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About LikelyMissFortune

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  • Birthday 01/05/1999

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    I'm a major history buff, I also love learning in general and am a Poli sci and linguistics major!
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  1. Unease settled into her bones with such force that her stomach rebelled, forcing Evienne to press a hand shakily to her abdomen, forcing breathe from her lungs. It was all she could do to keep the contents in. Recalibrate the concoction she had taken with a meager breakfast, and smile-- gloriously, as though she were delighted by such transparent attempts at pleasantry. It was most certainly odd, the strange calming presence she had on Evienne, disillusioned as she were. It all spurred her prejudice on, adding a razor edge to her doleful smile. Cerys was too beautiful to be human, with features that remained hazy and vague enough to remind Evienne of a pair of grey eyes and a cruel smile. In truth, her discomfort could be dismissed as jealousy, rarely was Evienne ever in the presence of one who could arouse such pangs. This one did, however, cause such pangs. But there was another cause, a frivolous one, that no doubt would’ve escaped anyone’s notice, were it not for such a subject being her field of work. Namely it was the corset the woman wore over her blouse. No good ever came from a woman who wore such a long, arcane version of the garment. Stiffened inexorably with steel and whale bone, and decidedly missing a busk- not the fashion Evienne helped come into vogue. Especially, when it was worn so brazenly, exposed to all. Could Evienne be blamed for crinkling her nose at it? It was no small wonder then, that when Henry did eventually return to her side, she wasted no time in laying a gentle hand on his shoulder. And so, while she leaned over to the footman, whispering surreptitiously the terms of his dismissal, the little man spoke for her: “The Lady would prefer something stronger for this time of day, she has brought coffee for you to sample as well Enchantress Adrastae.” He was, perhaps, a little too sharp. It wasn’t very kind to needle the strange woman like so, and it wasn’t something Evienne herself would’ve done without at first having formed some sort of bond with the strange woman. Henry was still young, he still had a lot to learn- and as she clasped his little hand to make her way up the gangplank, she softened her countenance towards the offended party. A stern warning to Henry, whose shoulder stiffened. “It is a pleasure,” her voice cracked, and she had to pause momentarily, cheeks ablaze, “to make your acquaintance, Lady Cerys. Pray excuse the young man, I call him Henry, and he has not yet opposed to the name so, you may call him that as well- if you please.” It was difficult to maintain her poise on the deck, she wasn’t quite sure how the woman did so as well. Vesper could, no doubt, lecture her on the correct stance. Still, stubbornly, she clung rather unsteadily to the graces deemed so necessary on land. “If you would please?” @Rust and Stardust
  2. It was the strangeness of the missive that tempted Evienne. It had been so out of place, so worn, the penmanship so negligible-- so vulgar that it drew her. And upon that missive, that was huffed at by Papa, was but a command. The tone so absurdly demanding it must’ve been laughed at in parlors and studies alike. The late Lady Uldwar would’ve scoffed at it. The Lady Goldcourt-Uldwar should’ve burned it. The words shouldn’t have lodged themselves so deeply into her mind; it was the musings of a mad man. One of many planning to sow discord in a land made so vulnerable, a vulture upon a noble carcass. A herald of folly, of nothing but destruction, mindless- terrible destruction. A tale to be observed, as one does at the opéra, snickering between lamentation of the lives, such tender lives, lost so carelessly. And so, Evienne might’ve just done if a spider, hadn’t whispered to her of profit to be reaped from this destruction. It was, after all, such a sweet solace, it had been argued, to draw from such an ugly thing. Folly, but if played just right, greatly rewarding. She would go, there was no one that could dissuade her of heeding the vulgar missive. Still, she waited a week. And then another, till she could settle upon just the perfect excuse for dear Papa. In the end, it was the salt, that allowed her to visit Port Moon. She had been told, it, among a myriad of other solutions would be good for her. Would ease the sorrow of a tableful of slumped bodies. The salt, apparently, would scour away the knowledge that one was solely to be blamed for the death of a clan. Every Man, Woman- even the children. What a pity, indeed, that Evienne Goldcourt had been made a widow at such a tender age. A tragedy that was sweetened by the sizable properties her husband had settled on her, and yet she had felt too burdened to account for what was left. Those letters, certificates and notices lay on her desk, still as the hands cradled in her lap. Untouched, and veiled in a blanket of widow’s