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F.A.Q. ♦ RULES ♦ PLOT ♦ FACE CLAIM ♦ CANON SPECIFICS ♦ BIO FORMAT ♦ CANONS ♦ DEATH TO MARY SUE! ♦ BELIEFS ♦ EVENTS |
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JOLY Technicolor-Werewolf SISTER SITES  
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| The Sea of Smiles; dans l'Opera Garnier | |
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| Topic Started: Jun 22 2009, 10:23 AM (1,866 Views) | |
| Alandree | Jun 22 2009, 10:23 AM Post #1 |
 
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 Each mask encasing all ilks and breeds. Those who can slip past the door, perhaps. Upon close inspection, each bears a pair of real eyes. Or so one would assume. As one might assume each body possesses a beating heart under copious ruffles and stripes. A whispering mouth, a calculating brain beneath neatly curled locks. But who is to say for certain? Is it you who is brainless? Heartless? Breathless? The dance is jovial, slightly tipsy, and very space-consuming. Costumes are extravagent, with many threads of bright and expressive hues. Skin is painted gold and blue, with delicate masks, some dainty and on sticks, some heavy and head-bowing concealing all traces of familiar identity. It is perhaps comforting to know that there are drinks aplenty. Smiles to spare. Manners to be...left at the door with everyone's jackets, to hopefully be picked up upon leaving. The time is approximately nine o'clock in the evening. The House is nearly full already. But surely there is room for more. |
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| Alandree | Jun 22 2009, 04:40 PM Post #2 |
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It was difficult to drink much at all, no less try to speak properly. He decided to cease speech altogether (a difficult task) to provide mystery. Because surely there would be those curious. He delicately brushed the lace across his chest, at least an inch or two from the actual skin in sheer volume, and did his very best to translate some of his essence through this blessed pageantry. Goosing anyone young enough to run away at full speed, or jump high enough in the air without pulling out a back muscle. Making a clear cut path through the offset corner of the vicinity, occasionally lifting a few skirts, boning whipping back and forth upon swift re-release. Not that he would ever toe quite so boldly across this sort of line without the anonymity, but it didn't take a textbook session to figure out who he was. The mask wasn't quite as heavy as it looked. Black beak resembling that of a Medico della peste, made of papier-mâché, modestly painted, but not all that damn bad. The rest of it was vaguely Enlightenment-ish. And blue. All it really needed was a periwig and buckled shoes. Which he did have. Red-heeled. The joys of living in such a place. Sooner or late, he'd have to get at least a bit of wine. M. DuChamps plucked a glass from a dutiful waiter, who seemed to be no more than four feet tall, which made him feel comparatively rather grand. Pinching the point of the beak primly, he lifted it just enough to sip. |
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| Elise | Jun 23 2009, 07:54 PM Post #3 |
 
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The world belonged to him. Entirely to him, Réne Léopold Mathieu DuChamps. Of course, he was a bit shorter than the other guests, but that made no difference to him. Tonight, his height (or lack thereof) didn't matter. Tonight, he owned the world. He grinned devilishly, the view from the stairwell breathtaking. At least it would have been if he had cared to look. Instead, he was preening himself in a very reflective surface, a punch bowl. Léopold laughed aloud at the distortion of his mask, a lovely skull. He turned about slowly, examining the rest of his costume. A little Red Death. How fitting. He brushed the gold epaulets and straightened the silky scarlet cloak. Eyes wide and gleaming, he then unsheathed a sabre, a real sabre! with a gold hilt. He turned it over eagerly, admiring it. He swung it around a few times, getting scolded once or twice by a disgruntled lady who spilled punch all down her white dress--ohno!-- before running off. He saw him almost immediately, trying to sip wine through that ridiculous beak. Fabian, you make me laugh. "Fabian!" he shouted, seizing his brother around the legs, giving him a good jostle. "Fabian, Fabian!" he cried, swaying quite violently as if his brother was long-lost of come back from a war. Funny. To anyone who didn't know them, they'd have found it affectionate. |
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| Lena | Jun 23 2009, 08:48 PM Post #4 |
This s**t is Lenanas: L-E-N-A-N-A-S
