deslisle

[deslisle]

#( visage — ringed with gold. )

[deslisle]

iseultrayne​:

Odeline above, she says, and he looks up as if to see the divine there himself. Quit being so full of yourself. The head snaps back to her. He’s never needed a visible smile to betray his own amusement, certainly not when he says “If I do that, I’m afraid I’ll starve.” As for the knocking down a peg, “give it enough time, and you may well be the one to do the honors.”

Cyril is busy indeed, and though scuttling back is in order, Iseult is loathe to let Beau think it by her decree. “We can’t,” the freelancer agrees. “Not anyone who would use it against me,” is the follow up as ( in a fleeting moment of playfulness, ) they pivot their mask enough by the chin to flash her one dark eye, and the briefest of conspiratorial winks. The last word stolen this round ( getting even for the previous ) they reseat the mask and take their leave, melting in with the ambling, drunken crowd.

—𝐄𝐍𝐃—

#hehe <3 #i love them ur honor! #( iseult — 001. ) #( act one — scene one. )

[deslisle]

iseultrayne​:

His attention— however promising— doesn’t waver as he takes her wager, shakes it down for all its worth, and finds it wanting.

“To ensure I understand you,” Iseult chimes, clearing their throat lightly before they recite, “I not only breach the clause of secrecy to my contract— of which you already know too much and wield carelessly, judging by how you declare names like a devotee at the tomb— but I pay you?” Rhetorical, though the sing-song sway to his voice begs, correct me if I’m wrong. “—All to learn where CyriI is right this moment, rather than wait, what,” he tilts the attentions skyward, noting the sun’s swift waning, “until dawn, when her shop opens its doors to answer all the same?”

Iseult adjusts his fractured mask on his face as it turns back toward Beau. “The guild must’ve fallen on desperate times, if this is how it’s training the new crop to negotiate. Better luck on the next draw, guildling—” The freelancer shifts his weight. Folds his arms. ( Dips his head with an almost imperceptible fondness. )

“—And a word of advice from a fieldmate, don’t show your hand so early, yeah?” The eagerness to untangle his affiliations at the Palace is filed mindfully away; Iseult hazards this won’t be the last they discuss it. A grin slips through the crack in the face covering. I look forward to the next tête-à-tête.

She hate to give up her hand, speaking so freely about how there is a certain layer of protection that comes when standing next to Iseult Reyne. But she is not one to be made a fool of, anger and annoyance bubbling up at each little snide comment.

“Odeline above,” she groans, cutting him off as he begins to give her some advice. She loathes being spoken to as if she doesn’t know what she’s doing, as if she just prattles around until she happens to find something to pocket. “Quit being so full of yourself.” she snaps, glaring at them as they chuckle at her. “Wish someone would knock you down a peg or two, you’re not someone to look up to.” Even if he is better than me, she ruefully muses.

“Most everyone is off drinking their asses off, if anyone of importance were here and overheard, we’d both know you’d take care of it.” she finally admits with a shrug, trying to push force the notion of nonchalance. She is usually much better, far more poised when it comes to dealing with those around her but Iseult strikes dear and true to her each and every time they have the honor of seeing another. “Whatever, don’t tell me your palace secrets. Cyril’s pretty busy these days with the festivities, it may be best to scuttle back to your home and pick a new mask out than wait around for her when she has far better things to do. Can’t let anyone see that little face, can we?”

#( act one — scene one. ) #( iseult — 001. ) #they hate each other (but do they). #yeah kind of but

[deslisle]

patricecheron​:

This was the moment Patrice was dreading. He’d known Alain had called upon him with blackmail as his leash, and Patrice would have no choice but to answer. However, since arriving in Val Faim, all was relatively quiet from Alain. It at least gave him the time he needed to lay his mother to rest, but it also gave him so much time as to wonder what Alain had planned, and to foolishly imagine he could possibly leave this place if he were to go any longer without being called upon. Of course, that was when his services were needed, in assistance of Beau as she stole from the home of the man their Empress had killed only weeks prior. He did not approve, but he did not say such things to those who might punish him for it. He did, however, inform Beau of the limits of his involvement, and was determined to stick to them tonight.