weeds. They were wrong, as they were about a great many things. The salt did not revive her spirits, it only add annoyance to her apathy, and a wrinkle between her brows. Still, she did little but sit still, sew and sleep the entire journey. Relying only on gestures for her companions to follow through on her demand. Even as her carriage rolled to a stop upon the dock, it was a fair while before any reaction could be elicited from her. Evienne was but marble structure whose flesh was washed and knit back together, but offered neither a nod of her head or a twitch of fingers- still grey and red. It was only when his fingers grazed pellucid skin, that seemed to jostle her out of the strange hollow reverie. Still, the simple action of readjusting her gaze felt heavy, leaden. Only a small smile could be afforded to the foundling at her side. A dark skinned boy, no more than a decade old. One who still despised the cravat around his neck, and often fussed with it. She had called him Henry, after Godric’s brother- he didn’t seem to mind. “There’s a commotion outside, Lady Uldwar.” The dry tone of his voice betrayed the impish curl of his lip. Evienne couldn’t help but mimic it. Surely, she came to cause a stir herself, especially as she was to still be in mourning, screened from all the world. There was no hesitation in folding herself out of the vehicle, a blight upon the colorful, tanned creatures milling about them. Thus reassured, the Lady couldn’t help but raise dubious eyebrow at the state of the vessel. It rocked wickedly, oily water snaking down its sides- raining unfortunate paserbys in a hiss of salt water. Worse still, was the sound of shrill screams, thuds and the cries of some unfortunate sailors. Surely, she couldn’t be prevailed upon to embark on such an odious task? Her foot man, however, seemed just as reluctant as she. He stepped half a step back, and then, amusingly enough- another two at a particularly violent thud. It would fall onto the boy, then. He breezed past her skirts with nary a smile, hand clasped behind a white suit. Already braver than either servant or woman, reinforced with the promise of the sack of glazed hazelnuts she tossed into his lap. Still, a curious little pit formed in her stomach as he ambled up the gangplank, and bellowed without pause, for all to hear, even her: “The Lady Goldcourt-Uldwar is awaiting a reception.”
  3. Henlo people I am back! expect a barrage of posts.

    1. vielle


      yaaay, you're back, welcome back! ? we await the posting storm ?

    2. supernal



  4. So much had changed since Reverie. It was evident in the way that Evienne held her shoulders, and the twitch of Merida's hands. The sight of her cousin eased her heart as much as it was struck with panic. Merida was too thin, her hair too short, her movements slow and pained, but there wasn't much she could do but to be wipe her tears-- gently. And bubble with near hysteric laughter at her attempts at making Evie feel better. Were she not the older one, and Merida the younger? She would've liked to sit like so forever, time for her luxuriate in Merida's lap, forgiveness assured as a lamb would forgive an errant shepherd. Silly lamb, she wanted to wail. But, a sense of normalcy, of poise, of shoulders held back-- of her chin held up must be established. Even if Merida couldn't see, to stop the tremors in her voice and assert a degree of gaudy, careless lady Evienne had been. To at least seem it, even as she was learning to not be so. Still, the reversal that felt about as odd as Leizhen's absence. But, there was tea cooling in a pot and questions to be answered. It was a hopeless charade, to pretend that one had not spend a week being tortured at Sea. All due to that damned carelessness. One was dead. The other barely clung to life. "You didn't need to pour me tea, darling. Look at you, you're shaking, shall I help?" She was more nervous, suspicious of her surroundings, as though it all were a fantasy that was too loud- too real and shiny to be reality. It was a feeling Evienne could sympathize with. "Moonie's not back yet. She felt as responsible as I do for your disappearance, she even wrote me a letter when she left-- I didn't come back to the manor after labyrinth you see, I had to make sure they would never hurt you again, Lamb. Oh, Moonie's still at see and she shall not be happy with me when she comes back." Evienne didn't add sugar to her tea, nor did she add cream. She didn't blow on it, but she sipped and sighed in the bitter- scalding liquid, the perfect temperature. "If Moonie were here, you would've seen her earlier. I'm sorry for that... I had somethings to see to. What has Aunt Francine told you, Mer? I shall try to fill in the blanks, it's the least I could do to help." @Witches Brew
