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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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| Lady of All Beauty; for Liza and Alandree | |
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| Topic Started: Jul 20 2009, 07:24 AM (101 Views) | |
| Skazka | Jul 20 2009, 07:24 AM Post #1 |
all the ships go down/following the sound
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The room was redolent with the personality of the lady herself. A pair of gloves here, a round box of powder there, a cluster of roses so dark a red as to be black thrust hastily under a little sopha that might actually be a bed. Another bedeckment of vermilion little roses and knotted little twigs and vines and such next to the vanity. A brush. Spare, but horribly romantic. And now it was clustered with flowers, on every flat surface, as if there'd been a snowfall in a harem. In such quality, the perfume of the roses was a little too thick. Herbert snuck a side glance to the mirror, his head bowed to consider a particular blossom. Not a button or a stray hair out of place-- hopefully? Remarkably, he had not had to bluff his way in the door, as he had planned. Perhaps miss Daae had frequent noble admirers. Herbert had not been the only one to leave flowers in recent weeks, far from it, but the sheer profusion of arrangements meant that they were bound to be noticed. Not red roses, Father would go by a few loosely affiliated crimson roses, thorns intact, and that was much too romantic. Not to mention rude. The majority of his chosen bounty were white, pure white, which seemed fitting for the girl, and the florist had apparently interpreted his (alternating) sighs and fanatic babbling correctly. It made it rather look as if someone had died, or a christening were about to be performed, but it filled the space. A smaller arrangement on the dressing-table, however, were the colour of a good glass of wine. All were stripped of thorns; the symbolism there didn't seem quite appropriate. (Some of his male lovers, in the past, had deserved mention, as attractive but troublesome, and really very wicked. Mademoiselle Daae, of the angel's voice, seemed incapable of hurting anyone.) Tied with ribbon, and a card with a name, though nothing so crass as the monogram of his hotel. He straightened up, in anticipation of footsteps at the door. Attempting to look suave and genial, rather than liable to jump a foot when the door actually opened to divulge its visitor. |
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| Alandree | Jul 20 2009, 01:35 PM Post #2 |
 
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Oh, you're the Marquis Du Champs' son, are you not? No, no. No relation. Pure coincidence. It's my stage name, you see. At fourteen, one might even have believed it. Just placate the little boy, who looked more like he was twelve then anyway. But now that little Red Death himself had ventured to out him, there was no point in deception. They all knew he'd receive notes from his Maman each month. But now that nothing came, insofar as Étienne was heard tell to allow, there was little dignity left to lap up. Petit René and his good-for-nothing father felt a penchant for Paris, and it didn't take half a tablespoon full of wits to figure out who he looked like now. The girls, dear girls. What would one do without girls? Were quiet. All four of them. Maman might write again. Surely she would. But the sisters probably could not keep one hand off of a crocheting board long enough to pick up a pen. But no matter. Why must these things come up now? There was nothing much to rehearse at the moment. The most any of them could do was rehash Il Muto steps learnt several months back at bare bones rehearsal. If you would not get a principle role, then you would at least be prepared to sink backwards and be a good little shepherd boy. Why were all these operas full of shepherds? Someday he would be in Die Zauberflöte. And he could die a happy man. Until then, drinking and sporting frivolity would do. The chorus boys were particularly good at lounging, and even better at being useless. The sexual tension nearly dripping off each dewy brow. If only he had interest. They were more like brothers, anyway. Riollo had become hopelessly needy, and he'd dropped him like a dampened handkerchief on the stage floor last week. And that was permanent. The rest of them were far too prone to flouncing, or worse, doing things together that Fabian himself had already done twofold and thrice as many times before. It was time to get a better job. Or at least find better company. Christine Daaé was a special child. She had her room. She had her own pomade that was never used by little girls. No clamping together with the other girls, hose and whalebone thrown into corners, fighting over rosin. She was adjacent to the likes of Carlotta and La Sorelli. She had her own mirror, and she had more men along a string than any other girl with twice the bosom and demure. It was enough to make somebody jealous. He'd grown tired of hearing about her, certainly, but the poor child, really all she had done was sing a few bars. She'd not pulled the rug from under anyone's feet but Carlotta's, and who in the entire house found her more redeeming than Daaé? These girls were all full of dull-witted adolescent spite. He could not think of a single female chorus that he actually liked. And there were quite a lot to choose from. Now, really, he had no place being here. There were drinking games to sort out, after all. But those were getting monotonous as well. Why not seek change? He'd seen the boy--The man? The gentleman? Hah!