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Post by Gerard Deloncre on Jan 22, 2009 2:47:53 GMT -5
Gerard smiled as the carriage rocked, swaying contentedly to the beat of the horse's hooves. Those were fine horses, and came from good stock. For the most part, he ignored the pretty little blonde that sat across from him, instead staring out the window as the mansions of the Parisian elite flew by. Occasionally he would glance at her and smile, an entirely empty gesture, or tap the head of his cane idly with his fingers, wondering just what she was imagining. Her lover crying out in that ballroom? Her lover swinging on a noose? The lovely crack of his neck? Ha, and then wedding bells, of course.
Finally, the carriage drew to a halt in front of a stylish, modern town house, and the footman jumped down to open the door. Gerard turned now to regard her, and gestured with raised brows, a pleased smile on his face. "Shall we, my dear?" He asked, and the footman seemed to shiver. Gerard made a mental note to have him thoroughly flogged for such an inexcusable slip. His eyes went back to his 'fiancée' and slipped over her form, admiring. What a night they would have... he chuckled to himself thinking of it. He was certain she was a virgin, and therefore a more than valuable prize. If only she was higher born; then he might actually keep her, and she could have his children. They would be pretty children, and he would certainly enjoy such a pretty little wife.
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Post by Formorian Carlisle on Jan 25, 2009 21:32:28 GMT -5
Formorian had to try and keep herself composed, not only there for her love of Riffael but even in the confines of the carriage as well. She'd not let him so easily win with his cruelty, why was this man doing this to her? What had made her such a prime target for his wickedness? Surely it had not been her sweet looks, affections, nor charms she knew him not. Had he a personal vendetta against her beloved that she had not been previously told of? Oh for the life of her Formorian could not find the reason she was the prisoner of this man. His hallowed cheeks, slightly sunken eyes making him look all the more a part of the villain than any novel could have described.
Shoved into the carriage, she'd stumbled over her skirt; catching her knee upon the cushioned bench inside. Flustered at that, or the shove she turned around and arranged herself, never removing her mask. Why take it off? So he could easily see her features, in every way she was fighting the battle to weep endlessly? No, she could not let him see that at least not until she had composed herself enough for the battle.
The man followed soon after, climbing into the carriage and knocking upon the polished wood. Sending the thing lurching into motion, like a smug young man he would look at her, smile at her with that vacant gentleness she knew wasn't there. It was his triumph and Formorian just stared at him through her mask. Hating him with every breath she took for what he'd done, how he'd ruined her life, and that of her beloved. Ah, but this man wasn't as smart as he could think to be. Oh no, she had some hope if she survived tonight and managed to see the Marquise in the morning. A cry for help that would be immediately answered if she predicted correctly.
As the world passed them by Formorian looked down in her silent defeat that she would have to wait until the morning to move her own plans into action. Every fiber of her being was on edge, she'd be crazy enough to leap from the carriage if she knew he'd not strike her with his cane. There was no telling what this man would do, and whence the carriage drew to a stop there was no safety. Looking at the shiver given by the footman, Formorian could only suspect even further her fate was far worse than she could ever think.
"Shall we, my dear?" Came his voice and Formorian stood, regally, taking the footman's help when he offered it, and avoiding Gerard at all costs. But once her dainty foot found the solid ground, Formorian was running, racing away. Only there was a problem that was all inside her head! Her family had bred her a tad bit too delicately to race away from her captor just yet. She'd have more help if she survived long enough for it arrive. Shrugging off the touch of the footman or even Gerard whence he'd touch her.
For he....had no right! She would love Riffael truly, faithfully, even if it killed her.
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Post by Gerard Deloncre on Aug 4, 2009 17:00:29 GMT -5
M. Deloncre let her cold demeanour slip by chastised... for now. He had no patience for the subtleties required for public punishment and public threats, having already thoroughly exhausted his skills in the Jondrette ballroom. He could, he thought, at least wait for the cover of the indiscriminate, quiet walls of his own home. Although she sought again and again to shrug his touches away, he managed to at least keep a steady, firm hand upon her lower back with with to lead her--force her--up the stone steps and through the great doors of his mansion.
