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Multiple Settings 𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓥𝓪𝓷𝓰𝓾𝓪𝓻𝓭 (Main Thread)
- Thread starter BELIAL.
- Start date
StormWolf
Elder Member
The party, such as it was, wasn't really Roland's scene. Too many people he didn't know, too many men and women of lofty status and old money who would look down on a misplaced New Columbia boy. Still, after years in the mud, blood, and sand, and the last several months recovering on bed rest, courtesy of an Ottoman grenade, the cowboy was just happy be back on his own two legs. Back in the saddle, so to speak. Now, sure, it was on the courtesy of Lord Witchfinder-General Abraham Lindsey to the point one might call charity, but medical bills weren't cheap. Roland wasn't a sucker. He could smell the strings attached as sure as fresh horse shit, but he owed his benefactor and his fancy friends the benefit of the doubt.
It started simply enough, with the General tossing Roland the keys to one of the finest vehicles he'd ever laid hands on.
A finely polished Rolls-Royce limousine with leather seats one might expect in a gentleman's smoking room, six doors, and a polish so fine and clean that Roland could eat off it... not that he would. An even greater surprise was the new digs. If Roland was to represent the Witchfinder-General and his interests in any capacity, he was expected to look respectable. It irked Roland briefly that his Legion uniform was not considered respectable, but seeing as how it had been torn to tatters by shrapnel and likely burned, he decided not to air his consternation.
That, and the new wardrobe was a hefty investment. If someone was willing to spend a hundred clams on a suit, let alone a wardrobe of them, Roland figured he could bear to smell what they were shoveling. So, easy as pie, Roland sat behind the wheel and drove to the Baron's estate at the General's leisure.
When Roland heard 'manor', images of the great plantations in his home state sprang to mind. He expected painted wood and open, airy spaces, not the victorian brick and iron. To Roland, the Baron's manner might as well have been a castle! Roland had his stetson tipped back and his hands thrust into the pockets of his trousers with a low whistle. A low grunt from the General brought Roland back to the present, opening the door for the gentleman and leaving the bags for the valets. All but Roland's own bag - a tattered duffel and suitcase that had seen better days. They stood at odd ends with his crisp new three-piece suit, all in modest blues, black, and greys.
His quarters were... lavish. Fine wood paneling, a narrow turret window, and even a personal hearth. In the first days of his arrival, Roland made sure to acquaint himself with the house and the surrounding grounds as much as he could. He'd catch glances of the help here and there, most commonly the Baron's secretary with whom Roland felt a uniquely kindred connection. They were at the beck and call of men who were far too self-important for their own good. They hadn't had the chance to exchange any words beyond the passing pleasantry, but when the gentlemen broke for a meeting too rich or important for Roland's blood, he took his dismissal with a nod, pantomiming touching the brim of a hat he was no longer wearing.
"Very good, General Lindsey," Roland drawled in a voice that was all mesquite and molasses, his stormy blue-grey eyes - matching his suit - were keen and steady. He spared an additional moment for the Baron's secretary, dipping his head to the dark-skinned dame with the faintest flash of a dimple on his clean-shaven cheek, "Ma'am."
There was little else to do but kill time until the dinner bell was rung, and Roland saw no better place to do so than a fancy European study. Someplace quiet where he could rest his leg, have smoke or two, and help himself to whatever liquid hospitality they had at the bar. Oxford boots resounded soft as distant thunder in the spacious halls as Roland eased open the door to the mansion's library with the softest groan of hinges. Liberal application of oil, it seemed, was little in the face of age. Roland closed the door behind him with a gentle click.
Roland choked back a modest blasphemy when he gave the sizable study a quick sweep, spying a handsome young dame that he couldn't put a name to. She wasn't a member of the staff, she was dressed to well, and her posture was one of pride and privilege. Still, she looked about half as lost as Roland felt, so he figured he was in as right a place as any. Tapping out a cigarette, Roland nodded to the young lady whilst giving her another once over, eyes settling at the ankles, hips, and ribs. The look wasn't predatory or even penetrative, as it didn't linger. He was looking for weapons.
Some things couldn't switch off.
"Begging your pardon, ma'am. Care for a light?" He asked with all the casual grace of a tiger in repose. Striking a match on his boot heel, Roland lit up the cigarette with a few puffs. "Say, you wouldn't happen to know where the John that runs this joint keeps a drink?"
It started simply enough, with the General tossing Roland the keys to one of the finest vehicles he'd ever laid hands on.
A finely polished Rolls-Royce limousine with leather seats one might expect in a gentleman's smoking room, six doors, and a polish so fine and clean that Roland could eat off it... not that he would. An even greater surprise was the new digs. If Roland was to represent the Witchfinder-General and his interests in any capacity, he was expected to look respectable. It irked Roland briefly that his Legion uniform was not considered respectable, but seeing as how it had been torn to tatters by shrapnel and likely burned, he decided not to air his consternation.
That, and the new wardrobe was a hefty investment. If someone was willing to spend a hundred clams on a suit, let alone a wardrobe of them, Roland figured he could bear to smell what they were shoveling. So, easy as pie, Roland sat behind the wheel and drove to the Baron's estate at the General's leisure.
When Roland heard 'manor', images of the great plantations in his home state sprang to mind. He expected painted wood and open, airy spaces, not the victorian brick and iron. To Roland, the Baron's manner might as well have been a castle! Roland had his stetson tipped back and his hands thrust into the pockets of his trousers with a low whistle. A low grunt from the General brought Roland back to the present, opening the door for the gentleman and leaving the bags for the valets. All but Roland's own bag - a tattered duffel and suitcase that had seen better days. They stood at odd ends with his crisp new three-piece suit, all in modest blues, black, and greys.
His quarters were... lavish. Fine wood paneling, a narrow turret window, and even a personal hearth. In the first days of his arrival, Roland made sure to acquaint himself with the house and the surrounding grounds as much as he could. He'd catch glances of the help here and there, most commonly the Baron's secretary with whom Roland felt a uniquely kindred connection. They were at the beck and call of men who were far too self-important for their own good. They hadn't had the chance to exchange any words beyond the passing pleasantry, but when the gentlemen broke for a meeting too rich or important for Roland's blood, he took his dismissal with a nod, pantomiming touching the brim of a hat he was no longer wearing.