His own crew would not know what he was leaving for. He hadn’t told them of his ties to Alain or what the weasel of a man held over his head, and simply hoped they would not question him for it. They assumed this family business was taking longer than expected, and he could only hope Alain made haste with his plans, or just made haste with getting caught and executed for his crimes, so that he no longer had to think of excuses as his time in Val Faim surpassed a month. No one could know his true motives here. No one but Beau, at least, who must have known that, for some reason, Patrice was part of this plan. He didn’t intend on giving any more detail than was necessary.

He’d been waiting in his quarters, like he’d told her, when she came to his door, thankfully quietly enough so as not to alert his crew. Patrice wastes no time, standing immediately at the sound of her voice. “I’ve got nothing else, so let’s make haste,” he replied curtly, already striding out of the room. “Let me remind you that I am here to guard you and guard you only. I do not intend to participate in anything you’ve been put up to.” Patrice almost removes the blame from Beau, placing it instead onto Alain. For all he knows, and all he may assume, she is in a similar boat, ready to do whatever she must and hiding her true reasons. It’s Alain’s plan, after all, and yet the snake cannot even be bothered to put in the leg work. Typical. 

Realistically, there was no reason for her and Patrice to be tied together. She doesn’t think his crew are the type to spread rumors, the type of whispers that get caught in the webs of the court. She shouldn’t underestimate, but as she follows the man out of his room and to the deck, she can’t help but feel a sense of security with the night sky above them.

She keeps pace with him, taking a sharp right off the docks towards Hightown. “It’s not just a simple guard job,” she reminds him, her tone turning sharp. She doesn’t need him to help out with her work, but she needs him to understand what he was doing here. Beau doesn’t take much seriously, most jobs done with a smirk on her face and a skip in her step, but when it came to Alain, it was different. “you’re my cover. In any other case, I wouldn’t be getting caught but this is... far more convoluted than normal. There may be some guards around, but your status is far more influential than mine.” she swallows an uncomfortable lump and keeps moving, her eyes shifting around each alley and corner for wandering eyes.

The city was quieter than usual at night, no doubt due to the recent explosion and unsettling apprehension because of it. “What do you think he kept in there?” Beau eventually asks, the tension and quiet a little too much for her. Alain’s influence is like that though, a creeping snake that follows behind them like a threat. There’s an undercurrent with him, constantly shifting and acting as a blatant reminder of their involvement against the crown. “Besides the obvious stuff, like threats against the state and heaping piles of porno.” she supplies, hoping to get a laugh out of him. Any kind of reaction would do really, she didn’t want Patrice to associate her in the same light he undoubtedly saw others working under Alain in.

#( patrice — 001. ) #( act one — scene two. ) #slight nsfw #kind of? just for the implication that hippo has an ungodly amount of porno mags.

[deslisle]

date: 3rd of maccius location: the azure quarter availability: closed for @patricecheron​

the azure quarter is quieter than remembers it. maybe it has to do with the moon in the sky tonight, her crescent shining over the calm waters and all of val faim below her. there are not that many ships in the docks this time of night, many still and dark as their crew have most likely flocked to the shore, desperate for a warm night in a tavern or with their loved ones yet again. she sees one ship, just docked, that has begun to bring shipments of boxes and goods off their deck and into the awaiting carts below.

beau does not like the azure quarter, she can appreciate its beauty but the need for escape never came at the call of the sea. the waves mock her, moving freely with the tide and controlled by the moon. the sea can carry people so far away, can make it so one is unsteady and unable to rely on themselves. it makes people vulnerable to the whims of the world and the gods above them. it makes beau sick to her stomach.

she shudders at the memory, of one of her first missions overseas and getting so seasick that she could hardly even marvel at a sight other than the stone walls of val faim. instead, she moves forward and back into the present as she approaches the ship she’s had her eyes on. patrice’s ship is anchored, floating ever so slightly with the water below it. it has not moved for quite sometime, and though it means little to her, she’s heard wind of how odd it is to see it and him back in val faim. it has become a small comfort to her to have patrice around, especially in dealings with alain gauthier.

beau walks on board, arms tucked to her side as she makes the quick trek up to the deck. she swallows the uncomfortable lump in her throat and moves to where she knows he will be, where she hopefully can get him moving so they can get this mission over with. it was the most opportune time, with half the city kept inside in fear and the other investigating the explosion at the tomb. almost nobody would be near hippolyte’s old estate — another plan crafted by gauthier and flawlessly executed by deslisle.

if patrice wouldn’t ruin it. beau understands the reason alain asked her to take patrice with her, but the idea of someone else tailing on her missions again made her nervous. she works so well alone, something she has proven time and time again. more people just meant more possibilities for it all to go wrong. she knocks on the door infront of her, barely taking a moment to hear an answer before entering anyway. “knock, knock!” she says softly, not wanting to alert anyone potentially nearby. “ready to go, cap’n? gotta be in town in the next hour if we wanna get this done.”

