vielle

Despite his doubts, Lady Uldwar accepts his offer, and Iyalon thinks nothing but courtesy when he takes her hand to guide her from the table and out of the dining room. He thinks nothing but politeness, nothing but the faint desire to bring a moment’s comfort to the lady of the house through his companionship, though a guest he may be. As they walk through the keep’s halls, in between murmured directions to her chambers, she unburdens herself before him, tells him truths Iyalon does not think a foreign knight in the servitude of another noble house must be privy to. He wonders if they are even truths at all, but in the face of her apparent grief and anger, he will have to believe her words for what they are. And then, at the doorstep to her rooms, Lady Uldwar steps closer to him, and the world comes to a standstill, hushed and tense. "Am I beautiful enough for such a thing?" If he were a lesser man, Iyalon thinks he would have crumbled, would have given in, would have allowed a night of indiscretion for the affections of a beautiful and powerful noble, if even for just a moment that no one need know ever. But: Varda. For a brief, manic second, he sees her face superimposed on Lady Uldwar’s, all softness and light and grace, and it gives him the strength to step back, to refuse this. Burn him, bury him, break him. Anything but betraying the woman he owes his everything to. “My Lady,” he says gently as he untangles himself from her grip, lets cold air rush up between them, “you are undoubtedly beautiful, and Lord Uldwar has not treated you the way you ought to be treated. But we both know that to do this would be wrong.” Iyalon breathes in deep, locks his gaze with that of the woman before him. “A single night of passion is not worth the pain and shame that will follow, and I cannot allow myself to do such a thing in your very home, with your husband under the same roof.” The next words are the hardest to speak out, too tightly kept against his chest that he had not said the sentiment out loud more than twice in his lifetime. But here he is, and to refuse this temptation, he must remind himself of that shining warmth behind his ribcage, unspoken but undeniably deep. “And I cannot betray the thought of the one I love most in this world. Forgive me, my lady, but I cannot. It could very well kill me.” His smile is aching made incarnate.

November 24 | 29 AO The Mistress’ expression turns contemplative, almost hungry as her guest regards her, and Dahlia can feel her eyebrows raising in mild curiosity. The tension is almost palpable for a moment, but then the Mistress blinks, and her easy smile returns. She does not have time to wonder about it when the white-haired woman jumps back into the conversation, explaining the connection with her sister and then discussing her personal traits and interests. Somewhere in the conversation, she mentions the criminal underworld, and Dahlia takes a moment to stuff her mouth with a bite of pastry so as not to give her surprise away. Her suspicions have been proven to be correct. However, she has always considered the teahouse to be neutral ground, and there hasn’t been a hint of violent behavior emanating from the lady seated across from her, and so she swallows down the bit of scone and listens quietly as the woman continues. "But where are my manners. My appearance here was merely to partake of your delectable merchandise and perhaps also partake with the company of this establishment's owner." My, with those words and the intense stare levelled her way, the Mistress is being most certainly forward. Dahlia allows her cheeks to bloom red for a moment before taking a sip from her teacup, hiding the evidence of her bashfulness behind polished porcelain. “I see. I’m quite pleased to make an acquaintance of someone so cultured. What is it that you do? Are you a business owner or perhaps something else?” @Thotification

[ Míra Andronov / Michael von Morgenstern ] She finds herself mildly enjoying his company as well, as it turns out. “I do fancy a good steak every now and then,” Míra says, takes a sip of wine as she puts on a thoughtful expression. “Perhaps I’ll find some time to dabble in your interests as well, pay a visit to this culinary establishment of yours.” The Crow nods in agreement at his discussion of employing knowledge for efficiency in the field, and then observes closely as the man takes a piece of ammunition, glimmering golden in the firelight of the bar, and places it between them on the counter. A part of her faintly wonders if she can somehow commission a series of silver rounds, encrusted with tiny emeralds or sapphires along the rim of the bullets. They would make a lovely addition to her arsenal, and can perhaps prove a point more thoroughly. “Upon your facilitation of my first contact, I shall furnish a black book of Morningstar resources for your exclusive - and discrete - use." “Charming,” Míra replies as she takes the bullet into her palm, studies the image of the sun engraved into it for a moment. She then nonchalantly tucks it into a pocket of her suit before taking out a lavender-scented business card, her name and the location of Datura Innoxia etched onto the smooth surface. A satisfied smile makes itself known on her red lips as she slides the card towards the man’s side of the bar. “It seems I’ve struck gold so early into the evening,” she muses, presents her glass to the man for yet another toast, should he accept it. “To further possibilities, Mr. von Morgenstern. I look forward to what we can achieve together.” With the deal struck, she then turns her attention towards more idle talk as they wait for the bell to ring, signaling the next round of introductions and discussions. “Tell me of where you come from, where you conduct your business and leisure alike. Perhaps it may find itself at the top of my list of places to visit in the near future.” @Grimmholt