"Very good, General Lindsey," Roland drawled in a voice that was all mesquite and molasses, his stormy blue-grey eyes - matching his suit - were keen and steady. He spared an additional moment for the Baron's secretary, dipping his head to the dark-skinned dame with the faintest flash of a dimple on his clean-shaven cheek, "Ma'am."
There was little else to do but kill time until the dinner bell was rung, and Roland saw no better place to do so than a fancy European study. Someplace quiet where he could rest his leg, have smoke or two, and help himself to whatever liquid hospitality they had at the bar. Oxford boots resounded soft as distant thunder in the spacious halls as Roland eased open the door to the mansion's library with the softest groan of hinges. Liberal application of oil, it seemed, was little in the face of age. Roland closed the door behind him with a gentle click.
Roland choked back a modest blasphemy when he gave the sizable study a quick sweep, spying a handsome young dame that he couldn't put a name to. She wasn't a member of the staff, she was dressed to well, and her posture was one of pride and privilege. Still, she looked about half as lost as Roland felt, so he figured he was in as right a place as any. Tapping out a cigarette, Roland nodded to the young lady whilst giving her another once over, eyes settling at the ankles, hips, and ribs. The look wasn't predatory or even penetrative, as it didn't linger. He was looking for weapons.
Some things couldn't switch off.
"Begging your pardon, ma'am. Care for a light?" He asked with all the casual grace of a tiger in repose. Striking a match on his boot heel, Roland lit up the cigarette with a few puffs. "Say, you wouldn't happen to know where the John that runs this joint keeps a drink?"
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horses
ʕ•́ᴥ•̀ʔっ
coded by weldherwings.
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wickedlittlecritta
lord of misrule
Devin Murphy
Location: Bishop Manor Sitting Room| Mood: Masking Nerves with Intention|Interacting with: Open
While his father's house in Cork wasn't nearly so large, being in the Bishop Manor reminded Devin of it anyway. It wasn't comforting. He felt as if any moment someone would tell him there had been a mistake, and shove a tray in his hands, like being a servant was a smell that never came off. But this was England, not Cork, even though it didn't feel like the Irish Sea lay between them, in this moment.
He would have liked to slip out to the stables, to reground himself with the smell of hay and horse, to find his own pony and bother him until Trick inevitably got annoyed. If it were later in the night he could even justify it, when the drivers were all bored and gossiping around the garages and stables, when a smile and a cigarette could get them talking. He might be grateful enough not to be dead, but the baron was just one more Englishman trying to use him, and Devin was going to use him right back.
Pushing down the urge to apologize to a professionally cool server--I'm not one of them--Devin instead took the offered champagne with a smile and a thanks and considered who else he could pump for information, either on behalf of Ireland or himself. The older folks were surely no good--he was low class, Irish, in a flashy suit (pastels and no tie and florals, oh my!), and they probably wouldn't look at him unless they wanted another glass of champagne.
Their daughters, on the other hand, would find those same things intriguing, if nothing else. And important talk so often happened around them, by fathers who thought their pretty little heads would let it in one ear and out the other. But it never did.
There was a whole knot of them, maybe nineteen or so, looking bored in a downstairs sitting room. Devin drew his rather tattered pack of tarot cards from inside his jacket. No magic, the baron had said, and it rankled and chafed (what was the fucking point of all this, then?) but tarot wasn't magic, not the way his winds were. Tarot was just paper and ink and knowing how to tell a story. So maybe magic after all, but a different kind.
"Ladies," Devin said, flashing both his brightest smile and his cards. "You look positively disenchanted. Can I interest you in a fortune?"
From their giggles and sharp smiles, he suspected he could.
Hell0NHighWater
Queen of Hell
Cashi
New Member
code by valen t.
Ilya’s watch was wrong, and it was driving him up the wall.
It was a cheap, poorly made thing, and the leather strap was worn and discoloured where it sat against his tan wrist. A hairline crack fractured the edge, between the 2 and 3, and made it difficult to distinguish the hour to the minute should the hour have just begun. Fruitlessly, he shook the watch, as though it was simply throwing a tantrum and a good rattle would fix it.
Evidently, the time remained wrong. Precision mechanics were not necessarily Ilya’s forté, as his strengths lay in intricacies of a larger size. Sacha might have had an easier time with the minuscule cogs and wheels that made a clock tick, but Ilya was bereft of his friend and would, for the time being, have to live with a broken watch that had him descending the grand, sweeping staircase to the Great Hall late.
He alighted on the first floor, his thumb and forefinger searching under his jacket sleeve for the cuff of his dress shirt that had receded up his forearm. Ilya, too, would have liked to have receded back to his lodgings in this imposing estate, and avoided the formal dinner altogether. He was not altogether pleased with his current situation, however his mind cycled once more through the maddening train of thought that looped around his head.
If not here, then where? Back to the mechanic shop in that dark and festering quarter of the lower city, speaking one word a day, with no friends, and no future? He’d fixed so many automobiles and motorbikes and carriages he could have taken them apart and put them back together blindfolded. Sometimes, in his dreams, he did.
The worst part of being stuck in that shop was that Ilya knew he could do so much better--not just for himself, in life, but he could build better than what he fixed. Each night as he had gone to sleep on his too-small cot on the uppermost floor of the shop, Ilya had mapped blueprints in his head for quieter, more powerful engines, methods to keep radiators going even in winter without copious amounts of hot water, and most especially different ways of improving the general speed of automobiles, something better than a measly 20 miles per hour.
Even horses could do better than that.
When the Baron’s lackeys had arrived at Dominik’s--the owner of the autoshop--door, Ilya had resisted at first, before falling into the same cycle of thought that now clouded him as he passed through an elaborate, arched doorway. Staying in the shop as a poor, immigrant orphan had no prospects and did nothing for him; but the Vanguard...he could see doors opening into elite society, connections that would bolster him and raise him to achieve what he wanted most.
Doors like the ones in front of him that opened onto the Great Hall.
He caught his sleeve cuff and tugged it down, then smoothed his jacket front and uncomfortably slid a finger into his collar to loosen it ever so slightly. The room was too hot for him, but as he cast about his expression was as stern and icy as ever; though anyone who really knew him might have been able to identify the tautness around his mouth and the muscle that jumped in his jaw as nervousness.