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Tonight was the night that she would remember forever. She was certain of this. Tonight was magical, sacred. The masque ball was something Meg Giry had been waiting for since last year. She was sixteen now and a beautiful, wonderful lady, yes. A lady. Her outfit for the night proved it. She was to be a swan: a beautiful, wonderful swan and it would be absolutely wonderful and the other girls would simply stare at her beautiful costume and wonder "Who is that girl?" and she would simply ignore them because they were below her. She would take her new friend, the mysterious man from worlds and countries unknown, by the arm and she would show-off. It would be absolutely wonderful. Tonight was going to be the best night of Margaret Giry's life; of this she was certain. Adding one of the final white feathers to her ballerina-style bun, she couldn't help but preen a bit in the mirror. She looked absolutely lovely. Yes, she along with several of the others had stolen away into the dressing rooms and used the opera's paints and oils to make their lips red and eyelids lavender. She herself had made herself a shade more pale, leaving it clear and smooth for the half-mask to slip itself over. The mask itself was a simple thing: white with a small bird-like beak attached as a nose. Everything else was simple as far as making up the face, just a tiny bit of something for the lips but nothing else was needed. The true splendor was in the wonderful white dress that, though she noticed it didn't quite fit right, was exactly what Meg's princess fantasy had nearly always conjured up. It had been several minutes since she had finally left the dressing rooms and finally made her way into the ball and had yet to notice anyone she knew. Of course, it was definitely hard with the masks. Her own devoured her upper face in what most would've called a massacre. Little Meg feared that she would have to put it down eventually, for it was a bit heavy with her poor choice of stick to hold it up. She stayed to the side, not wishing to leave it for fear that it would be seen as odd for the young lady not to be accompanied by a man to lead her to the other side. The rest of her row were either at home or already in the throws of dancing with someone, or conversing. She had gotten quite irritated with the fact that Molly, the new English girl who had started her training at the opera when she was seventeen, was already deep in conversation with a young man in blue. Meg sighed, glancing for someone to chat and chitter with. |
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| PqA | Jun 24 2009, 12:39 PM Post #5 |
Agent
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These kinds of affairs were dreadfully bourgesouise... but that could be overlooked. There were too many people gathered in too small a space to mind that now. Tonight, he was not Bahorel. Tonight, he was Marcandier, Bacchus, Don Giovanni. With one fluid motion, he straightened his short jacket, and began to cut through the sea of swirling color. He was looking for someone to dance with, and entirely confident of finding a partner, despite the apparent lack of unaccompanied women. His jacket and cape were a dark, velvet red, the trimming a gold design of sweeping vines and small emroidered flowering. His mask was very much the same- a somple thing, with small rounded holes for the eyes, and which curved along the same line as his impressive whiskers- which he had allowed to grow out somewhat, for the occasion. The mask was tied simply with a wide black ribbon. His vest, which was high collared, was black, with thin red striping running vertically along the length. He toyed absent mindedly with one of the buttons. Round gold things, with an interesting clasp mechanism which he'd used to fasten, unfasten, and refasten many times before the fiacre had reached the Ball. They were fascinating, really, and their shine made for such a grand entrance. Perhaps he did not make quite a grand entrance as the Count of Monte Cristo once had- but it would cetainly do. Ah- there! A young thing, standing alone near the side, there. Dressed as a swan. She seemed young- probably too young for Bahorel, on any other night. But that may have had something to do with the not quite perfectly fitting costume. In any case she was dashing. And the point was, she'd look even better, dancing with him. Bahorel dodged a rather too poetic looking candlebra- gold, with lights glowing softly. The entertainment struck up a new waltz. The chello first: pom pom pum, pom pom pum... One, two three, one, two, three. Then the rest of the strings and the winds. It was a delicate tune, which wound itself deftly about the room. Somewhat like a snake, or a river. Both two very different things, admittedly, though both lethal, under the right conditions. He approached the young thing, and held out his hand to her. "You make a wonderful bolt," he said, in a suave manner, using a common slang term for "bird." Perlpex the girl, and get her to dance. Not bad, old boy. Edited by PqA, Jun 24 2009, 12:45 PM.