  5. The Lady Goldcourt was cold and glacial despite all she had done to try and dissuade them of the fact, the posing, the sunlight. She didn't bother to hide her ire frigid as her eyes, and if looks could kill, then D'artagnan would be as dead as Leizhen. But, if that was indeed the case, the first to die would've be Quinton- and then the guard would have shot her dead before his body could hit the ground. There was no point in wishing either dead, not now. That would result in a massacre and even more blood would be shed needlessly. There had been enough already. Which, in turn meant that the abject horror, was as useless as her fury. There was no need for the he nails embedded in her skin so slowly, she released the hold on her flesh as shame reclaimed her passions. And suddenly, the world was far too grey-- too colorless for her liking. His eyes, his suit- everything was as stark as the truth presented before her, and she burned with the shame. The fault lay with her. It was she who had been too stupid to see clearly. But she sat still, eyes closed, wishing futilely for color- garish color to come rushing back. It simply would not. There was no point in wishing, all there was left to do was to accept it for what it was. "Do you know how to immunize yourself from poisons, Mr. Swan?" She dabbed at the mess of her neck, absentmindedly. A mild frown marring her face, as though she had found a hair in her tea. "You take a little dose of poison everyday. Organic ones, of course, metallic-- metaphysical ones don't quite work like that. But you can slowly build up an immunity against organic ones... "If you don't mind the shakes, the headaches, the fevers." Her mouth was stubborn in its curl, dry and humorless. "Leizhen had been rather inelegant in her actions, she could've achieved what she wanted without having to resort to taking my life, and perhaps she deserved this. An inelegant end to an inelegant solution." Blood and skin caked beneath her finger nails, broken and garish. Evienne couldn't help but shiver at the sight. Disgusting. "Still, she was like a sister. "I don't plan on being as graceless. My Father shall be dealt with, but he's an old man who'd be as delighted in me out maneuvering him as he'd be in damning me. There shall be no blood, not with him- he is my Father not like one." The attempt at humor was half hearted, her voice breaking at the attempt. After a while, she had gotten used to the toxins, craved it even as much as she knew it to be destructive. Too much would kill her, too little leave her in terrible condition. Quitting would be far more difficult than starting, and Evienne was left with no other choice. Not a feasible one, at least. "I do apologize, for my outburst." All there was left to do was to accept reality, stark as it was. There would be no more distractions.
  6. Hey guys! It’s that time of the semester again! I’ll be AFV till the 20th.

  7. Aunt Francine had always irked Evienne. She had always been nice enough, curteous if a little snippy. She was everything Evienne should admire, on paper, organized, well dressed polite. But, the way she treated Merida, her impatience with her, Merida's subsequent nervousness-- the distaste for anything Moontraveller, sat uncomfortably with Evienne. So, when Evienne did start hassling Francine to see Merida after she was found, it became quickly evident that Francine hated anything she couldn't control. Her Aunt was able to keep her away two days. For Evienne it was two days too many. She's taken to wearing dresses with high necks, and today was no different. Perhaps, if no one else could see the faint white lines streaking past her neck, she wouldn't see them either. And perhaps if they stopped asking Leizhen, she would stop seeing the girls' specter. But they do see, and they do comment and Leizhen is forever burned into Evienne's mind as are the thin scars, too faint for her to be satisfied. Next time, she would scratch at jugular. Atleast, that was what she had promised herself, if they never found Merida. Battered beyond belief, she was informed that Merida had slept for two days. They were afraid she wouldn't wake at one point, but she had, and the relief that came from that was almost too much for her to bear. She didn't deserve as much. And, still, Evienne found herself running-- rushing to see Merida. It was too good to be true, if Merida was alive, if she was well, if she was whole... She was in the study, in a wheel chair- and the black of her dress did nothing to hide how it sagged. Merida was pale and drawn, bruises and cuts mottled her face, the back of her visible hand-- the other, covered in gauze, her eyes were ringed with circles that could've been a mirror to Evienne's under her paint and powder. But still, she was alive and whole, and she couldn't quite stop herself from seizing her by the shoulder, and sinking into a desperate embrace. Merida was here, she was alive, she was well and she was whole. She did not have a bullet in her head. Unbidden tears stung her eyes, and Evienne made a valiant effort to keep them at bay. It would do no good to let Merida see her in such dire straights, it would be silly to let her worry, all was alright. Traitorously still, her was quivered when spoke, "Oh, my dear girl, won't you forgive me? I've done you wrong." @Witches Brew