--go in, with so many flowers he scarcely seemed able to keep upright, and had the audacity to shut the door behind him. Now, if that wasn't forward, he was unsure of what was. Even in this world. He stood, or rather leaned, in a shadowy corner, hardly looming, but fairly straight-faced. Sipping rather too-sweet wine, in as little dress as one could get away with back here, which was scarcely more than britches and linen. He didn't even have his waistcoat. Wrinkling his nose, wondering if Daaé was in there as well. If the brute was perhaps molesting her. Surely she'd scream if that were so. But he wanted to see, with vehemence, what came out afterwards. Moreso than he might if it were, say, the dullard Vicomte. |
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| Liza | Jul 20 2009, 11:23 PM Post #3 |
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It was not quite five minutes before she was to be let out of rehearsal for her lesson, and she was scuttling down the hallway, determined to be early instead of late. She would never be late again, not after what had happened the last time. Christine would never test the Angel's patience like that again, especially considering the potential consequences. And why would she ever want to? The Angel did quite a bit for her already, more than words could thank him for. She didn't want to seem ungrateful, or to be ungrateful. And so she turned a corner here and there, making her way back from the grand theater to her dressing room, first through the backstage areas and then through one hall and to her dressing room door. How relieved she would be upon entering that room, to just shed herself of this ballerina's attire - after her lesson of course - and then just lie down on her bed. After writing in her journal perhaps, just to add an entry for the sake of writing. All of her entries seemed to be growing monotonous; nothing new was happening. Her last interesting entry was from the day she was visited by the Angel for the first time. And though that had not been long ago, it had been quite a few entries since. She'd been writing every day, sometimes even twice in the same day. That eventually added up to a great deal of entries, all being very tedious and essentially the same. She approached her door, stopping a moment outside to give a brief yawn before placing a hand on the door knob. She hadn't noticed another, perhaps to focused on getting inside and finishing her lesson, then curling up under her blankets and falling asleep early tonight. That sounded so very wonderful - or perhaps she was under the impression that she was exhausted from rehearsing the ballet numbers of Il Muto for the umpteenth time in a row. Her legs ached so terribly, and her feet even more so. Actually, now that she thought about it, her whole body ached. Perhaps she had not stretched properly before she'd rehearsed - how foolish. She'd wake up to regret that, regardless of what kind of shape she was in from dancing. One day without stretching and it was almost as if she was back to square one. Her hand turned the knob and she slipped in, tugging the white ribbon out that had been holding up her golden curls, causing them to fall down to the middle of her back. Her eyes were glued to the floor. If she could find it that is, considering she was instantly met with a sea of roses. Mildly confused, Christine's eyes slowly rose, following the path of flowers to the place that she assumed was the source. And then she found herself struck with a beat of terror. Several thoughts crossed her mind. Who is that man? She'd never seen him before. Never. What is he doing in my dressing room? She didn't recall a prior warning that there was a visitor waiting for her. Is he going to ravish me? Or what if he intends to kill me?! Was this the result of being thrust into the limelight? How in God's name did he get in here with so many flowers? She was amazed that he fit - that the both of them fit! - in such a display of roses. Nervously she bit her lip, her eyes rather wide. Maybe he was delivering the flowers, and was only here to ensure that she got them? (How she couldn't though, she'd never know.) The Angel wouldn't be pleased. This would surely delay the lesson - and then she'd end up going to bed late. Fabulous. Swallowing dryly, almost tasting the nervousness, she opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again, unable to find the words to form a coherent sentence. She stepped away from the door, leaving it to remain half open. |
