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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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| Refuge Envisaged; For Odile | |
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| Topic Started: Aug 1 2009, 06:33 PM (88 Views) | |
| Alandree | Aug 1 2009, 06:33 PM Post #1 |
 
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Just past Champs Élysées, not a block from the nearest hatshop was the small corner flat of which he had acquired sometime after training had finished. He had the second floor, which took up the whole level, though small, and barely fit for one and a half people to congregate. This visit was rather impromptu, and he'd not thought of cleaning up. Empty bottles cluttered the table, jackets thrown over a chaise, and an unmade bed, at that. But it was dark. He needn't turn up the lamp much at all. And she could barely keep her footing, it seemed, so perhaps he had nothing to fear. Though he did fear a bit for his own upright position as they neared the door. He might fall over her with the mere awkward placing of a foot. There'd been little drink for him there, littler still with René hanging onto his sleeve like the runt pup he was, so he was quite less drunk than he frankly thought he ought. But he supposed someone need see the keyhole of the door. He fumbled for his key. Hadn't kissed her outright yet. A bit too focused on actually leaving his brother behind to make certain that they would not be pulled apart by little hands or a bop on the head from that ghastly wooden sword. The mask hung from his arm, and he pushed back his hair to ascertain Odile's whereabouts. "...Baroness?" He said, quietly, a touch out of breath, but comforted in knowing that none of his family could hope to be peering through the crowd in his direction anymore. |
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| Erical | Aug 1 2009, 07:03 PM Post #2 |
Leader of the Surete
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She stood very still where he had left her, somewhere near a doorway. Suddenly she could see a rabbit that Jacques had trapped on their grounds in Nice. Small thing, panting with the widest eyes in the world. Pretty little bit of rabbit fur all wrapped around an envelope of fear. Jacques had stuck her - Odile knew it was a her - with a knife, a long knife, letting the rabbit scream in his hands. Poor little rabbit. Odile had gone home and shredded every bit of rabbit fur she had owned, littering the house with fluffs of brown until she was sobbing for breath. Poor little rabbit. You and I in a trap together. One of these days he'll come to me with that knife of his. One of these days it won't be lovin' he'll be after. Not givin' me a green gown. Oh no. She stood very still in the dark, and her eyes were wide and she found herself panting loudly. Just a little rabbit in a trap, not worth the fur, m'sieur. You nit, she told herself sternly. You're safe. It's dark and you're safe. You're safe - he won't find you, won't see you, won't get you. "Marquis...?" she said aloud, and was ashamed when her voice trembled. Bit more brandy wouldn't go far wrong. |
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| Alandree | Aug 1 2009, 07:15 PM Post #3 |
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The lock clicked, much louder than was anticipated, leaving an echo in the air. Ringing in his ears. He clutched the handle a moment, not pushing forward. Noting the rise in her breath. Which, in turn, yielded some escalation of his own. He had a bit of a moment finding grievous disturbance in what, for all intensive purposes, had merely been insinuated as yet. She could very well be his mother. He wondered what drew her to seek so young a companion, when there were plenty an older man who'd surely see to her needs more so than any bright-eyed boy. At least in theory. For a moment he felt vulnerable, which was not a thing he dared feel of his own accord. But he swallowed it like so much of the liquor he'd been deprived of, and pushed open the door. "Please, I am Fabian." And he disappeared inside. Finding the lamp, whose location was imprinted in his memory like the etchings of his own face, turning the dial for a small flame. Removing his coat. Thinking he most likely should have let her go in before he. But what can you do? He returned to the threshold again, standing aside and offering his hand. "Are you...quite all right?" |
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| Erical | Aug 2 2009, 05:12 PM Post #4 |
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Leader of the Surete
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"Then... I am Odile." It was the socially required answer. The gentleman, p'tite, has told you - p'tite, that you may speak, p'tite... his name. You must now, sit up straight girl, tell him - chin out girl! - your own. She said it automatically, ignoring the sudden impulse to tell him that her name was Anne. They had all called her Anne once, and she wanted it like a child wants a sweet. His hand was waiting for hers, so we must be polite. She took his fingers and stepped into the small room, smelling the soft comforting smell of the burning lamp. Jacques never burned lamps like this, these were good lamps. Nice lamps. Lamps that were old and kindly and wouldn't wink at her like demons sitting on the armoir and waiting for her soul. When did I get so small and weak? "I am fine. It is the brandy." She had drunk little at the ball, but the brandy needed to get her out of The House was swirling nicely around her head now. "Just the brandy." Not the nightmares, good heavens no. That would be impolite. We mustn't be impolite. She stepped into the room and murmured something nonsensically good-mannered abut his decor. Not that she could see his decor, but that never seemed to matter. |