It was a modern home, to be sure. Gerard Deloncre could not be counted among those who appreciated the antique. Everything that he owned, which was considerable, must be modern and exactly in mode. The foyer had a ceiling two stories high, ringed with a balcony on the second story that could be reached only from a different room, out of sight. The marble floors and railings were polished to perfection. A line of harrow-faced servants had gathered, sallow and pitying but entirely unwilling to help the poor captive. Gerard gave them no glance and her no opprotunity to take in the details of their new home, instead continuing to push her--now even more forcefully--through to the next room and to the base of a grand, curving staircase of the same marble as the floor. It was now that he gripped her upper arm like a vice, abandoning his reserve to drag her up the staircase.
"You and I, Mademoiselle, are going to have a talk," He said meanwhile, his voice coldly void of the pretences of earlier. "You shall be made knowledgeable of the particulars of your situation, and that of your lover." Down a hall and then another, he opened a door and threw her forcibly into what would be her bedchamber. The bed was the one that, although she could not possibly know it, had been the death bed of Liana's mother.
He locked the door behind them, neither sitting or leaning, his back still straight and eyes devoid of compassion. There was no time wasted before he began.
"Your lover has been accused of stealing a ring that he purchased. He might have used stolen money, indeed, I have no knowledge of that, but I doubt that he stole the ring itself. As such, because I recognise the style as belonging to a particular jeweller whom I have used very frequently myself, I will call on that man and make it plain to him that I bought the ring. His fear and my payments should be quite enough to convince him of it... entirely. Enough to give testimony of it to the police, at least. Either away, the word of the vagabond against mine? I am sure that you get the point. He is entirely in my power. And so, if you have any desire to see him again--alive, that is--then so are you. Do you understand?"
He did not let her answer, instead pressing on.
"As such, you should know what I expect of you. It should be fairly obvious. Uphold the ruse that I have created perfectly, and to all persons, for as long as I tell you to. Associate with Nicolette Jondrette as little as possible. Oh, and--"
He withdrew a little painting from his jacket pocket, holding it up to her. It was the work of La Muta, marked with her initials 'CC' in the corner, and depicted Formorian and Liana side by side, smiling peacefully, near the stage of the Populaire.
"--inform me of the identity of the young woman depicted here, beside you. This is crucial. If you fail in this, not only will I lose my temper and with it my respect for your virginity, I will make absolutely sure that your Monsieur Dureau suffers a very prolonged, painful, and wretched death."
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Post by Formorian Carlisle on Sept 1, 2009 18:58:23 GMT -5
His touch was acidic upon her person, burning away at the clothing keeping them apart as she moved up the steps. Wanting to escape his touch that so found itself, planted securely upon her lower back. Where he could feel the slightest sway of her hips with each step; keeping a strict distance between them if she even so considered to break elsewhere than the door. The clip-clop of public as the carriages and persons upon the walk just beyond the yard of his home and her love for Riffael kept her steadfast in each step. One foot, then the other, ascending into Hell not Heaven of this man; the portal of the door her doom.
Lightly did the heel of her dainty shoe click against the marble floor; the polished surface illuminate blue by the bell of her gown. Raising a small hand to remove the mask, allowing the intricately made item to tumble into her palm. Ignoring the grandeur, instead seeing the faces of the servants who perhaps, her ow face mirrored their own. Unable to linger as he shoved her into another compartment, more marble; more beauty for a beast. Afore he took hold of her arm, squeezing into her delicate flesh no doubt would a bruise form. Snapping her head up did she challenge him silently as his face danced before her wickedly. His tone cold, her brows furrowing at the pain shooting up her arm, slightly slumping forward in a small submissive display despite the glare she shot him.
"You and I, Mademoiselle, are going to have a talk, you shall be made knowledgeable of the particulars of your situation, and that of your lover." He said with a icy venom, dragging her up the stairs as she stumbled yet he cared not as she gasped and whimpered. Tripping over her gown before finding her footing, battling back gingerly but pathetically as he took her down halls and corridors of the grand home. Until they came to the destination of his desire, throwing her into the chamber, flailing her arms as her feet caught the gown once more. Collapsing unceremoniously to the carpeted floor, her breathing ragged from fear and anger.