  8. Wrath, such as she never thought possible burned through her, destroying remaining vestiges of grief. Of numb, dumb shock. Any pity left for the spider, of the comfort she had sapped from him, who had guided, supported her-- and ultimately, betrayed her is reduced to ashes. And it is bitter in her mouth. But there is nothing to be done, there are no needles or glass or metal. Nothing to crucify herself on while possessed with such an irrational emotion. Fury was useless, when all had been Evienne's doing. What had started out a scream, not of anguish or of pain was stifled by hands pressed so firmly against her mouth she could hardly draw breath. It comes at a chortled, agonized moan and it is not enough. But this was not Evienne, she would not make a scene even if there was so, so much to scream about but there would be no satisfaction for her. Salt and iron tingle on her tongue, and there is nothing she could do but stare on, horrified at her own capacity for destruction. Mindless, careless destruction. Had she not, just moment prior reduced that face to coarse cloth and rope? An animal thing that did nothing but breathe, and despair and was ultimately doomed for death? Leizhen had been like a sister. Leizhen, no matter the tiffs, screams and scratches had always come back. Leizhen would never betray Evienne, not even if she had the world to gain. No, not Leizhen. Evienne had betrayed Leizhen, as she had betrayed Merida. And now one was missing, and the other lay in a heap, a life stolen by Evienne and her damned ambitions. Her weakness. Quinnton had been wrong, this was wrong. It was all wrong. That was when nails found soft skin, and she dug. Until she couldn't breathe, until he stopped touching her, talking at her as though he had done her a great service. After all, does not one owe he who gave her as Quinton had an almost unassailable debt? Her tattered sense of propriety, that which had stopped her before snapped at the mention of her Father, shattering, slowly, until possessed by that inescapable fury, that terrible, irrational emotion, Evienne gave in and she too is shattered. She doesn't lazily trail her nails down her throat, but rather, she tears into it. Until her nails break against the unreasonable demand, until they are coated not only in dear Leizhen's blood, but also hears and there is nothing but ribbons of red oozing down pale skin. There is still no scream, and laughter-- delicate, tinkling laughter bubbles about until her sides hurt as much as her soul rebelled against everything. It feels so incredibly lovely. Red runs down her arms, and she slit her skin and veins and God knows what else. Euphoria takes hold of her, and a moment is spared to inspect the chemise, now blooming with macabre red and cream. It-- she was beyond repair, and it would be very easy to lay down, crucify herself in a pointless, useless act of insolence. Leizhen would've been cross with her. For the mess. Instead, her attention is brought to back to the Spider who had urged her to act as she had. And the soft, tender curl of her lip is not quite in accordance to the mess of throat or the terrible anger churning in her eyes. "Who gave you the right?" It is is whispered, and she grasped the square of silk, ruining that as well. "What proof do you have?" The scream rang in her ears.
  9. Evienne wanted smash her fists against the table, snarl at the few that dared to glance at her. All suspicion should be directed toward the maid, whose face now trembled and quivered under the strain-- it would do no good to seem angry. Anger was an ugly emotion, too strong, too out of line with the visions they had of maidens. So, instead, she clasped a hand against her mouth, tears welling in her eyes. Horror. Fear. Grief. "I saw her laughing at him," Evienne quivered as the maid was dragged away, "her and that other man. They were laughing at Godric, and I thought I'd take the ale in case something happened... and still. Why would you do something like that? We are more than just things you can point to and laugh at, I just don't understand." The barkeep looked on, grief setting into wrinkles and folds. She could not bear to look into his eyes for too long. The buzz of whispering patrons already echoes incessantly in her mind, accusing her, absolving her. There would be no grieving men in her dreams, none on her conscience, she would not bear that. It shouldn't have happened, but it had. Better the maid than Evienne, always better anyone else than Evienne. It was a selfish and petty sentiment and it sat with her heavily, squirming in her gut until she was very sure it would leave her sick. First Merida, now the maid. Evienne was not a criminal, she could not be a criminal, and yet... Godric hadn't seemed to quite grasped what had happened, pity bloomed in her heart as much annoyance reddened her cheeks. She had gotten what she wanted, she would get away with this, and now it descended on her to quietly complete her mission and return back. And all she could offer then befuddled young man was a little smile, and her hands, gingerly wrapped around his. "I'm not sure about that, Godric. The woman just did a very terrible thing to you, will you let me help you Godric? Come with us, we'll take you back to Ursa Madeum, we'll try to fix this." She urged, softly, even as her toes curled in distaste, "Perhaps then, when you're better, I'll marry you."