His close-cropped blond hair had been gelled into submission, and he was clean-shaven for the soirée. The clothes on his back were some of the finest he’d ever worn, but they were tight across his chest and around his thighs, and Ilya had absolutely no idea if this was normal or not.
A man in glasses, who looked almost as uncomfortable as he was, leaned against a wall with his eyes closed, and seemed like a safe bet for an easy attempt at conversation, but as Ilya took one step towards him, a speedy, well-clothed shape spouting French rushed past, forcing a server to step wildly out of the way--directly into Ilya, whereupon he promptly spilled the contents of his tray down Ilya’s front.
Anger flared, warm, unbidden, and very familiar, like a hot, coiled viper that seethed in his gut and waited for any opportunity to emerge. Sound faded out as Ilya struggled to pull himself together, counting to 10 as slowly and controlled as he could. Adeen, dva, tree…..
When he came back to himself, the waiter was apologising profusely and offering Ilya his towel to wipe himself dry.
He braced a firm hand on the waiter’s shoulder and shoved, perhaps with more force then he’d intended, and stalked past, vision tunneling on the Frenchman who was now guzzling a bottle of champagne like it was the only drink he would ever have in his life again. Ilya thought, unkindly, how it might be, but that was the anger talking.
He stopped inches from the man, all 6 feet and then some casting a shadow from the glittering chandelier overhead.
Ilya tried counting again before he spoke, slowly and darkly.
”You ruin my shirt.”
It was a cheap, poorly made thing, and the leather strap was worn and discoloured where it sat against his tan wrist. A hairline crack fractured the edge, between the 2 and 3, and made it difficult to distinguish the hour to the minute should the hour have just begun. Fruitlessly, he shook the watch, as though it was simply throwing a tantrum and a good rattle would fix it.
Evidently, the time remained wrong. Precision mechanics were not necessarily Ilya’s forté, as his strengths lay in intricacies of a larger size. Sacha might have had an easier time with the minuscule cogs and wheels that made a clock tick, but Ilya was bereft of his friend and would, for the time being, have to live with a broken watch that had him descending the grand, sweeping staircase to the Great Hall late.
He alighted on the first floor, his thumb and forefinger searching under his jacket sleeve for the cuff of his dress shirt that had receded up his forearm. Ilya, too, would have liked to have receded back to his lodgings in this imposing estate, and avoided the formal dinner altogether. He was not altogether pleased with his current situation, however his mind cycled once more through the maddening train of thought that looped around his head.
If not here, then where? Back to the mechanic shop in that dark and festering quarter of the lower city, speaking one word a day, with no friends, and no future? He’d fixed so many automobiles and motorbikes and carriages he could have taken them apart and put them back together blindfolded. Sometimes, in his dreams, he did.
The worst part of being stuck in that shop was that Ilya knew he could do so much better--not just for himself, in life, but he could build better than what he fixed. Each night as he had gone to sleep on his too-small cot on the uppermost floor of the shop, Ilya had mapped blueprints in his head for quieter, more powerful engines, methods to keep radiators going even in winter without copious amounts of hot water, and most especially different ways of improving the general speed of automobiles, something better than a measly 20 miles per hour.
Even horses could do better than that.
When the Baron’s lackeys had arrived at Dominik’s--the owner of the autoshop--door, Ilya had resisted at first, before falling into the same cycle of thought that now clouded him as he passed through an elaborate, arched doorway. Staying in the shop as a poor, immigrant orphan had no prospects and did nothing for him; but the Vanguard...he could see doors opening into elite society, connections that would bolster him and raise him to achieve what he wanted most.
Doors like the ones in front of him that opened onto the Great Hall.
He caught his sleeve cuff and tugged it down, then smoothed his jacket front and uncomfortably slid a finger into his collar to loosen it ever so slightly. The room was too hot for him, but as he cast about his expression was as stern and icy as ever; though anyone who really knew him might have been able to identify the tautness around his mouth and the muscle that jumped in his jaw as nervousness.
His close-cropped blond hair had been gelled into submission, and he was clean-shaven for the soirée. The clothes on his back were some of the finest he’d ever worn, but they were tight across his chest and around his thighs, and Ilya had absolutely no idea if this was normal or not.
A man in glasses, who looked almost as uncomfortable as he was, leaned against a wall with his eyes closed, and seemed like a safe bet for an easy attempt at conversation, but as Ilya took one step towards him, a speedy, well-clothed shape spouting French rushed past, forcing a server to step wildly out of the way--directly into Ilya, whereupon he promptly spilled the contents of his tray down Ilya’s front.
Anger flared, warm, unbidden, and very familiar, like a hot, coiled viper that seethed in his gut and waited for any opportunity to emerge. Sound faded out as Ilya struggled to pull himself together, counting to 10 as slowly and controlled as he could. Adeen, dva, tree…..
When he came back to himself, the waiter was apologising profusely and offering Ilya his towel to wipe himself dry.
He braced a firm hand on the waiter’s shoulder and shoved, perhaps with more force then he’d intended, and stalked past, vision tunneling on the Frenchman who was now guzzling a bottle of champagne like it was the only drink he would ever have in his life again. Ilya thought, unkindly, how it might be, but that was the anger talking.
He stopped inches from the man, all 6 feet and then some casting a shadow from the glittering chandelier overhead.
Ilya tried counting again before he spoke, slowly and darkly.
”You ruin my shirt.”
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horses
ʕ•́ᴥ•̀ʔっ
coded by weldherwings.
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noonshine
Dingus McPingus
ROMAN GRAVES
Foliage- greenery- gardens, he had been subjected to one of the longest conversations of arboreal nonsense in his life. It was hard not to resent someone that could take up that much of his time with small talk and only be the father of someone who had risen to importance- an unlocatable figure in the crowd. Any excuse to leave was a welcome one- but with no one he knew near his escape was just a fast and kind lie.
“My apologies, I am enthralled and, of course, delighted to hear more about-... Forestry. However, I will have to find you once more later in the evening as I am sure I have just heard my name-” he took the man’s hand which extended to gesture to the room, giving it a firm shake as he continued to speak as not to be drawn in once more, “truly, a pleasure meeting you tonight an I am positive we will have more of these pleasantries- no, engaging conversations.”