At some point she'd dropped her mask; where she knew not but it had fallen...Her shield from this man, yet it would not have saved her. Instead he'd have destroyed it as he was seemingly intent on destroying her. Slipping to her knees gingerly did the blond haired woman; her cheeks flushed a light tint of rose in her anger did she grip the polished wood end of the chest before the four-poster bed. Drawing herself up to a slightly seated position in the pool of blue of her gown. Upturning her face to look at Gerard Deloncre with a hate that could not be denied.
"Your lover has been accused of stealing a ring that he purchased. He might have used stolen money, indeed, I have no knowledge of that, but I doubt that he stole the ring itself. As such, because I recognize the style as belonging to a particular jeweler whom I have used very frequently myself, I will call on that man and make it plain to him that I bought the ring. His fear and my payments should be quite enough to convince him of it... entirely. Enough to give testimony of it to the police, at least. Either away, the word of the vagabond against mine? I am sure that you get the point. He is entirely in my power. And so, if you have any desire to see him again--alive, that is--then so are you. Do you understand?"
There was no time to retort, instead she lifted a hand to her throat; feeling the hard pressing beat of her pulse there. The quick almost labor of her silent breathing, burning her lungs for more oxygen than she allowed, those pale blue eyes never leaving the cold, face of this monster...Whomever could call him man was mad!
"As such, you should know what I expect of you. it should be fairly obvious. Uphold the ruse that I have created perfectly, and all persons, for as long as I tell you to. Associate with Nicolette Jondrette as little as possible. Oh, and-" Terror almost filtered into her stare of hatred as he slipped his hand into his jacket pocket. Was he going to lame her in some way that she could not escape? With what weapon would he do the deed? Swallowing hard,did she press herself back against the chest of a room so filled with pain, sorrow and death...if only she knew. Knew that she might so follow the fate of the woman who once called this chamber her own. Slowly did a piece of parchment slip from his coat, a painting....a painting no doubt done by the mute of the Populaire. A sweet girl, tender, timid yet ever so talented with the thread. The gown she wore was a testament to that, yet so vividly did her own image look back at her with Liana at her side, both smiling in a way that no demon or Devil such as this man could ever have touched them.
"-inform me of the identity of the young woman depicted here, beside you. This is crucial. If you fail in this, not only will I lose my temper and with my respect for your virginity, I will make absolutely sure that your Monsieur Durea suffers a very prolonged, painful, and wretched death." Her back stiffened instantly, those pale blue orbs flashing at Gerard then for she had been bred well and proper once. A breed that did not hold to the threat...Let the world fall but they would stand until no life beat within her breast. Setting those dainty hands to the chest did she rise up, her petite height nowhere near the towering monster before her. Clasping her hands before her corseted front, resting meekly, almost serenely as though she had not heard his threats, those youthful features lightly painted to the perfection for tonights ball. That long mane of silky curls kissed by the sun, of wheat-field gold rolling down her shoulders; her expression did not disclose the amount of terror racing through her. For she loved Riffael with her entire being, yet if there was something to do with Liana...Nicolette Jondrette would know and she...would have to live that much longer to know.
Straightening her back, setting her shoulders proudly did the small English woman speak then, her French lilting off her tongue without recourse of what she was to say.
"Monsieur I will abide by your little ruse perfectly, if only for the love of my beloved Riffael. I know not what game you play, nor if my betrothed hath in someway offended you to bring this estranged behavior about. Though I can readily say he is in great apology for it." She played stupidly, flippantly motioning her hand to the painting. "As for the painting...I know nothing of the artist...other than they were passing through and wanting to earn money..However to the girl in question there is little to say of her. A simple chorus girl whom can hardly carry a tune, but is a lovely delight upon the stage. She is nothing to you and I shant bring an innocent this madness you are causing Sir." Turning her back to him did she eye the room, trembling yet with dignity did she move to the large woman's armoir looking at the beauty of her reflection and his hideous features in the mirror. Her resolve set for the now...God help her.
"A chorus girl is all you need know of her, for her fate is to be some sick twisted captivity as mine? No...." Turning then did she look back at him, she'd not let this man harm a girl whom she felt sister more than friend. "Monsieur that girl is nothing in this insanity of your own doing. Simply a chorus girl whom was painted alongside myself, that is the base of truth I ca offer you...Monsiuer." Came her clipped ending, inclining her head to him...for she was now dismissing him in her own way from her 'chambers' keeping the serenity about her that she had told the truth even if she had lied so readily it was a sin.