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| Alandree | Jun 24 2009, 01:19 PM Post #6 |
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The wine sloshed into his face, making him temporarily blind, and he flung off the mask, wig and all, in a sudden feel of a bear trap at his legs. The mask landed on the floor with a sickening crack, and he assumed the beak was....broken. Much like his pride. He stared at it woefully for what seemed like eternity, as if it were a treasured limb. And then he heard his name. In a shrill voice, that was neither man nor woman. But child. The very last entity he'd ever expect to utter his name. Especially a boy. But he must be a student of Giry's. Good God, had they all been invited? He attempted to pry the...thing off. Was that a little skull mask? How horrid. How ghastly. How gauche for a child. "Yes. Fabian. I am. Have we met, p'tit chou?" A feeble attempt at bending over to retrieve his mask. He had to pull it from under a tall man's foot, cursing delicately. The world was cruel. But children were crueler. To think that the motive for sex was to reproduce. Ghastly. Wobbling a bit, he replaced the mask on his face, with as much dignity as he could scrape off. Which was not much. The eye of the mask was torn. At least the beak was still intact. He kicked a bit. Edited by Alandree, Jun 24 2009, 01:20 PM.
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| Lena | Jun 24 2009, 02:13 PM Post #7 |
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This s**t is Lenanas: L-E-N-A-N-A-S
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Everything looks so . . Bright and golden. It was hard to even notice if someone was approaching her until, like a blast of wind, they were there. The man in red was like that blast of wind: a refreshing change that simply burst itself upon her. She hadn't assumed it to be that easy to have someone approach but then again, she had been dreadfully worried that she would have to do a pirouette de tres before a single eye was turned upon her. She could have, but the shoes she was wearing were nowhere near as flexible as her pair of finely-worn-in ballet slippers that currently resided in a secret cranny for fear that Babette (the devious little fae) or another chorus girl would rush in the steal them in the dark of night. But she was happy enough that it had come easily. After all, she deserved it. Certainly her friend could find her later, after she had had a dance with someone who had came to her less than ten minutes after she had begun to stand there. It was . . fate, if you will. She would dance and then find the sir von Krolock and everything would work out just splendidly. Her head tilted slightly to the left in a confused manner, though the mask did not follow her. She did not state that she had no idea what he meant by 'bolt' or that he shouldn't be saying things to young girls who obviously don't understand what you're saying. But little Meg did take his hand with a small smile already painted on her lips. Inexperienced in these matters, she didn't know how exactly you said yes to these things except the usual grabbing of the hand and the coy smile that she had seen many a leading actress give the new patron as he passed by. Was there a thank you? . . Wait, didn't that happen after the dance? Yes. Thank yous went after. Polite chat as the two approached the floor and then silence during the dance. Though Meg was sure a bit of small talk wouldn't do any harm. . . . Did she even know modern dancing? Certainly, she knew ballet and perhaps the waltz but what if he tried something more obscure than the 'bolt' comment? Yes, he called her a wonderful one, but what if bolt meant prostitute? For once, Meg was incredibly grateful for the mask: it hid the fact that she was now blushing in both embarrassment and fright. |
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| Elise | Jun 24 2009, 02:32 PM Post #8 |
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The child grinned under his mask holding onto the leg as if there was no bloody tomorrow. "Fabian, dear Fabian, don't you remember me?" he whined, finally releasing the poor man's legs to lift the mask with a flourish. "Although, of course, I have grown up a great deal since. But Fabian!" he cried, looking as if he were about to clasp the legs yet again. "We're visiting! With Maman and Papa and Marienne and Donelle and Amélie! Isn't that exciting?" he danced about, waving his mask in the air. "Fabian, Fabian!" he shouted yet again, tightly grasping his knees once more. "Oh brother, it's so good to see you again! Didn't you miss me?" he grinned, letting go and replacing his mask. His eyes quickly scanned the scenery, seeing if any of his other family were close. No. Nothing he could see at least. "Fabian! May I stay with you? May I? I'll be good, I promise, Fabian!" He gasped and his eyes widened in lovely theatrical shock. "Fabian! I bet you know all about the Opera! Show me! Show me!" he cried, seizing his hand and yanking. Hard. |
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| Alandree | Jun 24 2009, 02:58 PM Post #9 |