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| Skazka | Jul 21 2009, 10:41 AM Post #4 |
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all the ships go down/following the sound
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"Miss!" His face lit with a schoolboyish kind of delight, complete abandonment of sense in favour of perfect joy. On a small boy, it was cheering; on a decidedly larger boy, no wonder mademoiselle Daaé had stopped in her tracks. If he'd had any good sense at all, Herbert ought have realised that he was imposing on the object of his affections. If he'd had any sort of prudence, he'd have realised he was probably terrifying the poor girl. But he didn't, alas, and let bygones be bygones. He strode forward, composing his features into something a little more restrained, and bowed low. "Mademoiselle Daaé, I am so sorry, I surprised you. I only wish to express my admiration for your most recent... " Leaning forward on his toes slightly, he spotted a... a shape in the hallway. But of course there would be people. "Never mind. Pardon me for intruding." The self-assuredness in his tone made it quite clear that while he might regret surprising her, he clearly had no real regrets as for his presence. Not necessarily rude, just... exceedingly thoughtless. Such was the least in a wonderful and variable cataloged of personal defects. Motioning to take her hand, first fiddling with his hair like a nervous schoolboy. Any more joy and he'd be glowing. |
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| Alandree | Jul 21 2009, 12:40 PM Post #5 |
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Hmmm...He almost said it aloud, peering over the tipped glass at Miss Daaé, who was indeed, not in there with him. She didn't even see he, Fabian, lurking some brushing distance away. Not that he had the potential to be ominous, but still, the poor girl must be driven to distraction, or perhaps done one jeté too many to think coherently. He pushed off from the wall as she opened the door, heart beating for her, utterly entranced in anticipation. The large man did not appear hostile. Merely manic with lust, perhaps. Fabian leaned his head to the side for a better look, and was rather put out to find that he did not attack her, which would have made his night all the more interesting and potentially memorable for the next morning. Now don't go jumping to conclusions, old boy. He may just be warming up. He looked quite imposing enough to eat her whole, which he did not doubt he might mean to. A vague nose-wrinkling. A slosh of the wine he had left, before downing it in one fell swig, and plunking it on a wall table before dabbing his lip gently with a forefinger and taking careful steps toward the room. He stopped dead upon being noticed, eyes narrowing, quite possibly less out of spite than out of the mere disadvantage of poor lighting. How cruel of him. To wish plight upon this poor creature. Christine's back was given a piteous look, followed by a projected throat-clearing. "Ah...Miss Daaé..." A half-convincing act of having only just stumbled upon the scene. He made to pass by the door, as if on his way to the other end of the hall, when he peeked in with eyelid-fluttering surprise. Hmm. Hadn't he seen that chap before? And not just so previous as fifteen minutes before when he broke into her dressing room. "...I do hope I'm not interrupting. How positively charming. It melts the heart." Or perhaps suffocates the lungs. The sheer amount of flowers already present in her room from what could be seen at this angle was far too much for even a gardener to stomach. |
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| Liza | Jul 21 2009, 05:45 PM Post #6 |
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Christine watched carefully, taking a small step back towards the door as he approached her and bowed. Was she in the wrong dressing room? Maybe she should check, or maybe she ought to just turn around and run out. And run... to the dormitories. And find Madame. And tell her about this strange man in her room. If this was her room. But it had to be her room - there was the bed, the vanity, and the large, looming mirror at the end of the room. Regardless, it sounded like a good idea, solely because Madame would know what to do about it. But he knew her name. That must mean she was in the right room. She was mildly disappointed, hoping that she'd accidentally stopped at the wrong door without realizing it, and that all these flowers were for someone else - like La Sorelli, or even La Carlotta. How unfortunate that they weren't. Or at least at this rate it was quite unfortunate, any way. She opened her mouth to speak once more, managing a few words. "No, no - it is... alright, monsieur, I - " but she was stopped by a voice coming from behind her, a voice that she did know. And she looked over her shoulder, eyebrow quirked and mouth still opened as if she would continue her previous thought any moment. Heart melting? She certainly didn't feel her heart melting at this display, or at least not because she was flattered by it. However, she instead chose to question the newest member of this little soiree, not catching that the other was reaching for her hand while she was looking over her shoulder. "What on earth are you doing here, Fabian?" Really, he was actually the last person she expected to be happening by her dressing room, especially at this time. Though perhaps in a way she should be thankful; at least it wasn't one of the girls from the dormitories who would instantly go flying off to the rest of the ballerinas to tell them everything they saw. Or... well, was Fabian one to do that? |