#( patrice — 001. ) #( act one — scene two. )

[deslisle]

a slightly altered timeline.   send me  ‘ timeline ’  and a number and i will tell you how my muse and their life would have turned out in a life slightly altered compared to their canon one—same universe, but where something little, or something big, went differently.

the timeline in which they live an ideal life, had no opportunities taken from them, were subjected to nothing terrible, where they grew up to fulfil their full potential.

the timeline in which they never met who would become the most influential or important person in their life, or that person was taken from them before they were capable of forming memories.

the timeline in which something important to them happened in a different stage of life.

the timeline in which they knew beforehand of something they would have prevented if given the chance.

the timeline in which they continue on from the current point in their lives to the best happy ending that is within their reach, where nothing that has happened so far is negated but from now on, the happy things start piling up.

the timeline in which everything that could go wrong from this point on… does.

the timeline in which they never experience the loss that taught them something important.

the timeline in which they gain everything they want, except for the thing they wanted the most.

the timeline in which they live the life they currently see the most likely for them.

the timeline in which something big to them never happened.

the timeline in which something very little happened differently, but it changed a lot.

the timeline in which they had a person in their life when they needed one the most.

the timeline in which instead of the most influential person in their life, they had a person who had the complete opposite effect on them.

the timeline in which they took a chance they didn’t in canon.

the timeline in which they let a chance go by.

#( ask meme. )

[deslisle]

Octavio Paz, tr. by Eliot Weinberger, from “Between Going and Staying”, The Poems of Octavio Paz

#( musings — stay in the shadows. )

[deslisle]

16, 17, 18! (yes i did send this from the main NO IM NOT SORRY)

16. biggest and smallest long term goal

Beau is a very in the moment kind of girl, she’s impulsive and relies on what she can see and feel. She wants things to be tangible, she keeps short term goals in reach at all times. It’s weird for her to have long term goals but I would say from smallest to biggest: surviving under Alain, shaping herself into a better spy, finding out what happened to Alodie/Agrippine, getting them back to her. I’d say right now: Beau is very focused on the present, much more so to realize any overarching plot/story beats.

17. preferred mode of dress and rituals surrounding dress

Her movements are meticulous, that is once she figures out what she wants to wear. Her room is a mess, with different pants and shirts strewn about it with no order. But once she does know what she will put on, she’s deliberate. She almost never wears dresses or skirts, feeling too exposed and rather keep herself concealed. Beau loves black, most of her outfits are black with gold and silver accessories. She almost always has two knives on her at all times, though she detests using them. She keeps her lockpick to her right hip, always in the same spot. Beau has always dressed for her job, and then she shapes it to fit her because let’s be real, she’s not entirely like those in The Guild! She’s got a bit of a wild spirit and a soft heart, so she likes to show that through fashion too. Her outfits are more modern than what most of Faim is used to but still keeping some fantasy elements. She loves jewelry, has been a consistent regular of Rosalind because of it. Please check out her fashion board because it is... my favorite? Finger claws, chains, headpieces, necklaces, ear cuffs, etc. She’s wearing it all! She truly cares about how she dresses so much and it is one of the main reasons she and Cyril get along so well?

18. favorite beverage?

Beau doesn’t drink alcohol! She does enjoy hot tea, specifically jasmine. She can and will drink a many espresso shots in one sitting too but it isn’t her favorite way to get caffeine.

#( ask meme. ) #kdhgsd thank u for sending from main <3 #( musings — stay in the shadows. ) #i did kind of answer this as red and not beau but i just love talking about beau maybe consider that?

[deslisle]

CYRIL.