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| Alandree | Aug 2 2009, 05:41 PM Post #5 |
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Brandy did not haunt a woman's eyes like that. He watched her furtively, with rapt interest, as she seemed much more foreign than before. Much realer. Without lights and bubbly talk. He had not anticipated this. A blemish in his plan. A plan which now seemed...almost sinister. Though he'd only been half of its instigator. He did not close the door yet. "Odile..." He let the name roll across his tongue, but did not move from the threshold, staying in a dimly lit silhouette. "If you like, I can send for a carriage to take you home." He came off a bit more abrasive than he intended. |
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| Erical | Nov 1 2009, 09:19 PM Post #6 |
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Leader of the Surete
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She twisted her neck at his tone, not quite daring to look at him, her eyelashes shielding her fear with their sooty curtains. Oh you silly chit. The reality of her situation chilled her almost enough to take the edge off the brandy running through her veins. A sodden old sow standing in a younger man's rooms, hair out of place and makeup out of order, looking every second of her age, no doubt. What was she doing here, standing here with her Marquis, pretending she was spectacular and black lace when she was really nothing but scraps of fur and wrinkles. Her skin felt heavy, smeared with shame instead of rouge. Maybe he could see that on her skin, the lank dark shame of her cowardice. Every particle of The Baroness slapped Anne Bettine across the face. This is where we leave. Obviously the young man has seen us in natural light and notices the flaws, well and good. Gather up your pride, cher, before you look like a total fool. "That is kind of you, Marquis," she said coolly, and bit her lip. Home, he'd said. Oh the sweet boy. Home like it meant something, like the house on the fashionable street in the high-class quarter of Paris was a home. As though she wanted to walk back into her trap and look up at the knife coming towards her bodice. A cold gray house and Jacques, sitting like a spider in his web. Fly back home, mon cher. He'll only suck out your soul. And after all, what is a soul? |
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| Alandree | Nov 1 2009, 09:49 PM Post #7 |
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His throat caught, not anticipating such a response. He'd only hoped she would be reassured by the availability of the option. And thusly move on from there. He closed the door, leaning against it, hand still on the knob, as was a childhood habit. A fear of things trying to get in at night. He'd not thought about that for years. He shivered. "I...only meant..." Momentarily hating himself for being tongue-tied. This was unacceptable for a DuChamps. Any DuChamps. Especially him. Had he made her upset? There was only so much a furtive, heated glance could indicate to him. And she'd come home with him, too. These were obvious signs. Perhaps she was having second thoughts. Swallowing, with damnable difficulty, Fabian crossed to meet her, as slowly as he could, wanting to erase that. Stay here. Don't leave. That would mean reevaluating everything he'd learned. He placed a hand on her waist, and gently pressed his lips to the corner of her jaw. Anticipating a slap, but nothing ventured, nothing gained. Though were he not disturbed by her distress pulled seemingly from nowhere, he may have been a bit more rough about it. |
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| Erical | Nov 1 2009, 10:26 PM Post #8 |
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Leader of the Surete
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The kiss caught her off guard and for a moment she was surrounded by spiders sewing her mind up with memories, fears, loathing. She struggled against him weakly, feeling not youth but old fat flesh, strong arms gripping her and pinioning her like a trapped animal. So many trapped thoughts little Anna. Did he pull a string around your mind and pull it tight? "No... please...." she shivered and turned her face away. His kisses burned, stole something from her, killed her a little. Odile hated it when he kissed her. "Please. I'll be good." I'll be good. Don't force me, not tonight. Give me brandy, let it be the sweetness of the darkness that I see. Not you. Not your red sweaty face. Not your eyes. Spider eyes, she thought, and closed her own to protect herself. If he couldn't look into her eyes, he couldn't read her mind. And her mind was full of heresy and witchcraft and hatred. |
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| Alandree | Nov 1 2009, 10:38 PM Post #9 |
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An exasperated exhale, though stifled as much as possible. But at least he'd been prepared for it. Nothing to do now but gather his coat and send her home. Then come back here and drink alone until the sun came up, or at least until he fell asleep. But her next utterance caught him off-guard. Words like a ghost, a bad memory. "...Pardon?" Those words were not play. Not banter, not charged with anything but fear. The coldest feeling. "I'm...sorry." Please, don't cry. He drew back, hands drawn into his chest, nearly recoiling. Waiting for her eyes to open, his own straining in the dark to discern what was to come. |
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| Erical | Nov 1 2009, 11:03 PM Post #10 |
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Leader of the Surete