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| Skazka | Jul 22 2009, 12:39 PM Post #7 |
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all the ships go down/following the sound
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"And sir." Herbert nodded a greeting to the smaller man. He had the urge to beam at him as well, and heap his own compliments on his own gift-- but that was thrust aside, as politely as possible. He took the young miss' hand, with utmost veneration, and just barely kissed it. Not an outright lascivious act, it wasn't as if there was tongue engagement, just the lightest brush of the lips, like a romantic Medieval knight saluting a holy relic. Unfortunately, it was not as graceful a move as it might have been, giving mademoiselle's general petiteness, and the good foot or so of height her admirer had to tower over her. It wouldn't be a terribly presumptive move were he greeting some estranged cousin, or the newly eligible daughter of a family guest, but it was a flamboyant gesture stolen in its entirety from some scrofulous circulating novel. "Burggraf Herbert von Krolock. A pleasure to finally make your acquaintance." (As if he'd been in the city for years and following the career of an ascendant chorus girl every step of the way.) Ah, she simply had to know his first name, did she? More than a little impudent, but surely the girl would understand. The entire string of titles could be saved for a later day, put on some nicely lit trophy shelf. |
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| Alandree | Jul 22 2009, 01:12 PM Post #8 |
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"I do not believe that I am the man of whom you should be asking such a question." And he laughed, outright, and surveyed her visitor with increasingly amused incredulity, shifting weight to one leg and crossing the arms, making himself quite at home. Almost wincing for the poor fellow. Kissing her hand. Fawning. Pecking like the exacerbating foreign cock that he was. How could one give himself over to another in such a way? To embarrass oneself for a lady. He may as well hammer a placard onto his forehead with a clearly scrawled "We Must Be Wed". Fabian himself would gladly supply the nail. He leaned forward, tilting his head to speak in Christine's ear, "Ah, but this must be commonplace to you, no?" As if von Krolock were a distracted child, or perhaps a display at a carnival rather than a sentient organism. Fabian felt no drive to introduce himself. |
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| Liza | Jul 22 2009, 09:40 PM Post #9 |
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Upon the new distraction - the distraction that averted her attention from Fabian - to her hand where it had been kissed. A small, mildly embarrassed, awkward smile was soon gracing her features, as if acknowledging the man, but not knowing whether to pay attention to him or to the fellow behind her. She wrinkled her nose at Fabian's words, her lips pursing. He seemed to be amused by this. How could one be amused? Really, this was no laughing matter. Or at least... it wasn't for Christine any way, perhaps for some passerby, such as Fabian, it was actually quite hilarious. She still refused to see it that way, even if the idea of a young ingénue surrounded awkwardly by a sea of roses in her very own dressing room was actually rather laughable. Burg-what? Was that a title or was it actually his name? Oh, how peculiar this was! "It is a pleasure, Monsieur von Krolock." And the awkward smile became genuinely cordial. She still wasn't so sure of his intentions, and because of that was not completely trusting of the man himself. Because of that she was actually mildly thankful to have Fabian behind her. Surely if this man meant to hurt her in some way he would only do it if she was alone, and with Fabian there he couldn't really do anything, now could he? Christine's eyebrows perked slightly and she leaned in the direction of Fabian, beginning to look over her shoulder slightly as he spoke in her ear. What did he mean by that? Was it supposed to be an insult or was he actually curious? After this hesitation, she did speak quietly. "I will assume that by that," she paused a moment, "you mean receiving flowers, not having a man in my dressing room?" And the corner of her mouth tugged into a smirk, as if attempting to counter his remark with one of her own. The smirk tugged into a slight grin and she turned back to her visitor. "Thank you for the roses, Monsieur von Krolock - or... well, I believe I am safe in assuming they are from you, oui?" Of course, silly girl, he evidently was not just there to deliver them. Christine now made a point to appear as pleasant as she possibly could, acting as the polite, affable lady that she had been taught to be by her Mamma V. "They are quite lovely." |