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Post by Gerard Deloncre on Sept 1, 2009 23:08:47 GMT -5
She fell to the floor, her shimmering blue skirts fanned around her in a rippling pool. He felt a surge of triumph watching her, a fallen fairy, hauling herself up in quivering, helpless anger. It was for these moments that he sometimes missed the presence of his wife. He could not stand proud women. They had such a sense of entitlement, such a misplaced self-assurance, and they made him ache with anger. He could recall the way she had been when he had married her (well, shortly after, as he was dead drunk when the deed had been done and he couldn't for the life of him remember a bit of it): she was one of those women that deemed herself a "free thinker" and "independent", not realising, of course, that she was merely scatterbrained and emotional. Women might think freely, but when they did, it was hardly thought and mostly whim. To see her reminded of the fact was pleasing, for then there was righteousness and order to the world. Such "thinkers" as women could have no run in the world, or surely the world would go mad.
Mademoiselle Carlisle had been reminded, just now. And yet here she stood, composing herself as peacefully as if she had not just been abducted and threatened and answering him with a tone as calm as it was displeasing. He frowned heavily. It was good that she could act, for his ruse depended on it. It was not good that she would lie, and he was almost certain that lying was exactly what she was doing.
She repeated herself. She did not know the identity of the Nicole Deloncre. He could hardly believe her daring move. Still, he straightened, lifting a brow over his scowl.
"Oh? I see. How very unfortunate. Let him rot in prison, then. If I do not see her home, where she belongs, by nightfall tomorrow, then you have no further purpose to me and neither does your Riffael. If you fail me, mademoiselle, then I shall not fail to have him poisoned like a rat in the dark of his cell." He drew great pleasure from knowing that he had the power; he meant every word he said, and he had complete confidence that his daughter would be delivered to him shortly.
"Have a restful night, my dear," He said to her through the mirror. "You will find a fitting nightgown within those drawers."
With that, he turned and exited. He had faith that she would not try to escape. She seemed to want to see her beloved again... alive.
(We can either "fast forward" within this thread or start a new one for the morning. Which would you prefer?
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Post by Formorian Carlisle on Oct 7, 2009 12:44:42 GMT -5
(just fast-forward)
After the door had closed the captive had stared hard at the solid portal, her back rigid from where she sat. Gazing into the mirror wanting desperately to know the woman in the fine gown of pastel blues of the sky and ocean. Her long curls tumbling about her in a halo that had seemed to have died in Deloncre's presence and now seemed to glimmer. Attempting in its own way to give her hope, or was she just so addled in her wits that she made herself believe as much? Inhaling did she cause the full rise of her chest, filling her lungs preciously with air; the burning sensation causing her to note that she'd been holding her breath.
Her thoughts traveled and lingered upon his words however, to let her Riffael dissolve into nothing of what he'd been or could be. Shaking her head to herself did she cause the ripple of her silky curls to move in a glowing wave of sunlight. There was something she could not have ever for the life of her endured. A woman....Her mother had once told. A woman's place was at the helm of the ship just like the intricate carvings. To brunt the pain of the world to protect her men, to smile even as her body cracked beneath his hand, to know that life: beauty, sacrifice, decorum, propriety, all went hand in hand for the better good of man. Obediently so.
She would do the better good by her love, she would act, she would be obedient...she would be: Woman.
Rising unsteadily her resolve set, as she swallowed the bile rising in her throat trying to think of the strength of Woman, what history had proclaimed those few to have made it into the man's text. What it would take to be one in her own small way, the suffering Formorian ironically noted. Men never went into depth of the sacrifice and suffering that came with those tails. Weakness other than her sex, mentality, personality, could be stated amongst men but never truly appreciated for how strong a woman could be. Passing a cursory glance about the room did she move to the writing desk, seating herself carefully as she drew out the few pieces of paper there. Touching the pages ever so gingerly taking a sheet where she'd begin to write.