  10. Satisfaction bubbled with confusion, ultimately, it culminated in anticipation. She does not flinch away from his touch, nor does she shy away from his words. Rather, treacherously her breathe hitched at his assessment of her, eerily in line with her own. There is purpose behind his every word, every minute action- of taking her hand, of standing where as she sat. Of speaking of the macabre, and of her husband and her virtue, off handedly. In casual fatherly tones. Evienne is to be molded, she has potential to be great, that is understood. There is much to be learned, much to gain from this brooding man, dangerous as he was successful. Men tended to be like so, dangerous. And so, Evienne would learn to be as well. It was perfectly timed. The first lesson was easy enough. It was one she had already begun to suspect. Her marriage to Godric won her opportunity at the moment, but it was a decision clouded by temper and a limited view, and she hadn't thought of its implications in broader terms. She already knew it would be a mistake to succumb, either to her passions, or to duty, and so she hadn't. It would've been an even graver mistake to admit it in so many. The curl of her lips, and the quirk of her eye brows would have to convey her meaning, her assets were whole. And would remain so, for as long as she could. The second was not so easy. Tests were never easy, especially ones she was not quite prepared for. The implication had whetted her curiosity, and now it recoiled into shock-- incredulous at what was expected of her at the sight of masked figure. It was true that Evie was far from innocent. She had poisoned Godric's mind into a false love. It had been accidental, but the original intent was not far off enough to absolve her of the crime. She had also framed the bar maid, blamed her for the potion- possibly had her hanged, and that was quite deliberate. She had poisoned, had felt it toxins ravage people before-- but always, it had always been controlled and never fatal. Papa had assured her of that, it was just training, self defence. Nothing more. No, she was not innocent. But the differences were as vast as Music was to Death. Harming, was not yet murder. There was nothing to hide behind with the weapon that was offered. Nothing removed, nothing to duck behind. This was not going to be on accident. Evienne was too soft, still too weak to kill a person. An unknown man, or woman, transgression a mystery. He was asking her to do the impossible, to step into a world where a young woman such as she could be an executioner. Unquestioning. Brutal. But they would die, one way or the other. By Evienne or by menacing man next to him, their fate had been sealed. More so, much had been sacrificed to get where she stood, and now she was set to lose everything to a man in a burlap bag, pathetic as he sat preternaturally still. He wasn't human, not right then. He had been, when he had to be forced to sit. Now it just sat still, and became as much of an obstacle as a dull pin. They mirrored each other, she and this creature. Not once did her attention waver, brows furrowed fingers caressing the weapon. "May I?" She wondered aloud, rising from her seat. There was a smile, playing on her lips, "When we first met, I remember you suggested a trade. Your secrets for what was under my dress. It was a silly, unfair trade too, now, if I had something you haven't seen before, I might've considered it. But alas, I do not." Hands that had trembled when she tried to get her gown on before, were steady now, and the gown lay in an ivory puddle by her feet. She stood before three men in chemise and short stays, in what would've made for an amusing tableau had the situation not been as dire. The weapon was cold and heavy in her hand, and gooseflesh prickled her skin. She would despise herself for this, she was too soft for this. And she would remain weak and soft if she didn't do it. Evienne would despise herself if she didn't do it. She drew close enough, to the figure that so still, barely breathing- and the menacing one in the navy suit- to press the weapon against the side of where it's head should've been. She did not want to miss. This way she could keep her eyes on Mr. Swan. In the end, the shot was not much louder than if a chair had been smashed, or if a book case had fallen. And, Evienne did not allow for the victim to color her nightmares any farther than it already did. She did not see it slump, and had moved away as soon as she felt the recoil jostle her. The weapon was placed, just as he had placed it, and Evienne was careful to keep her back turned on the macabre corpse. "Forgive me," She tried to laugh, feebly, resuming her seat. "I did not want to ruin my dress, nor did I want to miss. My cousin the Lieutenant used to shoot pheasants and often she wouldn't hit it when she was confident she would."
  11. Leizhen was dismissed before they crossed the threshold. They made it to the stairs before the words left her lips, light, and almost teasing in its tones. Leizhen, however, folded, meekly and strangely to her demands, and there were no more smiles or reassurances. No objections or impertinent questions. Just the cold formality of servitude, brazen as a slap. Words so easily shrugged off and questioned mere days ago carried uncomfortable gravity. There was perhaps, a twinge of regret at the tenderness lost between the two; but she had no choice in following the young lady into the manor, and yet, all she could think of was the complications it posed. There was no point in pondering over such things. Leizhen had her moods, and they would be dealt with in time. They always had in past tiffs, and would continue to do so, there were no logical grounds for the turmoil brewing in her. None at all. Nightmares were based on irrational fears, ones that could be wiped away easily when given the chance. It had to be filed away and dealt with later. And so, as Evienne and the servant floated past bustling halls boasting of her benefactor's conquests, it could not be helped that she reflected upon their last meeting. Evienne’s blood had run hot then, and very nearly did she fail to impress him. Now, however ensconced within walls of his manor, it seemed to accept her almost as part of the décor. There is purpose—a sense of pride in her gait. She had come far from then, she had learned things from then. She had performed better than she’d imagined. They’d performed better than she’d