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| Skazka | Jul 23 2009, 03:10 PM Post #10 |
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all the ships go down/following the sound
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His eyes dropped to the floor, demurely. And here he'd been thinking they were a bad idea. "... thank you," he murmured (first in German, then, straightening his spine, in proper French.) "I had been reconsidering the red ones. But I am told they might look like a lover's gift." His tone suddenly candid. Though it was more directed towards the man over her shoulder than her tender sensibilities. Perhaps a little suspicion penetrated his tone. That man. Could he be counted on not to run around spreading the word. Perhaps it would be better, with a third party-- ought he have brought the florist along as a mediator of sorts? Or... some male-relative-looking personage from the hotel, who might be counted on to reassure the poor girl. He took a dramatic step back, bumping into a teetering arrangement as he did. There. It might be better, were there a little more space between he and she. Hmm. Maybe this charming little man were more than a dressing attendant or a face in the chorus. Teasing at her, and joking. He straightened up, as if to make his height more evident. Squared shoulders, a little more aggression. "I am sure miss Daaé is not in the habit of having male guests in the evening..." |
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| Alandree | Jul 23 2009, 04:27 PM Post #11 |
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Ooh, had he instigated...jealousy? He turned a snort of laughter into a polite clearing of the throat, momentarily twisting to the side to cough outside the door. He'd not be quite so intrusive as to move past the threshold of her room, though. This was no ambush. Was it? Not drunk enough to favour such a thing. Flattening lips together, watching her being sickeningly polite. Like the little wind-up doll that she was. And as for the man...He hypothesized that perhaps there were some sort of cultural barriers giving way here. Perhaps he was from some little Carpathian mountain village where no one locked his door. But he was hopelessly ignorant toward all things Germanic, alas... "Ah!" His lips parted with an audible smack, "You mean you are sure she is not in the habit of having male guests in her room in the evening, no? And you would be correct, dear sir. I take it they usually wait outside the door..." And he tapped his lower lip thoughtfully, casting a generous glance about the room, daring to lean forward past Miss Daaé for a better look. "I'd suggest latching up good and tight next time you venture out, Mam'selle." He tutted a little, as well. And wanted more wine. |
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| Liza | Jul 29 2009, 04:09 PM Post #12 |
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Christine merely stood in between the two, listening to their exchanges. Blushing upon the mention of the red roses, quirking an eyebrow at Fabian's apparent cough. Eventually her eyes drifted to the floor, or what little of it she could see that was exposed beneath the piles and piles of roses. Really, now, what was she going to do with all those roses? Find hundreds of books to press them in? Hang them upside down from her ceiling and other various things in her room and dry them for some obscure decorative purpose? And even then, where would she put all of them? Oh this was most troublesome. She could give one to each ballerina in the dormitories and still have enough to give to the male dancers, and even the orchestra pit. No, no, no, Christine! How terribly rude that would be! One didn't proceed to give away a gift so shortly after receiving it, or even days after receiving it, regardless of how gawkish that gift could be. She ought to be flattered - and grateful, as well - that the public evidently had such a fondness for her instead of the alternative. "I'd suggest latching up good and tight next time you venture out, Mam'selle." Christine opened her mouth to speak, looking from Fabian to Monsieur von Krolock, then closing her mouth once more. Of all days, Fabian had had to be the one to see all of this. Though, yet again, perhaps she should be glad that it was him and not some squealing ballerina. If she would just keep telling herself that... After a moment or two she grinned slightly, then proceeded to speak. "Frankly, I didn't expect to come back and discover such a display," she looked back to Monsieur von Krolock, "which I mean no offense by that, monsieur," she added, just to be safe, of course. |
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