PICK ME, PICK ME! 😂 I'd love alternative setting sandboxes to play in 😃 Amen, friend-o, same here 😍 I'd so be down for that

Perhaps he is not prepared for this, the wrong person for this mission, he wonders, as the churning in his gut violently makes itself known. Iyalon can only sit there and keep his mouth shut, listen with an open mind and willing ears as the First of the Oathsworn unburdens himself, recounts the history of his youth, how the Oathblade had chosen him, the fame and glory that had arisen after, the blood on his hands by the Tyrant King’s command. He had known the fundamentals, the common knowledge that everyone had possessed when it comes to Walter Crowley’s life. He hadn’t known about this. The glass of sake is suddenly cold against the skin of his palm. Iyalon grips it tightly, pale fingers stark against the smooth surface. He dares not drink in deference to the other man, though his throat is parched and Crowley himself even takes a swig from his own cup. The conversation then turns towards the other Oathsworn, the first of the chosen ones, and Iyalon is acutely aware that Himei had once been Thel’s weapon. He does not know much about him, save for one prominent fact: Thel and Crowley had been the closest of friends, once. “And in exchange, I killed them. I didn’t have to. But I did.” The guilt, the echoes of pain that carves themselves deep into every syllable—it is not something that Iyalon will easily forget. His shoulders hunch forward in empathy; his spine curves downward as if to ward off a blow. Crowley continues, wonders out loud whether the current circumstances could be different, whether he should come back into the spotlight at all. The knight cannot blame him, not when past scars prove that staying in the shadows would be the best option for everyone involved. "What makes your lady think she can control the Oathblades?" He looks down at the counter, unable to meet Crowley’s gaze for a moment. “It is not about controlling, I think. It never will be.” It would be like catching the wind with bare hands, Iyalon muses, a task both incomprehensible and unattainable. “My Lady’s only wish is to see that, at the very least, Himei be placed in the hands of someone trusted to take it. Someone worthy of wielding it. The others may yet come into play, but this one is here, now, and it may yet start calling for its new master.” He raises his gaze to the other man’s own, smiles with a courage he does not quite feel. “The past need not repeat itself. Is this not your chance to right the wrongs that have been dealt to you by fate? Could you not help guide the new Oathsworn into a better destiny than those before them?” He sighs, finally takes a sip of long-lukewarm sake, relishes the soothing feeling it trails down his throat. “At least see Himei for yourself, I plead with you.”

November 23 | 29 AO Lady Goldcourt—Evie, the noble stresses, offers the nickname up between them in an offer of intimacy, of goodwill, and who is she to refuse?—must have been raised to be a businesswoman, must have been molded to play the part so well. Only that fact can explain the almost-imperceptible shift in her demeanor, one that the teahouse owner most certainly finds agreeable, even as many others do not. There is a gleam in the young woman’s eyes that a part of Dahlia recognizes, raises a toast towards in silent solidarity. It sits well with her: the idea of having another savvy business partner to add to her assemblage of like-minded peers. “My, Lady Goldcourt, that is a most noble quest indeed,” she replies to the woman’s declaration of her new fashion trend, rubbing her chin with pale fingers. “I’ve yet to come into acquaintance with Mrs. Sedley, though I am aware of her shop’s existence. Perhaps I should pay her a visit sometime soon.” Dahlia’s lips curl with amiability even as she puts upon a look of someone deep in thought. “I find myself flattered by your thoughts, but concerned as well. Am I really the best option for your crusade to change the face of Andelusian fashion?” Her eyes flick back towards her guest, acting almost as if she hadn’t realized the other is still there. “Ah, but no matter. I am pleased you think me suitable. And I quite enjoy seeing others triumph in their own fields of expertise.” She grins, waves towards the sketch still in Evienne’s possession. “Tell me, when can we begin? I have a mind to specifically commission something for the grand reopening of the Andelusian High Tea Society. A rather extravagant affair, and even the nobility and our rulers themselves are invited to attend. Any thoughts on this?” @LikelyMissFortune

It happens so fast. Darya doesn’t even have time to loosen her tense stance against the door. At the sound emitting from the card reader, the walking tank pivots, suddenly alert, and the roll of the machine gun echoes loud throughout the room. Oh gods. In the split-second that follows, Darya dives for Alise, sending them hurtling towards the ground. She tucks herself around the woman’s body, takes the brunt of the fall’s impact, then rolls them both into a makeshift barricade of display screens, just barely avoiding the trail of bullets that race a path into the doorway they had just vacated. She hears the glass wall splinter and crack from the assault, and the ensuing crash that follows bodes ill for the three of them. There goes their element of stealth. “Well, that’s that,” Darya murmurs to herself, hedging a glance beyond and paling at the sight of the shambling bodies pouring their way out of the gaping hole in the wall. Erin isn’t visible from this vantage point, but judging from the way she had acted, it is suffice to say that the woman can take care of herself just fine. She turns to her other companion, gives Alise a near-desperate look as her fingers dig into her coat and produce her gun. “You got something that can help?” Something clicks, metal panels grind, and a sudden whoosh makes her heart sink. A missile. “Brace for impact,” she shouts, pulling Alise farther away from the vicinity of the blast.