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Of coarse. How could he forget? Little Red Deaths surrounded him at every turn. This one was no different. They were omens of his iminent journey to Hell. Hah. Hah. He almost kicked out again, but then the little devil took off his mask. And what lay beneath was even more frightening. There he stood. A miniature....me. He reeled back, as if he'd seen the boy remove the skin off his face. A small gasp. This was like a penny dreadful come to life. A firelight story tripping and ripping from parted lips. He was dying. He was dead. He was in Hell, and he didn't even believe in it. "...Re....René?" He tipped the mask up again, eyes wide as saucer plates, accompanying figurative tea spilt on the floor. Petit René. He'd not seen the boy for nearly six years. He could barely walk then. Barely do more than accumulate spit bubbles and pull hair with fat and uncoordinated fingers. This was quite enough to make him believe in the Devil. What on earth could he have done to deserve this fate? No more words could come. How had he gotten here? Oh Dieu....this didn't mean... "René...René is Papa--" But at that point his arm had nearly been rent from the socket. He cried out in pain, and clutched his chest with his free hand desperately. "Is Papa here? Now?" |
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| Skazka | Jun 24 2009, 03:31 PM Post #10 |
all the ships go down/following the sound
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She held too tight to the Judge's side, for the sake of the devil she knew. His fingers pinched. This dress was a farce, swathes and swathes of white like a painted lady's wedding cake. Her bosom was piled high, like food on a platter, too much sound and colour and loud and tight-- she wasn't happy here. Too many birds in a single cage would peck each other to pieces. Johanna Barker, ward of the court, immortal dove, was shrieking inside at the top of her voice. Anthony needed to sweep in those doors, now, and remove her from this place. "I don't feel quite well." She batted her eyelashes guilelessly up at her guardian, brushing at the waist of her gown in a way she hoped implied obscure feminine troubles, or childlike weakness. -- "And why would that be, cherub?" He had to lean in, to purr in her ear. To an outside eye, this would seem a mundane conversation, an ordinary pairing. Turpin's fingers dug through lace and glass beading. No squirming away from him now. Not sharp enough of pressure to leave a mark. He was a gentleman, after all. Standing at his side, she looked like the avenging spectre of her mother. Or like an intended bride. The Judge kept one eye on the doors, watching sharp for streetwise sailor boys. --- Bal masque. Now this was an occasion Herbert could become involved in. How exciting. There had been handful of festive occasions at Schloss Krolock in vague, ephemeral memory-- mostly with vague assemblages of guests they'd managed to collect over the year. They had been costumed as well, when it seemed tasteful. And of course, he'd read. This particular Lucifer wore white. White and gold, which ordinarily wouldn't work for his particular coloration, but the effect was striking. Pearl buttons, and a proud cut-out of a mask perched on a stick. Places for seeing through, almond-shaped and lending his eyes an exotic look. Beneath the mask, he was pale, quite pale. A pair of small, barely distinguishable horns twined with his hair, the colour of mahogany. He felt like Alexander. A little too refined to pass for the Prince of Darkness, even if the costume evidenced suitable pride for the part. He ought to have gone as a monster. It was as if he'd indulged already; drunk on looks and caresses and touches. Endless flutes of champagne on the offer, and he was feeling excitable and giddy after just one. The night's energy channelled into him, like a lightning rod. One particular head of fair hair distracted him, but was just as soon, gone. Time for more wine. |
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| Elise | Jun 24 2009, 04:19 PM Post #11 |
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"Léopold! It's Léopold, Fabian! Réne is a girl's name!" he cried indignantly, releasing the arm roughly and stamping his foot. "No one calls me Réne anymore!" Silly Fabian. Ought to know that. He pulled out his sabre and pointed it directly at Fabian's nose. "Look what I've got!" he cried eagerly. "It's real gold on the hilt and everything! Isn't it amazing?" he asked, totally ignoring the question his brother had asked before. Come to think of it, he'd never really seen his brother before. Not, formally or anything. Not since he had been a very small boy indeed. Fortunately, Papa was there, to point out with a sneer and a cold turn of the head the boy who had once belonged to the family. Then Léopold had grabbed his chance to get away from the stuffy, overprotective parents. And jump on Fabian. Oh, the life of the young... |
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| Nil | Jun 24 2009, 05:49 PM Post #12 |
