Wont you dance with me Monsieur?" Asked she for those around them to hear, making them move out of the way with her fairy wings spread. Drawing her Oison along with her to a land where they could both be safe.
Where they could be together.
"My attentions are forever yours..." Formorian said timidly so only he could hear.
|
|