By the time he could get a word in edgewise Roman had slipped away, weaving effortlessly through the guests, he plucked a glass of champagne from a tray as he parted from the drawing room to the hallway and closed himself in the furthest powder room from the festivities that was left unlocked.
He caught his own eyes in the mirror, standing in front of the sink of the powder room in an all encompassing silence, examining his eyelids as he leaned close to the mirror. His chest was tight- a nervousness fell over him after having left the conversation. Concerned with what the man actually may have thought- how that may affect him. Likely he was overthinking something that would not be discussed. He too, in some way, was a guest and eventually would have to leave conversations without devoting hours of thought to the ramifications of ignoring the ever important chat of grasses and shrubbery.
Reputation- too often on his mind. Jeremy Bentham had once written that reputation was the path to power- something along those lines. He remembered the eyelids of that severed head, a sort of memento mori he hoped to not be turned into himself when he'd met his end. Maybe a will stating that whatever was done to Bentham was not to be done to himself- anything else goes.
With some disdain he searched the mirror for signs of his own premortem preservation- only finding his eyes to be glassy and vacant as the ones placed in the severed head of Bentham- or so he thought in some projected vacancy upon himself.
Breaking the eye contact with his reflection he straightened up, and with no one around him he finished off the glass he’d brought quickly before making a few careful adjustments to his charcoal grey suit and pristine white dress shirt, tugging down his tailcoat at the waist. He gave his evening pumps a quick glance over to ensure that they had not been scuffed once more before fixing his hair.
He had wished he had more time to prepare for the event, but with only two days' notice he would have to manage with the evening wear he’d brought. Which was fine, in fashion enough- but some color would have been more suitable for the season.
That was it- all that needed to be done- there was no sense in continuing to fuss about his attire.
He composed himself with a deep breath, ready to engage- it had been some time since he had been to an event with quite as many names as this one. That, at least, was something to find excitement in. Conversation had been hard to come by in the more recent days- or at least with someone he wanted to have a conversation with- now there were options, plenty of people to ingratiate himself to. With any luck he may be able to find a moment with the Baron were he not surrounded constantly by other people. For such a recluse he was truly spreading his wings for the party.
With his head high he made his way back to the main hall, only to be met with a scene, and needless to say, it was something of a delight.
Roman’s eyes followed the scene, the tower of a man who was now soaked in champagne following the inebriate who had caused the ordeal. It felt like something of a skit already and if that was any indication of some impending violence he would not miss it.
He set his empty glass on a passing waiter’s tray and picked up a fresh one as he kept himself a comfortable distance. He may as well participate in some lite people watching before he made his way to socialize with some more manner people than they. An outburst would at least give him something to gossip about in a future conversation. Of course, some other eyes must have been on them for the very same reason. Idly, he sipped his second glass, brows raised in curiosity.
It was unfortunate he could not better hear them, but he dared not leave his spot against the wall by the doorway, it would, if needed, provide some room to move away from their possible altercation- and suddenly any chance at that was stripped away by another one of his fellow mages drifting in to break it all up. Roman's face fell- he didn't know any one of them well- but he'd seen him enough. It made sense- it said something good of his character- but he felt robbed of entertainment- that's not to say he did not think they wouldn't fight outside, but that it was much more noticeable if he were to follow them to see if they were going to fight outside.
Heaving a sigh, he weighed his options, a second glass suddenly, and easily finished.
TEMPLATE © BOKEH
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StormWolf
Elder Member
Location: Bishop Manner Library
Tags:
BELIAL.
A puff of cobalt-grey smoke and the subtlest flare of the match lit the carved-stone features of Roland’s face. A brief haze of his first puff swirled around his head, smelling of cognac amid the bouquet of the library – leather, paper, ink, and varnish. As the woman seemed to study Roland in the same manner he did with her, his faint smile endured, and the faintest growl of a chuckle bubbled up from somewhere deep in his chest.
“Most astute, ma’am. I didn’t even need to wear my spurs,” said Roland with dry bemusement. The match in his fingers still burned dangerously close to the skin, but if he felt the heat, he seemingly paid it no mind. There was a glittering brilliance in the woman’s eyes, one that spoke of mind and wit sharper than a razor. She had the air of a governess and had the same feline grace about her that Roland would have expected from a candy baron’s stock.
While Roland had never been one for wordplay, he would entertain in it this time. There was little else to do until mess was called. Taking another puff from his cigarette, Roland snuffed the match with a pinch of his calloused thumb.
“For a feller like me?” Roland echoed, taking his turn to quirk an eyebrow at the woman, “I’d call that a presumptuous assessment if it weren’t on the money,” he chuckled, sprinkling the ashen remains of the match into a looming arch of the mantel of the library’s hearth. For the life of him, Roland couldn’t imagine the necessity for so many fireplaces. Looking from his company to one of the servs in livery, there was a flash of that dimple in his cheek as he waved down the lass with the tray.
There was something to be said about a Brit with so many female staff, but Roland didn’t wish to seem an ungracious guest. “Excuse me, miss,” Roland said slowly, “Might could I bother you for a glass of gin if you have any in the cellar? I love champagne, but it don’t much like me back. You understand,” he was polite and smooth as silk, earning a smile and a curtsey from the servant. The brimming flutes didn’t even wobble. Roland was impressed.
“Bless you, darlin’. I’ll be right here,” he said with a faint touch to the girl’s elbow. Smirking as he watched her go, he turned back to Isolde with an empty voila gesture. There was a clatter from the Great Hall and the harsh murmur of voices – all strangers to him, but tension was universal.
Off to a fine goddamn start…
“I figure if I’m going to fortify my lungs with a cigarette, I might as well settle my stomach along with my temperament,” Roland mused, gesturing out towards the source of the commotion as if he was swatting at a fly, briefly flashing the butt of a massive heater holstered beneath his left armpit.