dared hope. She was thus justified in dispelling the tendrils of uneasiness from her heart. Leizhen could—she would wait. Godric could wait, her Papa could wait. She had to remind herself that everything that she had done, was to the furthering of a singular cause. And now, the one directly responsible for its attainability stood before her. She beamed, reckless in her sincerity, a luxury she afforded him. It had been Evienne who had postured for their last meeting, now, it seemed to be Mr. Swan’s turn. Little else had changed beyond that. Sunlight still streamed, golden and dying, and Evienne had dressed but a little lighter than she had; fresh flowers, not gold and cold. But, he still cut an imposing figure in Terran suit and quizzical brow. It was as things should be, and there could be strength drawn from it. "It has been a while, Mr. Swan, how do you do?" Even his familiar, bold manners had remained the same, despite the shiny new ring resting on her finger, or the slight crook of her pinky. She met his gaze with airy curiosity. Studying him as much as he studied her. “If I’d known you would look so troubled, darling, I would have waited to make your sketch.” The man gazed at the piece of paper he held, comparing it with its model, perhaps critiquing his work. Perhaps to stoke her growing curiosity. “All the same, I’ve accomplished what I set out to do.” “Ah, but you see, that was my plan all along, Mr. Swan. Now, I could accuse you of flattering your subjects.” Her lofty tones betrayed the teasing crinkle of her lips. Evienne is flattered by the gesture, her cheeks hinting color rudely banished with the weeks’ trials. There were no such crimes of the nature with which she accused him evident in the sketch, and a sigh was wrenched from her. It was Evienne as she had appeared to greet him. Weeks had passed, and yet not a single golden daisy was left from her locks, it conjured up as much awe as it did genuine fright. Quinton had paid close attention. Was he always observing? Could he truly never forget details? “I must say you’ve thwarted my plan rather splendidly. No crime can be levied against you, and I must say you’re exquisitely talented.” It was not easy, tearing her eyes away from the likeness, almost grotesque in its familiarity, “Only for pleasure?” She folded her hands, neatly behind her back, watching Mr. Swan’s retreating figure, twisting her ring at the mention of her affairs. Though neither wary eye, nor the persistent slant of her mouth wavered from the perceived guilt. “I believe congratulations are in order, Consider that part of your wedding gift. You’ll forgive me for not attending. I had some foreign affairs to deal with.” She had committed a crime with her marriage. She had wronged Godric, had poisoned his mind, accidentally as she did. Her gut clenched its protestations, and her smile grew softer. “It was quite...rushed, I must apologize for that. An elopement with the young Lord was—admittedly—not part of my plan.” She couldn’t quite keep the tones of guilt from sneaking in to her words, or from the shaky steps she suffered to join Quinton at the table. “The Lord is quite taken with me. I was able to sway him to my cause easily, and I doubt I’d have any trouble with that,” the bitterness was masked with a laugh, and the sketch, laid neatly between her and Quinton. “It is a shame with the way things are between our families, I plan on only taking the mantle of matriarch after I...fulfill...my duties to the Lord. And even then, his position is precarious at best, his situation may hinder him from performing his best, and the Uldwar children are quite capable.” She was painfully slow with her words, careful to stress where she needed to. She was not sure of the enigmatic Mr. Swan’s reaction would be if he came to learn of her transgressions in attaining Godric’s unquestioning adoration, and it was not a risk she would run. He could take what he wanted from her words, offered nonchalantly. An idle Lady’s gossip, stiff as her shoulders were. Icy eyes bored into his, attempting to mimic that sharp, inquisitive gaze. Only when she deemed it to be enough, did she listen to the ache in her muscles and relaxed her hold on the chair, her attention drifting to her likeness once more. “We have our biggest competition at our mercy, I do believe if we act decisively, we could eliminate that altogether."
  12. There. Her goal was with in reach, delivered onto her lap on a silver platter. Without so much as troubling to have a conversation with the Lord. She did not know his favorite color, she did not what he liked to do nor did she even know what his temper was like. And yet, here he was, proclaiming her as his future bride-to-be, and the air had all but turned to bricks for Evienne. At times like these, there were various tricks she had seen Ladies employ. To smile, and nod and make pleasant sounds to escape as soon as they turn their backs. To remain stoic, and unmoving. Unaffected by any and all, a stone Queen to an eager King. They'd lose interest eventually. Of course, she could cry and make a scene, petulantly run into Marik's arm, profess everything was a mistake, abandon every dream she ever had. Run away and be free, and carry the dissapointment of her family, Merida, and perhaps even Quinton Swan. It could not be. She had to breathe. It was all wrong. She had wronged a person. The fear that had frozen her lungs had stiffened her knees. The shrieks of laughter bounding off of the walls did nothing to alleviate it, instead her heart struggled to to compete with the boom of the lutes, the voices, Godric's damned laughter. She shook at the sight of his coat, sodden and sticky with Ale. Ruined. Ruined, cleaning up her mess, and there was something between laughter and another shriek trapped with in her throat. How apt, how apt that he paid for all her mistakes, how apt that only now did she realize the true gravity of her actions. It all snapped back into resounding clarity, when her vision had started to fade. Evienne Goldcourt was no simple, wilting flower. "Godric? Lord Uldwar?" Her voice shook, even as she allowed the horror to dawn on her face. "You really don't look fine-- You're terrifying me now, bride to be? I agreed to nothing, what's going on?" She skewered the maid, silver eyes narrowed into angry slits, all but hissing at her, "You! What did you put in his drink? He's a Lord, wench. They'll hang you if you did something to him, out with it."