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The fear retreated a little, holding onto her hands as it went, reluctant to let her go. Odile looked at him, and felt the flush carry up her cheeks. Oh dieu. What had she said? What madness was all this? "Non. Non... I should be sorry," she said gently, frightened of the look in his eyes, frightened he might understand. A bright bitterness almost wanted to tell him, to see the anger and disgust in his face. When he knew what she was, an ungrateful wife. Far far worse than an unfaithful woman. "Perhaps I should..." Perhaps I should go. A polite way of saying that this has become too embarrassing for me to stay. I will never see you again, and you will be glad not to see me. And you will forget. Tears formed in her eyes, and she felt very alone. The men always forgot eventually, and it had been a very long time since anyone had meant it when they said the words 'I love you'. Odile Collard's pride rose up in revolt, but it was too late. The words had already crept their way out of her mouth on their own. "Please. I don't want to leave." I'll be good. Let me stay. |
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| Alandree | Nov 1 2009, 11:25 PM Post #11 |
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For a moment he was a child again, clutching himself, having done wrong. A horrid flash of his own mother passed through. 'You are not to touch the china, chou.' But he did, anyway, many more times. Was Odile really as fragile? "You needn't leave...It seemed as if you wanted to." He thought of touching her again, but that had not proved to work as well as it really ought've. "Would you like to...sit down?" And he dashed to the chaise lounge, which he cleared of all clustered items, struggling to get away from whatever had just happened. Whatever cold things had settled within her. He did not know her well enough to want to help her free them. Did he know anyone that well? The weight of that, the reality, threatened to sink in and suffocate him. |
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| Erical | Nov 1 2009, 11:59 PM Post #12 |
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Leader of the Surete
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Odile looked at him, feeling like a small child wanting something in a window but not daring to ask for it. She stroked the fine fine material of her skirt, flicking it from side to side like they were dancing. Why couldn't they go back to dancing? It had been so nice to feel admired by him, in love even for a moment. Maybe it wouldn't last, maybe he'd leave her, but it was a moment of beauty. Why hadn't they stayed dancing? "Please," her voice was so small that she didn't know herself. "Thank you." She sat on the chaise and folded her hands in her lap. Must be a lady. That's what we've got left. Being a lady, oui? Be a lady, cher. Maybe he would make her go home. Maybe the night would die. "I..." the words stuck in her throat and she gazed at him mutely. |
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| Alandree | Nov 2 2009, 12:28 AM Post #13 |
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He dared not sit down. Not yet. Instead, he tugged at his cravat nervously, feeling caged in somehow, or perhaps merely hesitant. Though those could both be considered the same. This was all frustrating, and it seemed foreign. Though it could not have been, for he'd been a virgin once. Innocent once. Clean, God-fearing, a good boy. What had happened? The theatre. The fine company of liberal men and women. But this was ridiculous. There is no hesitance in a DuChamps. He decides and then he conquers the land set before him. Messily, perhaps, especially in his own personal case, but it's taken none the less. But he had not the desire to own this woman. Or any woman. Or any man. If he could own himself, that would be all he needed. But try as he might, not all of himself was his. At length, Fabian sat beside her, gingerly, and removed her shawl as delicately as he could. |
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| Erical | Nov 2 2009, 01:17 AM Post #14 |
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Leader of the Surete
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It rose like a storm around her ears, and she wondered if the shawl was so she would go home. He had said she didn't have to. She was sitting down. Like a good girl. He promised. Please. Please please. I don't want to go home. I'll do what you like. You can kiss me if you want. Anything. But don't make me go home. Please. I can't. He'll... he'll... I can't. Please, M'sieur. Please. I beg you. Don't make me go away. The words buzzed at her, a swarm of bees to her queen, begging to get out. But there was an inch of Baroness left who would not let anyone have that kind of power. No. Not over her. Never. And so she did the only thing she could, and wept. She wept for love, and longed for happiness, and begged silently not to be sent away from the sanctuary. |
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| Alandree | Nov 2 2009, 02:44 PM Post #15 |
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Each bit of her tears seemed to trickle down his own throat and land with a dull smack at the bottom of his stomach. He didn't cry. He didn't like it when other people cried. That must have been his initial deterrent from children. They cried. All the time. It signified what they couldn't say. Perhaps with her it was not so very different. The trouble though, was figuring out what it meant. So he drew himself round her, stiffly. Mashing a piece of a puzzle into a spot where it just wouldn't fit. "It's...all right..." He could smell the perfume mixed with brandy, and hoped to God that this wasn't what a typical drunken woman was like after she ascended from twenty-five. |
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