👀 Would not be opposed to paying Singlance a courtesy call and/or possible business partnerships or agricultural trade deals someday... 😂 On that note: Hildebrand would love to help out Senaria for this, but I've already reached my cap of threads for the year 😅 if this somehow goes on until next year/month, then I'd like to extend my assistance in exchange for the opportunity to work out a future business deal with Senaria 😊

Heyyy, you know what? I might also need extra time before posting, so no worries; I'll most likely be posting after you instead 😂 but thanks for the heads up! 😊

Whoops! 😰 That's what I get for writing in the dead of night on a school day 😂 Okay, here's an alternative one to replace it (and then some, because this is fun): The next item the character grabs is stuck to their body forever; they can never get rid of it until the curse wears off. The character becomes incapable of visually seeing or perceiving living creatures. When the character is travelling, a spectral servant follows them, clapping two halves of a coconut together to imitate the noise of a horse 😏

November 24 | 29 AO Her guest seems to have an aura of confidence that oozes through every pore, rolls off her in waves as she strides her way into the seat across from her, her hips swaying almost uncontrollably with each footfall. Dahlia’s smile widens at this; it’s always a pleasure to meet women radiant and bold with their mannerisms, the way they hold themselves in the eyes of many. She greets the white-haired lady, gestures for her to sit before taking the teapot to pour a cup of tea for her guest. "I do apologize for the misunderstanding, the late Lady Blackhead has been--rather indisposed for a while now. I was her successor, the Mistress Blackhead. Or you may just call me the Mistress. My full title can be quite a mouthful to speak." “Ah, my apologies,” Dahlia demures, places a hand over her chest as she inclines her head. “Lady Ravenbush, then? The Mistress,” she pauses, tests the name on her tongue; it sounds familiar, somehow, but there is no time to wonder quite yet, “yes, that name will work just fine. I must confess, I’m still at a loss as to what brings a seemingly well-travelled woman such as yourself to my humble teahouse’s doorstep.” Dahlia takes a dainty sip from her own teacup before continuing, a smile slow-growing on her lips. “May I ask where you are from?” It is rather obvious in the stranger’s bearing that she is not from Ursa Madeum, so there is surely a story behind this visit. @Thotification

Here's my two cents! 😊 The character is compelled to hug all the other characters they come across, even if the circumstances would deem it inappropriate or awkward. The character perceives traps everywhere they go where none exist. The character must only speak (or if you'd like more of a challenge, also think!) in rhyme. My bad; I repeated it from Djinn&Juice! 😅 The character must compulsively juggle items any time they come across two or more of the same object within easy reach.

"Perhaps before then though, we might take advantage of the daylight? I would enjoy an opportunity to see the grounds of your estate and the surrounding area. And perhaps you would all like a ride in our vehicles as well?" The twinkle that sparks in her siblings’ eyes at the Executor’s statement does not go unnoticed by Varda, who immediately turns a beatific grin in the Norkotian’s direction. “That is a splendid idea, Mister Tynes. We would not be averse to showing you the bountiful yield of our fields and the wide expanse of our lands.” She tilts her head, gives her brother a considering look. “It would also perhaps aid us to witness your technology in action. All in the name of investigation and comparison, of course.” Once their plates have been wiped clean and the goblets drained, the servants rush forward to gather the tableware, performing their duties with brisk efficiency, as the Hildebrand children stand together and slowly make their way to the door. “This way, then, good sirs,” Jasper smiles as he sweeps his arm out in a gesture for their guests and their retinue to follow them out into the hall. It does not take long to return to the front steps of Ravenel Manor and the sight of the rolling fields of green that stretch out into that distant horizon. The sun seems to perpetually shine over the lands of Hildebrand on the days foreign dignitaries come to visit, Varda notes amusedly, turning her face up to bathe in the warm sunlight, eyes closed and lips curled. Coming back to herself, she quickly steps forward to the head of the group, near Executor Tynes, as they come to stand before the Norkotian convoy. It is rather intimidating, however, to interact with something entirely new so thoroughly. She watches Aspen eye the metal vehicles with a sudden, nervous gleam in her gaze, watches Nai take a few steps back to stand behind Jasper even as his hands twitch from where they hang limp at his sides. With that, Varda knows that she has to step up, takes a deep breath. Despite her awkwardness, she will have to pave the way for the rest of her siblings to come closer to the new, unfamiliar things on their doorstep. “Interesting!” She studies the smooth, metallic surface of the enclosed car, stares at the parts that make up the entirety of the vehicle with a mildly befuddled aura. “Where would you like us to take a ride in, Mister Tynes?” Varda asks, pivoting on her heel to face the Executor with a curious look.