Everything around Cyril feels as if it’s happening miles away from her. Whether it’s the overwhelming commotion or the guilt that’s crawling up her legs, the young tailor feels as if there’s quick sand underneath her feet and were it not for Beau’s hand grabbing her arm, Cyril is sure that she would have stayed where she stood, watching, thinking back to what she could have done wrong. But nothing comes to mind. Cyril remembers nothing because there is nothing to be remembered. Whatever happened with Mélodie is not her fault. 

It can’t be. Cyril shakes her head at Beau’s question, eyebrows furrowed and words stuck in her throat. She makes no mistakes, it’s more likely Mélodie had angered the wrong person. Cyril didn’t get to where she is by making mistakes. Yet, her throat still feels lumpy at the thought of it. “No,” she begins, voice breaking amidst the commotion around them, “no, this isn’t because of me. It can’t be!” Cyril defends, feet quick as they tried to keep up to where Beau is taking her. If Beau wanted to, she could have taken Cyril anywhere she wanted and the tailor would not notice — whether it’s because she’s too focused on her own thoughts or because a part of her can’t help but trust those she feel comfortable around, it remains a mystery.

Their steps come to a synchronised halt. For a few heartbeats, Cyril just looks at Beau, mind too focused and thoughts racing too fast for her to fully grasp the tone worn by Beau’s words. But even if she didn’t really fully heard it, it’s as if her chest feels it all the same. It tightens, it gets heavier all the same. “I do have everything in control, I — I only used a simple enchantment, simple colours, I — this is not on me, Beau, it can’t be. Maybe someone did that instead! I’m not the only one with magic in Val Faim. And I don’t control fire. I don’t — I can’t enchant something to set itself on fire.” Could she? It’s a question that runs through her mind out of curiosity more than anything else. 

Cyril’s gaze falls to her hands, shaking her head and refusing to let Beau’s words get to her head. This isn’t her fault. It can’t be. “This isn’t on me, Beau. I’m the best of the best, I don’t make mistakes.” Cyril looks up, meeting Beau’s eyes. “Not like this. Please, believe me.”

Her confidence is suffocating, assured so vehemently as if Cyril was trying to force Beau to see her truth. To make Beau see that she, esteemed imperial tailor, could not afford to make mistakes, and never one this big. There’s a slim possibility that it wasn’t her, that maybe someone had it out for the star soprano but Beau could not find a reason why. All stories of Mélodie rang of her bleeding heart and soothing voice.

Cyril’s logic doesn’t ring true for Beau, it does not make sense. Her very existence was brought up to get out of trouble, continually moving and finding a way out, a way to clear her name. Her word alone would never be good enough. She’s taught that when she does make a mistake, there is a high cost to it. She only knew one person who would cradle her mistakes in their hands, hold her close when she admits them, and gives a baseless promise that it would all be okay. Beau doesn’t think she can be that person for Cyril, no matter how close they have gotten.

She swallows uncomfortably and begins moving again. The nobles have begun to left the Imperial Opera House, glasses of champagne in their hands and laughs as if there was no magic, fire, and treason following them out into the night air of Val Faim. “I want to believe you,” she says to Cyril, an uncomfortable twist in her gut at the truth of her own words. Cyril Beauchamp has stuck to Beau’s side, through long nights discussing all of the latest fashions or when they wanted to escape the cutthroat politics of the Empress’ Court. A question passes her mind: what if it was Calandre and not Mélodie? Would Alain praise that, croon to Beau that she were to use one of her only friends in his scheme? Would Cyril be locked away and executed before Beau could stop it all? 

Beau doesn’t want to risk that, so she has to suspend her belief for just a moment. They may be young, may be way in over their head and lost in naivety at the ploys surrounding them but they had to have each other.

“If not you, then who?” she asks, turning around and walking backwards as she faces Cyril. “Explain it to me. Make me understand you and your magic. How are you so sure you didn’t make a mistake? Justify your fucking prototype to me now, Cyril, after seeing all of that. I can’t get caught in a mistake like that one, so make me believe you.”

#( act one — scene one. ) #( cyril — 001. )

[deslisle]

MICHEL.