  13. She received the missive days late. It is, perhaps, the first thing she saw to upon homecoming. Dust, sweat and sickness had coiled in on itself and Evienne was but an ugly, filthy knot. Aches and sores had settled in places, and some she knew would take weeks to heal. Some months, and others years. The missive had stood out in the piles of her correspondence, set aside by Leizhen. A single sentence in even, slanted script that eased the storm in her, temporarily. He didn't need a name, just an initial, one elegant Q. She ordered the bath be drawn, the dress be made ready and the carriage be out in front immediately. Business does not wait for celebrations, reunions or resentments, it cares not for guilt, and, yawns in the face of tragedy. It was a fickle dance, a delicate equilibrium that changed from individual to individual; stoic, and yet, deeply personal. Evienne Goldcourt knew not much of the things she had witnessed in the past three days, she did not know the ways of men or of marriage or passion. Love was as foreign a concept to her as death was. One read about it, one dreamt of the effects. But, when push came to shove, the undercurrents of it pushed and pulled, and she was a victim to its ebb and flow. She tried to replicated it, with thread and needle, or perhaps with song and dance- and the exact flick of her wrist and a thwack, but she did not understand it. Between her new husband and her torrid affair, Evienne was decidedly out of her depth. But, when it came to Mr. Swan, he had motivations she could comprehend, profit and loss were simple, it was business between them, about what one could gain and what one risked to lose. There were no variables to tip it off, no potions or nightmares, or hands that shook so hard help was needed to close her gown, and comb her hair and paint her face. For this particular occasion she had chosen white. Flowers bloomed and wilted on the bodice, perhaps papa would admonish her for it, now that she was a woman wedded. Flowers adorned her hair in petty retribution, an offering. "Too maidenly!" Cried Leizhen, squirming against her choices all throughout the carriage ride. Restlessly drumming, fingers against the velvet upholstering, and hooves against gravel, stones and dirt, a restless rush crushing a sense of normalcy into her spine. By the time she stood before the facade of his manor she had reaffirmed her beliefs, her choices, and her actions; all she had done, she had done for her gain gain. Gambles were made and perhaps not all were so wise, but the ends should satisfy the means, and at the moment she was poised to win. The day had to be seized, and she did not shiver or tremble upon the threshold.
  14. As a child, Evienne often had nightmares. Often, she found that her ghouls reflected beliefs that, during the day, were held as the absolute, immovable truth, crumbling under silly and often, illogical words and actions. One such specter was her mother, returning to collect Evienne from Papa. Her skin was always warm, and they were always happy. Up until they left the manor; then, she'd turn cold and spiteful, and it was worse than no mother at all. Another, was Vesper, dragging Evienne to sea and forcing her to swab decks with a red broom, slowly turning into locks of crimson hair, sometimes Merida would be hung as a flag. In these dreams, her shrieking would continue to ring in her ears, hours after waking. Either way, such dreams were easily dispelled come morning. The Lieutenant was often awkward, but it was never spiteful. Eventually, it was accepted that Vesper, no matter what she muttered, would never so much as drag Evienne out of bed without her consent. And her Mother's silhouette never so much as crossed the threshold; there was simply no basis behind her nightmares. No grounds for them to hound her during the day, none to darken her mood or to bestow her with puffy bruises under her eyes. She dreamt of Godric now, turning old and insipid, accusing her of crimes she had committed, unknowing. And snippets of dark hair transforming into something monstrous. She often woke up sobbing, with images of Leizhen, dear Leizhen, hovering over her body, gleeful. One thought resounding, turning into a cacophony with each torturous moment she spent awake. Papa knew and did nothing about it. These proved to be fare more parasitical, they feasted on her, playing behind every closed door, sneaking into every conversation, winding her up until she was exhausted before noon had rolled in. Even her husband has begun to take notice. Even Merida, blessed girl, who should not be noticing anything. She was fraying at the edges, when she and Godric had stampeded back homes, she was fraying. But no matter what Papa, or Erin or evene Godric demanded, business would not wait, so, on the Second day, armed with Leizhen and a new silver