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Choking. He was deinately choking. Bruce fiddled with his too-tight bowtie, in an attempt to loosen it a little. The constant tugging made him feel better, albeit only psychologically. It took only a few beats before he was at it again, glaring at the back of M. Toussaint's head or dragging him along. He disliked the atmosphere at these events. It was far too stiff and stringent for him. Very much like his bowtie. He did not resmemble anything, really. His guardiens picked out his classic black-and-white suit, shoulder-pads and all. Luckily, they let him choose his mask. Of course, they were not all too pleased when he showed them his pick. It had five long points, like a clown's hat, and was a mosaic of different metallic colours: silver, gold and bronze. Plated, naturally, and suprisingly light. And he wore it proudly. At first, he beamed at all the attention he was recieving. It was an etremely gaudy mask, and many people stared. After a while, though, his pride was smothered by the tightness of his bowtie. While still fiddling with the suffocation device around his neck, he looked around for familiar faces. Of course, he hoped a certain young girl would be there. It had been a while since he had seen her, and often thought about her. The ocean of people was far too vast and stormy for this young adventurer to navigate by just standing around. The Toussaints were chatting stifly with a few people at once. "Man the sails!" He said to himself, as Capitan Bruce. "'Tis time to roam the seas." And off he went, moving along with the waves; some heavier than the other. And then something caught his eye. A rather amusing something, in fact. Wine lying into the face if it's holder, and then a rather angry removal of the disguise. "AHOY! Land ahead! Drop the Anchor!" Yes, he finally saw a familiar face. "Monsieur DuChamps!" |
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| Alandree | Jun 24 2009, 06:06 PM Post #13 |
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"Léopold?" As if he could remember the damned child's other names. At times he could barely remember his own. And he had a few. The little nit was stomping. Had he touched a nerve? Girl's name indeed...Fabian hastily donned the mask again, ensuring it covered his entire face. He'd not risk being seen by Étienne if his very life depended on it. He didn't much care for the rest. They could see him. The girls knew. Maman knew. But his father was rather like a horrid, distant figure that he seemed to have scarcely seen the face of for his entire existence thus far. He stumbled back, uttering yet another distressed cry, with a pint sized blade which nearly sliced off his immaculate plague doctor nose. "Mon frère, s'il vous plaît..." He raised his arms and gently pushed the sabre down. "You won't want to kill me on our first reunion, would you? And in this lovely mask from the prop room..." He cleared his throat, and would have gone on to pinch René on the nose, had not he heard the familiar voice of another young lad, one he knew exponentially better, which was a bit troubling, and whom he liked considerably more, which was also troubling, given that Bruce had no blood ties to speak of. "Why, Monsieur Toussaint! You are the very last little sprite I'd expect to see here--Erm, well, I take that back." And he glanced at René again. "He is." |
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| Elise | Jun 24 2009, 08:41 PM Post #14 |
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First Léopold... He examined the quickly-changing scene, evaluating the best movement for each-- and Dieu, it was confusing. Fabian's made friends here, doesn't want be seen with me. Me? I'm wonderful. "Well, Fabian. Introduce me to your ami." he said with a pout, crossing his arms in a very very very overdone show of.... something. Jealousy? Perhaps. Was his brother, after all. Didn't he miss him in the least? Miss having someone to play with and chase and swordfight and... Apparently. Not. Well, how dreadful. He felt horribly unwanted. And let it show. "You, you mean you don't want me here, grand-frère?" he half-whined, pointing his toes inward and sniffling. "And I've missed you so!" he said, letting his sabre-wielding arm slump and letting the sabre nudge the floor. How sad. Then Antoine... Antoine stared at the massive building looming directly above him, and distinctly wondered what he was doing here. Again. Probably because it had seemed like a marvelous idea at some point. Hell, he couldn't even remeber what the ball was for, it was just there. And so was he. He felt more than a little ridiculous, he of all people, with Feuilly, attending a more or less bourgeois event. Had to be points for irony stuck in there somewhere. His coat was a very deep shade of emerald green, something he would never wear in the daylight, much less in public. But for whatever reason, being here made it not only acceptable, but mandatory. He restlessly fingered the gold embroidery around the sleeve, imagining for a moment, oh! only a moment, how utterly and intoxicatingly beautiful Enjolras would look in an equally dark shade of scarlet-- he closed his eyes and almost imagined him there, waiting for him at the top of those stairs-- He shook himself back to reality, and blushed, crossing himself quickly and pleading forgiveness. He inhaled sharply, his breath staggering a bit, and he reached his arm, and gently grased Feuilly's shoulder. "Gabriel." He turned at faced the man. "I don't know... I'm not sure why, but I'm scared." |