Michel is often left to wonder if not knowing is better than knowing. Looking at the statue, turned around as if casting its eyes away in shame, he cannot say for certain whether or not his family felt any true connection to the Prophet. He certainly doesn’t, as much as it pains him to say it. He uses her name in vain, often, and tends to shove blame for his faults and unfortunate actions onto her if it soothes the pain of a wound for a time, but beyond that, there is nothing to bind him to her. A long-dead woman with a long-living legacy. He used to pray. He doesn’t, anymore.

On the surface, there’s little else to it.

Beau, to her credit, is not appalled by the prospect of being replaced. She dodges and rolls around the implied release from contract with the kind of ease he’d only expect from a thief. He looks at her with the barest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth – he knows the Guild is competent, but Beau has impressed him several times over. It doesn’t seem to matter which way a new challenge presents itself – so long as dor is involved, she’s always jumped at the chance to be involved.

“I’ll keep it in mind,” he starts, and goes to continue, but something makes him quiet, brow furrowing in concentration and contemplation. He raises a hand to Beau as if to say wait, and then goes and ducks his head out onto the hallway. The two guards bordering either side of the entrance don’t move, not at first, not until he gives a sharp dismissed! They nod in affirmation, and Michel watches them go before returning to Beau and taking a seat at his desk across from her, the door clicking shut behind him. 

“If I were to ask you to steal information, rather than objects, would you be willing?” This is dangerous water he’s treading into here, but she’s proved her competence several times over. If he had doubts before in her skills, they’re well gone by now.

It’s not an immediate yes, an assurance of the riches she is sure the Imperial Commander keeps behind closed doors but it is an in. She can hear the murmurs in the back of her mind, from her closest friends and enemies to keep sharp, don’t give it all away just yet. She shouldn’t be too eager, but she can’t help a grin hidden behind her mask, a private victory of her own. To be so entangled with the lives of those in the Summer Palace is something she never imagined but working with Michel has been nothing but fruitful. 

She goes to say more but he stands abruptly, moving to the door and stepping out for a moment. Her head tilts to the side, almost subconsciously, as he returns and locks the door. Ooh, kinky, her mind immediately supplies. She quickly shakes her head at the intrusive thought and sits back down in the chair she was in before as he returns to his desk.

Immediately at the proposition laid before her, she can quite possibly see just how valuable she has truly become. There’s a moment in her history, of Alain’s arm at her side and vows that she is now held to as his dutiful spy. It’s not the same as now, as the opportunity that Michel gracefully delivers but it is another web she is being woven into. Beau feels like she’s in over her head at this point but she knows the price of a spy, someone who infiltrates and gathers all the information that they can.

It pays far more than she would have gotten as his unassuming thief.

She flexes her hands, movement going fidgety as she thinks over her options. He must trust her more than she originally thought, to give her such a task. “I would be willing. However,” she pauses for the dramatic effect. “it will cost you more. It’s a far more dangerous gamble, to collect information rather than some jewelry.” She does not know that much about the Commander’s past, enough to get her where she needs to go and grab what he would deem worthy. Enough to get her to the next paycheck. But this is far more intensive, far more involved. “What are you exactly looking for here, Commander?”

#( michel — 001. ) #( act one — scene one. ) #bleh far too late but !!!!

[deslisle]

Edna St. Vincent Millay, Collected Poems

#( musings — stay in the shadows. )

[deslisle]

tigersniper​:

The Excessively Detailed Headcanon Tumblr Meme

Send me some numbers, and I will tell you:

What does their bedroom look like?

Do they have any daily rituals?

Do they exercise, and if so, what do they do? How often?

What would they do if they needed to make dinner but the kitchen was busy?

Cleanliness habits (personal, workspace, etc.)

Eating habits and sample daily menu

Favorite way to waste time and feelings surrounding wasting time

Favorite indulgence and feelings surrounding indulging

Makeup?

Neuroses? Do they recognize them as such?

Intellectual pursuits?

Favorite book genre?

Sexual Orientation? And, regardless of own orientation, thoughts on sexual orientation in general?

Physical abnormalities? (Both visible and not, including injuries/disabilities, long-term illnesses, food-intolerances, etc.)

Biggest and smallest short term goal?

Biggest and smallest long term goal?

Preferred mode of dress and rituals surrounding dress

Favorite beverage?

What do they think about before falling asleep at night?

Childhood illnesses? Any interesting stories behind them?

Turn-ons? Turn-offs?