dress, she ventured into the atelier. There were no comments made on her fraying. Either Mrs. Sedley and her workers didn't notice the purple blooming under her eyes, and her ashy complexion, or they didn't particularly care. Congratulations boomed, and champagne flowed, and the infectious, pragmatic air of the studio revived her in a way that neither Papa, nor Erin, nor Godric would understand. It turns out there was more to be celebrated than her nuptials. Orders were had been streaming in since the Reverie. In fact, they had pulled clients from The House of Threads, earning over forty commissions in five days. This was how he found her, having gone over the books, and pondering over the name, Nisnav of Blairville, who had paid a small fortune to secure an appointment for today. Mrs. Sedley had immediately begun speculations over the nature of the spender, and when he was announced, had all but ran to the greeting room. It was the scream, a demonstration of vocal prowess, that had her bounding in after the matron, book in hand. "Dear boy! Oh, wretched boy! Oh, I am s... so sorry." Mrs. Sedley quivered, like gelatine left in the sun for too long, patting the guests' one remaining arm in a fashion that was much too familiar. "You gave me a fright, oh! yes! Her Ladyship will be with you shortly, oh yes... erm, I'll bring the tea." With the pleasant chime of a bell, she was gone- and Evienne was left standing quite unnoticed by the portiére. The hours whiled away under the cheer and merry of what was irrevocably hers, had dispelled her unease, as easily as the Sun had used to, when she was younger. Now, it returned with a vengeance, and Evienne took a moment to collect herself, smooth her hair down. He was dressed abominably, full dress in cravat and crown, as though the man had descended from an old court painting, that seemed to have some sort of autumnal motif. The beautiful, sumptuous fabrics, the exquisite workmanship, however, did not escape Evienne's notice, it was hard not to. The horror that was Ninav of Blairville made it impossible not to know exactly how many button were on his doublet at all times, she almost felt sorry for the mutilated man. And yet, relentless unease coiled into a knot in her belly, sweat pooling on her palms. Her husband was a double amputee, but those were clean cuts. There was something nefarious, in the way this stranger stood, perturbed, perhaps. Still, she was a Goldcourt, and a woman now, a good hostess. She forces the shakes from her hands, her voice, her mind. "Don't mind Mrs. Sedley, Sir. She's quite a silly old Hen, as talented as she is, I'm afraid all artists have a quirk and she? Well, let's just say Mrs. Sedley is a strong argument for the increase in eccentricities along with her talents." Her laugh is as light as the silk she donned and Evienne makes a point to play with the ring resting on her left hand, "I am Evienne Goldcourt of Dali, though perhaps not for long. How may I help you Nisnav of Blairville?"
  15. Proprietor: Evienne Goldcourt Dali. Context Dali Designs has been a prominent name in Ursa Madeum’s Couture for centuries. Usually being tied to the Goldcourt branch of the house and armed with the Dali’s cloth manufacturing industry, it has been a reliable source of income and trends generation after generation. And, although the name has lost some of its clientele to the Uldwar house of threads with development of the panniered, corseted and pouf’d silhouette. With revolution comes new design philosophies, however, with Lady Evienne’s new slender silhouette, Dali Designs is once more creating waves. Purpose Embracing the natural form and moving towards freer less restrictive and more egalitarian clothing has always been the priority for Dali Designs, in step with the families more republican political views. As such even during Damien’s rule, and spearheaded by Prescot Goldcourt, Dali Designs promoted a simpler silhouette with the gaulle dress instead of the more elaborate court styles. With the fall of the empire, the mode has changed to simpler silhouettes borrowed from classical statues and portraits. The lack of rigidly boned stays, and the breathier fabrics have allowed for the ‘New Style’ to be afforded by all. No longer is what one wears dictated by their position in society, but whether they can afford it or not. Outlets. Mrs. Sedley’s Shop: In Andelusia, owned by a Mrs. Caroline Sedley, a former Opera girl. Almost exclusively sells designs from Dali, as well as cosmetics, hair pieces and other bobs. Dali Designs Atelier: Located three doors down from Mrs. Sedley’s Shop, a hub of activity and chaos. Affiliations The Andelusian High Tea Society, with a line of cosmetics called ‘Dear Dahlia’ being underworks. Investors: Goldcourt of house Dali. Quinton Swan.
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