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| Nil | Jun 24 2009, 09:17 PM Post #15 |
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Bruce had to fight his way through a few people, in the process of which he managed to poke a few displeased bal-goers with his mask. When he finally stood in front of M. DuChamps, he smiled a bright, toothy smile. "Nice to see you again, Monsieur!" His eyes followed Fabian's glance towards a smaller boy. A mini Fabian. He immediately wondered if they were anything alike. He also wondered if his entire family looked that similar. He hardly had to picture a little Fabian, as he was practically in front of Bruce's face. The Daddy Fabian will have graying hair, and the Mommy Fabian had really long hair. The Sister Fabian also had long hair, but was maybe a little thinner. That settled it. And they all did Fabian things. A chuckle escaped him. That was too amusing. When mini Fabian responded to Prototype Fabian, Bruce's smile slowly died. He felt unwelcome. It was the type of initial cold feeling he got whenever he found someone in the Toussaint back yard. He elt like a tresspasser. And intruder. The bowtie materialised around his neck again. He slipped his small fingers beneath it, and began to tug again. Fed up, he grapped the bow and gave it a rather hateful yank. It immediately yeilded and fell listlessly on his chest. DIE, SNAKE! He almost said that out loud.... |
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| Skazka | Jun 24 2009, 09:20 PM Post #16 |
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all the ships go down/following the sound
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Feuilly would not call what he wore a costume, exactly. But opposite Combeferre, at least he could plaster on a forced smile, and not look half bad. And of course, he carried a fan. Dressed in black, masqued in black, he could have been a specter himself, of a certain social class. (This whole ball was a slap in the face, for a man who loved humankind to see at once his joy and bane combined. His conscience kept prodding him-- these are the people doing the oppressing, these are the ones you should feel anger towards-- but underneath superficial decadence, he could not help but feel pity. "Let's get out of here." He turned to his companion, mouth quirked in bemusement. Pulling Antoine by the sleeve in the first direction that struck him, like a man chasing a ghost, or the faintest breath of a lady's perfume, so light as to be nearly undetectable. So many women here. Maybe one of them was carrying one of his fans. Cruel irony. |
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| Alandree | Jun 25 2009, 04:17 PM Post #17 |
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He watched, as if from the interior of a snowy chalet. Frosted windows looking out on a memory. Like a conjuration from the ghost of Christmas Past. But he was kindly to the poor, was he not? That girl, the little rag-tag slip of a thing. With the pipe or the trombone. He'd given her back her coins. He was damn well chivalrous. And this was the thanks he got? "And you, dear boy. This is René, my brother." He intoned over the child's whines. "I'd almost forgotten that I had one. René, this is Bruce, a valiant gentleman." He tried his best not to run away to hide sullenly in the great corner of the staircase. "René, you'd best go back to Papa and inform him that his ruse has failed. I am not apologizing for the sake of some estranged little chiot." And he made to distract himself. Find another face to look at. Though he hated to leave Bruce. Mr. Hope was fortunate enough to be acquainted with many a glorious trader. The gimcrack these seedy men sold now and then proved useful, as it had done for Mr. Todd, an auspiciously chosen gift to celebrate the anniversary of his being released to the world. His mask was a harlequin affair; garish, yellow, green, bronze and pointed in nose. The faded embroidery of Peruvian wise women was the most elegant thing he had else, a worn thing, red threads, velvet of a higher grade than one would expect. He lingered at the threshold of the grand Opera House, wishing his sense of direction were as good as his dedication to fair maidens. He searched for his dove, but saw only a swan. Which was good enough. There were, however, two swans, and it took him a moment to pick out the yellow hair, not to mention the sallow face of her token caretaker. Catching her eye would be easy enough. Surely she would recognize his very soul. No need for facial recognition or tactile sense. Edited by Alandree, Jun 25 2009, 06:23 PM.