Poised did she hold the quill above the page, thinking desperately for a way, for someone and her family, her heart held only one salvation. Her hand quivered a moment before she touched the tip down to the paper the gentle scratching beginning with the first curve of a letter to the next did she begin her letter.
Dearest Cousin,
I write to you with good tidings, that I have upon recently with much love and surprise. Have I been asked and agreed to wed the esteemed....
So would the letter continue with every, stroke a lie upon another lie if only to save her love. Her true love. Riffael. Ending it with a flourish of her signature that she had learned as a girl, into a woman her family have educated her enough. Taking hold of another piece of paper did she carefully cut a rectangular square, in the make-shift invitation of sorts to the wedding or a blessing. Only in another written form did she write the following that only her cousin could decipher.
clàisteachd madadh-alluidh còmhdach a lomair amhluidh nathair
Satisfied did she rise up, removing her clothing ever so carefully to pull the tainted cloth of the former Madame Deloncre. The clothing longer than she for the blond was far more petite wotherwise did it fit, hugging her generously. Tenderly with a care of a mother to a child did she see her ball gown hung into the wardrobe. Shutting the door as though she would shut the pathway to her future, only her cousin and the delivery of her letter could set her at ease to an extent. Drawing back the covers of the bed did she slip into the death bed, never knowing or the wiser after all: He'd kill her soon regardless. Wouldn't he? Formorian almost hoped so as she closed her eyes, it was nearly dawn but the smallest of rest would do her good.
Predicted within an hour or so did a light knock come to her door for the maid who could not enter until the Master allowed the door open to his captive. Dearly did she hope that Madame Jonderette would make good on appearing this early morning.
* the smaller note says 'the wolf dons sheeps clothing like the serpent'. The serpent being lucifer in the garden of Eden.
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Post by Gerard Deloncre on Oct 16, 2009 0:31:22 GMT -5
When the sun was peaking up over the horizon, Gerard Deloncre was already awake and dressed. His valet was well-paid, to both keep his mouth shut and work around his master's unusual schedule. Gerard was an early worm, certainly, and he had no patience for those who were not. He had received a good night's sleep, full of pleasant dreams, and had woken refreshed. It was nice to be getting this long-overdue business finished.
He now sat in the parlor in his large armchair, staring down one particularly sleepy-looking man. This man was M. Bithé, a middle-aged and unremarkable gentleman aside from his reputation for knowing how to speak a countless amount of languages. M. Deloncre, recalling this renowned talent, had sent a presumptuous demand for Blithé to call at this ungodly hour of the morning. The night before, the maid who had attended to Mlle. Carlisle had timidly handed the letter to him, one that had been given to her to post. Deloncre had read it, of course, and found nothing amiss aside from a little missive on the bottom. Not knowing what it meant made him nervous. He couldn't even place what language it was.
Hence the present arrival of M. Blithé. The man in question was even now staring at the small post script, squinting his bleary eyes and cursing Deloncre with all of his weasel heart -- and weasel he certainly was. He knew how to speak three languages, and fake about ten others convincingly. It wasn't hard to fool the ignorant. This language he supposed to be some sort of archaic English relative, but he had no clue as to the meaning. So he guessed.
"It is a very sweet letter, Monsieur. You are quite lucky, I do say." His stalling pleased Deloncre not one bit, and it was apparent on the host's face. Stumbling over his words he gushed, "As for the slight script here at the bottom, it is an ancient sub-language of England. Quite impressive for your young bride to know, certainly, certainly, you should be quite proud. Quite proud. In fact," he said, hurrying on as Deloncre's expression darkened, "it reads:" he made a show of looking down at the piece of parchment, even though he wasn't actually reading. "May the sun light the path of your travels. It is an old saying, of course, of those parts. Quite impressive."
Gerard Deloncre sagged a bit in relief, taking a slow and satisfying sip of his morning tea. The man before him seemed to have ceased existing. For several minutes Blithé was ignored, until he tentatively cleared his throat; only to receive a curt "You may go, sir, I thank you" from his host that sounded not a bit appreciative. On his hurried exit, Blithé pushed past Deloncre's valet, who hovered for his next assignment.
"Post this," was the command. The valet nodded, taking up the letter and setting out to reseal and post it.
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