Given a blank piece of paper, a pencil, and nothing to do, what would happen?

How organized are they? How does this organization/disorganization manifest in their everyday life?

Is there one subject of study that they excel at? Or do they even care about intellectual pursuits at all?

How do they see themselves 5 years from today?

Do they have any plans for the future? Any contingency plans if things don’t workout?

What is their biggest regret?

Who do they see as their best friend? Their worst enemy?

Reaction to sudden extrapersonal disaster (eg The house is on fire! What do they do?)

Reaction to sudden intrapersonal disaster (eg close family member suddenly dies)

Most prized possession?

Thoughts on material possessions in general?

Concept of home and family?

Thoughts on privacy? (Are they a private person, or are they prone to ‘TMI’?)

What activities do they enjoy, but consider to be a waste of time?

What makes them feel guilty?

Are they more analytical or more emotional in their decision-making?

Would they consider themselves a Type A or Type B personality?

What recharges them when they’re feeling drained?

Would you say that they have a superiority-complex? Inferiority-complex? Neither?

How misanthropic are they?

Hobbies?

How far did they get in formal education? What are their views on formal education vs self-education?

Religion?

Superstitions or views on the occult?

Do they express their thoughts through words or deeds?

If they were to fall in love, who (or what) is their ideal?

How do they express love?

If this person were to get into a fist fight, what is their fighting style like?

Is this person afraid of dying? Why or why not?

#( ask meme. ) #!!!!!!!

[deslisle]

date and time: 20th of maccius, midday location: la perche availability: closed for @ofregis

The return of many in the Empress’ Court had possibly set Alain on edge, or maybe there was some other reason but she feels like each day she is sent further and further away from the demands of The Guild to follow in the wake of Alain’s wrath. Or, in this case, Régis’. Beau definitely doesn’t hate the guy, but he can be a little aggravating... shit, she’s not much better to be fair but he’s got an air about him. It hadn’t been more than a few hours since she received the call to meet with him, to discuss some information and possibly draft out another mission for her. It sidetracked her plans to finish a contract today so she was due for a long night, annoyance bubbling at the thought of little rest.

Now she sits at a table on the balcony of La Perche with nothing but a glass of untouched water before her. She leans her elbows on the table, chin cradled in the palms of her hands as she looks over the city of Val Faim. The breeze is a little cooler up here, but she appreciates the slight warmth that spring offers. It’s gorgeous with the sun high in the sky, the sea sparkling in the far distance. It reminds her of Patrice, his desire to leave a city woven with lies and bloodshed.

“Soo,” she drawls out as the very embodiment of that approaches. Regis looks as amazing as ever, always put together with a devilish grin on his face. Part of her wonders if there was a new development with Hippolyte or the recent explosion that wracked the city. “What’s up, buttercup? What’d you need little ol’ me so urgently for?” Beau asks immediately, not bothering to wait a moment for him to settle in and even consider glancing at the menu.

#( régis — 001. ) #( act one — scene two. ) #started writing this. realized beau does not eat or drink in public. kept going anyway.

[deslisle]

ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh that makes more sense (still doesnt get it)

#( musings — stay in the shadows. ) #realized i can and should reblog shitposts bc it fits beau perfectly

[deslisle]

#( musings — agrippine. ) #mm double homicide #( musings — stay in the shadows. )

[deslisle]

CYRIL.

Cyril can’t help the disappointment that washes over her at the lack of a spoken reaction from Beau’s side. The tailor can understand distrust, aware that her way of thinking isn’t the same as everyone’s, especially in Val Faim, where all walks of life walked the same streets, but she can’t understand why Beau won’t let her help. Cyril sees the prototype as something that could help Beau and, in turn, it would help her realise what she needs to better or change. It sounds simple in Cyril’s mind, uncomplicated and straight to the point — yet, it’s clearly not the case with Beau. So, she clears her throat and pretends the conversation never happened, leaving it for another day.

A smile appears on Cyril’s lips at Beau’s words. “I will keep that in mind, then.” The sound of the cracking knuckles echoes inside the tailor’s ears and she can help but wrinkle her nose at it. Apparently, it’s a sound she’s both not used to hearing and one that she does not enjoy. But the reaction is momentary, one that lasts for half a heartbeat before Cyril’s expression is back to normal and she focuses on what Beau is sharing with her. 