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| Elise | Jun 25 2009, 05:59 PM Post #18 |
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He yelped softly as he felt Gabriel's sudden grip yanking him away into darkness. "Feuilly!" he gasped softly still following his friend into the shadow. Not that he had much of a choice: Gabriel not only had his sleeve, but his eyes. Glasses and a mask are not the best of friends, therefore the spectacles went, wrapped in a handkerchief, in Antoine's breast pocket. There, also, went Antoine's ability to see further than three feet in front of him. On the upside, however, he had a lovely white mask. "Where are we going?" he asked, not that the particularly cared. He expected to meet no one tonight. He had Feuilly, and that was going to have to be enough. Enjolras would never come. He wouldn't be pleased that Combeferre had come. This was not what revolutionaries did at night. He should be in the Musain, hanging on Enjolras' every word, or at home, dreaming of revolution and its matching archangel or standing outside the flat at night, staring at the sky and imagining a beautiful pair of perfect, slender white arms around your waist and perfect golden hair falling in your face and-- "Feuilly, stop, stop, we need to stop." He said quickly, trying to get his friend to stop so he could catch his breath. He was beginning to gasp. |
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| Nil | Jun 25 2009, 10:28 PM Post #19 |
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((Short, sorry >_<)) The interaction between the two brothers put a small frown on Bruce's face. He missed his family, and longed to see his mother's face again. He would be ashamed to admit that he almost forgot what she looked like. Her face was but a spectre at the back of his mind. Bright red hair, hazel eyes. The lines of her face and specific facial features, however, were blurred. All he could remember about her facial structure was that she was beautiful. He attempted to smile at René, but it turned out contorted and a hint painful. This was probably the only time he was grateful for a coughing fit. That miserable attempt at a smile could have been passed off as a mere precursor. "It's a pleasure to finally meet some of your family, Monsieur." He said, once the coughing had died down. Now he was able to give the younger boy a proper smile. But what could he say now? 'He's spoken of you so fondly' would be a bad choice of words. So he kept it simple. "Hello." |
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| Alandree | Jun 26 2009, 09:21 PM Post #20 |
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Immediately he sank to crouch aside Bruce, brow furrowing, fingers splaying out near each of his little arms tentatively. More out of fear than undying concern, but there was concern too. He wasn't as heartless as all that. Really. Really. Was he? "My word...are you all right?" He remembered his having fits, but only barely. Good God, was he tubercular? Worse still, was he contagious?? His hands involuntarily dropped to the side. Miss Betty Pom was fortunate enough to arrive in a dress that concealed her feet. Which were both bare. Her little gown was the very one she had worn to see Hannibal. Not the finest fabric, nor the most ideal amount of volume in the skirt, but it was enough for her to feel a little more poignant than she might as a mousy ballet student in tow of the Madame. And of coarse she had her wings. She'd attempted to straighten the wires a bit, which worked to a degree, but they were still worse for the wear. Her mask was the finest part, however. A small little gold thing, she was careful to choose one that matched, which had a green feather at the corner, and glass jewels lining the eyes. The girls all arrived in single file, behind their minder. She withheld a gasp at the sight of the place. It was more brilliant and lustrous than she could have imagined. They were all in costume and frivolity. The very air radiated mischief. But where to start first? Giry, bedecked in nothing but black with a trace of gold here and there, led her girls with the head held high as one must do when being oneself in this particular body, with this particular standing in society. Lifting her skirts to descend carefully, she did not wear a mask, but instead held an immaculate fan. Her sights were not on the patrons, nor the girls. They were raised to the ceiling as she calculated. Though she did make a point to ascertain the whereabouts of Christine, fearing slightly, for the commotion to upset her safety. Not to mention keep an eye on that foul vicomte. But she instead spotted her own daughter, who appeared to be accosted by a young man. Already. Her narrowed, pale eyes remained on him now, as she chose a spot at the edge of the staircase and folded her arms, emitting the toughest of shields. |
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