“However,” he drawled in a husky purr, “your powers of perception are three-for-three, ma’am. One of the kind gentlemen running this little circus saw fit to buy my commission when I was laid up with a quarter-pound of shrapnel in me. Being his valet for the duration is the least I can do, I reckon.” Roland took a long drag, exhaling through his nose. His posture had shifted instinctually; a subtle transformation that the astute onlooker would surely pick up. Feet evenly spaced, balanced on the balls of his feet like a cat with one eye on the entrance to the great hall. All he’d need to do is throw up his dukes and it would be the picture-perfect stance of a boxer.
“How’s about you, miss? You’re here and not in the morass for a reason, and I reckon it ain’t just the first edition of Monte Cristo on the shelf.”
Tags:
BELIAL.
A puff of cobalt-grey smoke and the subtlest flare of the match lit the carved-stone features of Roland’s face. A brief haze of his first puff swirled around his head, smelling of cognac amid the bouquet of the library – leather, paper, ink, and varnish. As the woman seemed to study Roland in the same manner he did with her, his faint smile endured, and the faintest growl of a chuckle bubbled up from somewhere deep in his chest.
“Most astute, ma’am. I didn’t even need to wear my spurs,” said Roland with dry bemusement. The match in his fingers still burned dangerously close to the skin, but if he felt the heat, he seemingly paid it no mind. There was a glittering brilliance in the woman’s eyes, one that spoke of mind and wit sharper than a razor. She had the air of a governess and had the same feline grace about her that Roland would have expected from a candy baron’s stock.
While Roland had never been one for wordplay, he would entertain in it this time. There was little else to do until mess was called. Taking another puff from his cigarette, Roland snuffed the match with a pinch of his calloused thumb.
“For a feller like me?” Roland echoed, taking his turn to quirk an eyebrow at the woman, “I’d call that a presumptuous assessment if it weren’t on the money,” he chuckled, sprinkling the ashen remains of the match into a looming arch of the mantel of the library’s hearth. For the life of him, Roland couldn’t imagine the necessity for so many fireplaces. Looking from his company to one of the servs in livery, there was a flash of that dimple in his cheek as he waved down the lass with the tray.
There was something to be said about a Brit with so many female staff, but Roland didn’t wish to seem an ungracious guest. “Excuse me, miss,” Roland said slowly, “Might could I bother you for a glass of gin if you have any in the cellar? I love champagne, but it don’t much like me back. You understand,” he was polite and smooth as silk, earning a smile and a curtsey from the servant. The brimming flutes didn’t even wobble. Roland was impressed.
“Bless you, darlin’. I’ll be right here,” he said with a faint touch to the girl’s elbow. Smirking as he watched her go, he turned back to Isolde with an empty voila gesture. There was a clatter from the Great Hall and the harsh murmur of voices – all strangers to him, but tension was universal.
Off to a fine goddamn start…
“I figure if I’m going to fortify my lungs with a cigarette, I might as well settle my stomach along with my temperament,” Roland mused, gesturing out towards the source of the commotion as if he was swatting at a fly, briefly flashing the butt of a massive heater holstered beneath his left armpit.
“However,” he drawled in a husky purr, “your powers of perception are three-for-three, ma’am. One of the kind gentlemen running this little circus saw fit to buy my commission when I was laid up with a quarter-pound of shrapnel in me. Being his valet for the duration is the least I can do, I reckon.” Roland took a long drag, exhaling through his nose. His posture had shifted instinctually; a subtle transformation that the astute onlooker would surely pick up. Feet evenly spaced, balanced on the balls of his feet like a cat with one eye on the entrance to the great hall. All he’d need to do is throw up his dukes and it would be the picture-perfect stance of a boxer.
“How’s about you, miss? You’re here and not in the morass for a reason, and I reckon it ain’t just the first edition of Monte Cristo on the shelf.”
idalie
ᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ʙᴀʙʏʟᴏɴ
Bernard King
The sun sunk beyond the horizon like a dampened hearth of glowing embers, streaking the sky with orange sparks before it crumbled away into night; rolling thick velvet and silver ash overhead. Bernard had been troubled with attending the gathering, leaning into the balcony whilst the newcomers mingled under the Baron’s wealth of vaulted ceilings and crystal chandeliers. Beneath the gold paint and warm gaslight, Isolde prowled circles of her Uncle’s acquaintances tirelessly as a socialite and woman of measure by all good reputation - that was to speak, when she wasn’t acting the hag that her beady little brown eyes betrayed her to be.
Deciding to take a turn about the room he narrowly missed the three gents headed for a smoke, or so he presumed, their faces betraying some sort of prior altercation. It seemed as if the Vanguard of which the Baron spoke would be considerably lesser than living myths he had proposed. Mages, in the military of all things, a defined war crime they had devised to use against the Kaiser's own violations. Berinhard wasn’t fool enough to fall for the governments hurried turnaround on the Maleficarum act, they needed the blasted war all tied up by Christmas for the sake of the Empire which crumbled under the straining wheels of great machines.
The whole thing was depressingly laughable, beginning with the empty cans of plum and apple jam that littered the frontlines to the chagrin of the soldiers there. He recalled heartily the frontlines, for you wouldn’t find kindness to spare by the time you crossed the channel. Home was without the horrors but withheld the spoils. Mayhaps he’d been driven mad to miss it, or because it was a thousand miles from England.
Adjusting his cuffs and collar, he paused a waiter slipping by for a tall glass of champagne to occupy himself, the other hand atop a slim cane which he’d carried occasionally under his arm and come to rest on when standing still of all things. A cripple was the last thing he desired to portray himself as, especially amongst the more able-bodied men that Bernard couldn’t help but bite his tongue at. Although the injury was well recovered, he’d become accustomed to carrying aid for when his leg began to ache and had since mourned his youthful agility.
Tipping back the drink, bubbles sank past his lips and set a healthy glow before he wandered across into the territory of the Baron's niece. The library had been occupied with conversation and it’s dark-haired mistress for a while now he could see, between her and the New Columbian lad who had turned up under the Witchfinder’s thumb. Of course, the temptation to ruin her little one on one soiree with a passing quip was a temptation he couldn’t forgo.
“Monte Cristo? Isolde can barely string together her thoughts, poor devil. Uncle says reading makes her vain, it’s why we can’t reduce the size of her forehead.” Berinhard dryly interjected, a pitying glance aimed at his childhood tyrant. “Apologies for the interruption, you two seemed to be getting on. You’re the lad from Columbia? I hope England is treating you well, but I’d watch out for its women. Unlike the roses we claim to have, there are plenty of adders beneath them.”