It takes her a moment to fully take in the fact that Beau’s words were trailing off and one moment longer for her ears to listen to the commotion growing beneath the balcony they both stood on. Cyril stands up and finally looks at what the commotion is all about. The tailor’s eyes widen at the terrifying sight. Everything seems to be happening in slow motion around the tailor and, for a moment, she feels as if she’s stepping out of her own body to watch her beautiful design catch fire right in front of half of Val Faim. Her heart gets caught in her throat and she has to put her hand on the rail to keep her knees from fully giving out. 

“No, no, no…” She breathes out, head shaking frantically. Immediately, Cyril worries about Mélodie, the beautiful opera singer and then she worries about her own sanity. Had she messed up an enchantment? Had she been careless with a colour and gave the threads more than they could handle? “I can’t — no. What’s — how?” Cyril turns to Beau, panic in her expression but not over the flames that had just threatened the singer’s life. “Beau, they’re on fire. They can’t be. That makes no sense. I don’t — I can’t have messed up.” Cyril’s words were barely whispers, more so a chanting for her own ears than her company’s.

There’s no way Beau is getting caught up with all of this, she’s sure they’ll call for some sort of investigation into the situation. She’s barely paying attention as she gets out of her chair, grabbing Cyril’s arm and leading the tailor out of the balcony. She glances quickly around, masses of people and guards escorting them out of the area.

She’s hardly paying attention as she starts moving through the crowd of people, she’s skilled in this, she can get out of situations and crowds without a problem. She never wears anything too heavy, or large, to slow her down or allow someone to get the best of her. But Cyril? Beau looks back towards the tailor behind her, her face distraught and mumbling some words to herself. “Hey, freaking out won’t help anything, calm down for a second. We’re almost out.” It takes a moment, but Beau’s mind catches up to her instincts and she freezes at the confession and realization of what Cyril had said to her. I can’t have messed up. The confidence in her voice is breaking, falling apart, as she mutters to herself, and Beau’s instinct to help her relax drops.

“Wait— this was because of you?” Beau asks, glaring at her as they keep moving out of the building. She’s starting to getting claustrophobic, with the amount of people here, staff ushering out the nobles with their impractical fashions. She’s stepped on so many dress trains at this point, but she can hardly give a rushed apology.

Once she’s reached a side door, following people spilling out into the streets of the capital she rounds on the tailor. “How did that happen? I thought you had your shit in control! You’ve been doing this for how long now?” Her words are harsher than she means but the anxiety and fear thrums through her veins at the thought of Cyril doing this and still trying to push some special enchanted outfit on her. It could’ve been her, she could’ve jeopardized an important contract with the Guild if she took her offer. If she allowed to be her test subject. “What kind of enchantment did you put on it?”

#( cyril — 001. ) #( act one — scene one. )

[deslisle]

AGRIPPINE.

The suspicion comes slowly, then all at once, the same way water falls into a bucket drip by drip until, at last, it overflows. Agrippine’s head cants to the side, paranoia giving way to curiosity. Perhaps the very thing you seek can arrive without fanfare. Perhaps recollection comes not with the sound of trumpets and a heavenly choir, but with a discomfort that unsettles them mercilessly, sends a shudder down their spine and elicits a violent recoil. They should know, by now, that memory is often brutal. It opens the wound you forget was ever there.

“I don’t know you,” Agrippine bluntly points out. It’s easier, after all, to state what you think you know than to question it. I don’t know you, they insist. Do I know you? they hesitate to ask. The thought plants itself like a seed. Agrippine decides to let it dry out. Let it wither away and die in the earth before it ever sprouts, for Agrippine is not yet ready for life. The dust has not yet settled. Their feet have not yet steadied. If there is a reason this masked stranger feels such concern for their wellbeing — well, they chalk it up to mystery or some bizarre tic.

The suspicion comes slowly, then all at once. Agrippine does the only thing they know to do: they run.

“I don’t know you,” Agrippine repeats, “please stop following me.”

Returning to the blank slate they came from, to what little they know, Agrippine turns on their heel and sprints away.

— FIN.

#( agrippine — 001. ) #( act one — scene one. ) #i'm hurting in the best way for these two