Hell0NHighWater
Queen of Hell
↽LOCATION⇁ ↽VIBES⇁
Bishop Manor; Great Hall Modern Day Cain
↽INTERACTIONS⇁ ↽OOC⇁
horses
&
Cashi
Nobody: Not a single soul on this Earth:
Val: Do it, pussy.
⑈ Valentin Auclair ⑈
...danger.
Snickering, he mumbled a curse under his breath as he began to lift the bottle back to his mouth.
”You ruined my shirt.”
Valentin stopped. The light was suddenly dwarfed by an enormous shadow. He blinked, confusion painting his features.
Slowly, Val tilted his head to scowl at the obstruction. His gaze a bit unfocused, too absorbed in the pleasantness of a buzz to acknowledge the barely contained rage emanating from an extremely intimidating man.
Ice blue irises tracked over the wet spot splattered across a dress shirt pulled tight over a well muscled chest. Val was fully aware that this man could snap him like a toothpick, but the idea didn’t seem to phase him much. If anything, it only made his grin grow a bit wider, "I really have no idea what you're talking about, mon grand, but it would not be the first time a man—such as yourself—has ruined a shirt or two in my presence."
Valentin paused for the dramatic effect before continuing, the corner of his mouth hitching even higher, "Are you sure it wasn't a ghost?"
He snickered, tilting the bottle back to his lips for another desperately needed swig.
An unfamiliar hand suddenly latched itself onto his shoulder, causing Val to choke on the liquor he had just poured into his mouth.
"You'll have to excuse my friends here. Tensions are high, what with the war and all that. And we've all had a bit much to drink, wouldn't you say?” A man in glasses, coincidentally the same one he had awkwardly locked eyes with a few minutes prior, seemed to have taken the liberty of intervening. Though Val wasn’t precisely sure what for, it wasn’t like this guy was going to hit him.
...Right?
“Too much?” Val sputtered, “Merde, I just start—”
“Now, if you'll excuse us, I think we all need a bit of fresh air. Thank you for the champagne. Have a lovely evening," Glasses-man continued, attempting and succeeding to steer Valentin in some unknown direction; "Come on then, lads. Let's step outside for a moment."
“Out—wait—I’m going to need another drink!” Val turned to the side, trying to wiggle out of the stranger's grasp. He extended his free hand back toward the server, his voice hitching enough octaves to be considered a desperate whine, “Ne les laisse pas me prendre!”
Instead of reacting, the server rushed back to work probably eager to be as far away from them as possible. Crestfallen at the abandonment of the booze supplier, Valentin renewed his efforts to break free. But after being unsuccessful in every attempt to escape, Valentin begrudgingly allowed himself to be ushered forward.
“Wait, why are we going outside? Is this about his stupid shirt?”
He tried to stop walking but he was only dragged forward. Val stumbled over his own feet for a second, barely regaining his balance as he whirled a finger toward the tallest of the trio, “Accidents happen, mon grand, it’s part of life’s chaotic adventure! You can’t possibly blame me for circumstances completely out of my control...I was being chased you see, and...”
Shaking his head rapidly, Val returned to the point with an exhausted huff, “It’s a shirt, mon grand, just fucking buy a new one. I’m sure for someone like you, a few hundred pounds is no different than spare change.”
A smug, almost provocative, smile spread across his lips as he tilted his head up to look the taller man in the eye. A sliver of fear rushed down his spine, but it only seemed to invigorate the taunting glint in his eyes. Val's voice dipped into a murmur, "But by all means, if hitting me will get your rocks off, then do it."
wickedlittlecritta
lord of misrule
Devin Murphy
Location: Bishop Manor Sitting Room| Mood: Intrigued|Interacting with: Valentin (
Hell0NHighWater
)
Location: Bishop Manor Sitting Room| Mood: Intrigued|Interacting with: Valentin (
Hell0NHighWater
)
The arrival of the Frenchman was both unexpected and unwelcome, mostly because of the illiteracy sneer. But there was hardly a moment to gather a response before he swore and fled. Devin watched him go, eyebrows going higher and higher. "Well," he said, when the room was still again. "The French may know Dumas, but the British know how to hold their liquor, at least."
That was enough to break the tension, and the girls giggled again. He hated calling himself British, even if it was worth it to put present company at ease. Devin didn't actually think the Frenchman was drunk. He'd seen drunks before. This was something else entirely. He slipped a card from his deck and only glanced at it before sliding it back. He didn't need to see more than the top of the yellow moon to have his suspicions cemented.
It wasn't Dumas, but Shakespeare who came to mind then. Is this a dagger which I see before me?
Who the hell did the Frenchman think he was speaking with?
Devin suspected that he'd just had a very inauspicious first meeting with one of his fellow magicians.
But Devin put the strange encounter from his mind and returned his attention to the cards, setting his champagne down on an end table and settling into a chair like this was his sitting room, drawing one tattered card after another for his amused audience. Four of pentacles for the girl in last season's dress. Your hard work will bear fruit. Seven of swords for the brunette with a sharp gaze. What happened in the dark will come into the light. Two of cups for the doe-eyed girl with a new diamond. You're about to be swept off your feet, and it's lovely, but make sure your head is still your own. Judgement for the girl with the pursed lips. You can bathe in all the milk and honey you like, but it won't make you holy. And he watched their faces as they spoke, seeing relief or concern or hope or doubt cross them at his words.
It wasn't telling the future so much as it was telling their present. And they could listen or believe or discard him as a fraud. It didn't matter, in the end.
As he read, they talked. Most of them had as little idea as he did about the whys of the party, beyond the unveiling of the Vanguard, which oddly put him more at ease. It wasn't just the magicians being kept in the dark.
"Are you one of the magicians?" the doe-eyed girl asked him. Her friend with the sharp eyes rolled them.
"What, you think the Germans are going to be scared off by bits of cardboard?"
"I've got more than card tricks up my sleeve," Devin said, riffle shuffling the deck and favoring her with a bright smile that she didn't return.
wickedlittlecritta
lord of misrule
"Oh, táim go maith, agus tú féin, mo chara?" Devin said, as if Delvin had asked him something polite. Delvin was a solid, sensible fellow, and Devin was sure he drove Delvin as mad as Delvin sometimes drove him, but there was undeniable solidarity in being the only two Irishmen here, which made them family, if not necessarily friends. "Have a drink. Champagne. For celebrating, you know." He passed Delvin his own half-finished glass. "You're in a mood for being at a party."
The girls had evidently had enough, and were making their way from the sitting room in a quest for less interesting company. "Slán," Devin called after them, and the girl who'd gotten Judgement gave him a dirty look. He grinned back at her. Ah. He was political now, no doubt. No one spoke Gaeilage unless they meant to, these days.
Devin looked back at his mopey friend and asked, "You wanna tell me about it?" He stopped shuffling and drew a single card. Seven of wands. Devin looked at the image, of a single soldier setting defenses, and then back up at Delvin. He tapped the edge of the card against the arm of his chair.
"You're thinking of the cards wrong," he said. "They aren't magic. Not properly. They just tell a story." The trouble was that he and Delvin were two different flavors of Irishman. Delvin was the farmer who'd crawled up out of the peat, and he was the poet breezing through. Earth and wind. "You got in a fight," Devin finished, which he didn't think was strictly true in fact, but felt the truest way to put it, emotionally.
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Cashi
New Member
code by valen t.
The quiet rushing in Ilya's ears grew to a roar that drowned out the orchestra in the background, the idle chatter of the fancy guests in their expensive clothes and glittering diamonds. Luxury dripped from these people like honey from a vine. They probably never had to worry about money for medecine or what one's back and legs felt like after a full day of physical labour.
A pair of women nearby had dropped to whispers as they looked on with scandalised awe. One of them snapped open a fan to say something privately to her companion.
No, he was sure none of these people had had a difficult day in their lives, especially the woman holding the fan, with her soft looking skin and fine, snappable wrists.
Fine and snappable like this man's neck as he stood languidly in front of him, seemingly not at all cowed unlike other men his size had been.
Ilya re-focused himself, beyond capacity for speech, his fists clenching and unclenching as he debated taking the inebriate into a wall.
"...-cuse my friends. Tensions are high, what with the war and all that."
A light, but firm, hand on his arm grounded Ilya enough that some of the tension faded from his shoulders. He turned his head slowly, to look at the hand on him, staring hard at it as though it were some figment of his imagination. After a few heartbeats, his gaze traveled down the man's arm to his face, where recognition kindled in his brain. This was the man Ilya had been about to speak with before this blundering Frenchman had ruined the only nice shirt he had with his reckless careening about fancy halls.
A stern pressure against his shoulder inidcated that the bespectacled man wanted Ilya to follow him out of doors.
For a few moments, he didn't budge, planted firmly in place by anger and an illogical need to fight back. Then he let go of the breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding and allowed himself to be guided out of doors, along with the other man, who cried out in a mix of French and English.
Once out of doors, the Frenchman rounded on him, waving a fine-boned finger in his face. One Ilya had to strongly resist crushing into his fist.
The muscle in his cheek jumped again as he worked his jaw, taking a breath he tried to consider soothing as it filled his chest over a span of several seconds. He shifted his stance and leaned in to the shorter man, speaking with as much control as he could muster.
"I can't get new shirt."
At this point Ilya didn't even know what he wanted done about his shirt, whether he wanted an apology or for the cost of cleaning or a new shirt to be covered--anger didn't work like that. All Ilya knew was he was mad, and he didn't want to back down.
"But by all means, if hitting me will get your rocks off, then do it."
The tension swelled between them as neither man flinched or looked away. Then Ilya leaned back, shifting his weight again, and said simply, "Okay."
The thought that, perhaps, the Baron would not look kindly upon a fight breaking out in his Vanguard on the first day of introductions did not occur to Ilya as he began to hitch up his sleeve and place one foot slightly back to roll into the right hook he was winding up.
"Clench your teeth."
A pair of women nearby had dropped to whispers as they looked on with scandalised awe. One of them snapped open a fan to say something privately to her companion.
No, he was sure none of these people had had a difficult day in their lives, especially the woman holding the fan, with her soft looking skin and fine, snappable wrists.
Fine and snappable like this man's neck as he stood languidly in front of him, seemingly not at all cowed unlike other men his size had been.
Ilya re-focused himself, beyond capacity for speech, his fists clenching and unclenching as he debated taking the inebriate into a wall.
"...-cuse my friends. Tensions are high, what with the war and all that."
A light, but firm, hand on his arm grounded Ilya enough that some of the tension faded from his shoulders. He turned his head slowly, to look at the hand on him, staring hard at it as though it were some figment of his imagination. After a few heartbeats, his gaze traveled down the man's arm to his face, where recognition kindled in his brain. This was the man Ilya had been about to speak with before this blundering Frenchman had ruined the only nice shirt he had with his reckless careening about fancy halls.
A stern pressure against his shoulder inidcated that the bespectacled man wanted Ilya to follow him out of doors.
For a few moments, he didn't budge, planted firmly in place by anger and an illogical need to fight back. Then he let go of the breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding and allowed himself to be guided out of doors, along with the other man, who cried out in a mix of French and English.
Once out of doors, the Frenchman rounded on him, waving a fine-boned finger in his face. One Ilya had to strongly resist crushing into his fist.
The muscle in his cheek jumped again as he worked his jaw, taking a breath he tried to consider soothing as it filled his chest over a span of several seconds. He shifted his stance and leaned in to the shorter man, speaking with as much control as he could muster.
"I can't get new shirt."
At this point Ilya didn't even know what he wanted done about his shirt, whether he wanted an apology or for the cost of cleaning or a new shirt to be covered--anger didn't work like that. All Ilya knew was he was mad, and he didn't want to back down.
"But by all means, if hitting me will get your rocks off, then do it."
The tension swelled between them as neither man flinched or looked away. Then Ilya leaned back, shifting his weight again, and said simply, "Okay."
The thought that, perhaps, the Baron would not look kindly upon a fight breaking out in his Vanguard on the first day of introductions did not occur to Ilya as he began to hitch up his sleeve and place one foot slightly back to roll into the right hook he was winding up.
"Clench your teeth."
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horses
ʕ•́ᴥ•̀ʔっ
coded by weldherwings.
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noonshine
Dingus McPingus
ROMAN GRAVES
There was no following them- not without making some heinous social misstep and letting himself be seen as someone that would follow a fight as though he were some rowdy child eyeing a boxing match. Of course, watching them fight was his intention but not if it gave them some idea that he was an instigator. Although in some situations he was an instigator, he preferred that part of himself to remain under wraps unless it was an advantageous situation in which ‘stirring the pot’ would be quite necessary.
Roman set down his empty glass on some side table, trying to briefly enjoy the room in it’s warm glow of candlelight, a gentle haze washing over him. Although it would be impossible to tell that he was enjoying himself, standing stiff as a board, his pointed gaze making way around the room as though he were biding his time to pounce on some unsuspecting small animal given the chance. He was coming to accept the discontent that was settling in his stomach as he searched the room for any indication that there was room in a conversation for another, any shoulder that was turned outward and before he knew it he himself was swept into some conversation.
Did he need another glass? Certainly not. Did he take the one that was offered to him by this… woman? Yes.
“I would never say no,” with some gratitude he gently took the stem of the flute from her, “but please, let me accompany you to find another.”
Eyeing the way her suit hung limp on her as though she were just a hanger taking place for someone’s rather casual evening dress- he took a sip before he could purse his lips in some quizzical disdain for the ensemble- this party was not what he expected and she of all people truly marked what the evening has begun to feel like. She was- in posture and presentation- reminiscent of some Commedia stock character- perhaps a Zanni- perhaps Truffaldino- but modern. That is to say he felt as though she looked to be some sort of clown that had looked in the mirror before putting on makeup and said 'why not a more natural look today'.
There was no way he was going to step away from her, not yet, her accent, after all, was intriguing- a travelers articulation. He was sure he’d seen her before- in some way- she was likely another one of the mages.. Mages, he was beginning to have some disdain for that word. Regardless, he had to know where she was from and he did not want that to be the affronting question of their first of what could be multiple meetings if she was someone he was going to train with.
Dragging his eyes away from her he spotted a servant carrying a quickly emptying tray, but one of the few in the room for at least the moment, and pointed to her with his champagne flute in hand.
“And who do I have the pleasure of drinking with tonight?” he asked, picking up the pace toward the tray of drinks floating about the other party goers, expecting she join him in the walk.
GLASS COUNT: 3
@
L0ck0n
TEMPLATE © BOKEH
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Hell0NHighWater
Queen of Hell
↽LOCATION⇁ ↽VIBES⇁
Bishop Manor; Balcony I'm not a good person
↽INTERACTIONS⇁ ↽OOC⇁
horses
&
Cashi
Nobody: Not a single soul on this Earth:
Val: Cigarette?
⑈ Valentin Auclair ⑈
He’d always been fond of balconies. As a child, he felt that if he could only manage to stand on one long enough, the right one, perhaps wearing a long white kimono-cut cloak, preferably during the first quarter of the moon, something would happen: music would sound, a shape would appear below, sinuous and dark, and climb towards him. All the while he would lean fearfully, hopefully, gracefully, against the wrought-iron railing and quiver.
But this wasn't a very romantic balcony. Plus, the only sinuous and dark shapes climbing towards him were typically dead.
"I can't get new shirt."
Valentin’s rich blue irises swung back to the giant, his brows lifting so high that they threatened to meet his hairline. “Why?” he inquired with a small quirk to his lips, “Did you leave your coin purse at home?”
None of his thinly veiled taunts seemed to provoke any action, at least not immediately. The tower of a man shifted every so often, exuding hostility with what Val thought to be an emotionally constipated face.
"Okay." The mountainous force of rage said as he began to hitch up his sleeve.
“Okay,” he echoed with a sharp smile.
Valentin watched as his attacker slid one foot back, amping up for an undoubtedly mean right hook. “Clench your teeth."
He nodded eagerly.
"My god, sir, stop it!" The man in glasses slid in between the two of them with the aura of an extremely upset parent.
Hardly paying him any attention, Val poked his head around the other man’s shoulder so that he could once again make proper eye contact with the russian. A grin spread over his face as he turned his head to the side for the other man to have a better target, “Don’t miss, mon grand! It’d be a shame to ruin my pretty face with a poorly aimed punch.”
"Seriously, do you two really want to embarrass yourselves like this?"
Valentin’s mildly offended snort devolved into a slightly nasally chuckle, his gaze darting back to the man in the middle, “Oui, this is the whole point no?”
"I can tell that none of us feel as though we fit in at this event, but I'd rather not make it anymore obvious than I'm sure it already is to these fancy bastards.”
“Are you not a fancy bastard, monsieur?”
"C'mon on then, lads. Why don't you both shake hands and apologize, and we can all head back inside?"
Val was silent for a moment, swaying a bit on his feet as he reached the peak of his buzz. His gaze shifted between both men. His shoulders lifted into a shallow shrug, hand dipping into the pocket of his jacket to retrieve a bright baby-blue box of Cauloises Caporal cigarettes.
“I have no control over that which afflicts me, mon grand.” He murmured, placing a stick of tobacco between his lips before continuing, “And for that, I will not apologize. However, I will say that I am sorry your lovely shirt was stained.”
Val watched the taller man carefully for a moment, pressing his lips together as he struggled to gauge his reaction. “If you still intend to break my face, I would prefer it if you were to do so before I light my cigarette.”
He paused before sliding the box back into his jacket, his gaze bobbing between the two men. Flicking the top flap off, he extended the open cartridge toward them a bit hesitantly, “If not, I suppose this is where we offer introductions, then?”
[/color]
noonshine
Dingus McPingus
ROMAN GRAVES
They covered the room at an astonishing pace for her to pluck a champagne flute from a tray full of them. His eyes lingered on the tray for a moment, marveling at the way the light in the room looked through the bubbling liquid, distorted by each glass. The server left his line of sight and he returned his attention to Vasilis. He tapped their glasses together, the sound almost inaudible over the sudden swell in the music. She was another mage, just as expected- one of the people he would likely have to get to know regardless of the way in which he would like to behave around other people. She was different at least, someone that he felt as though he could engage with with some genuine interest.
She also seemed to have gab- not the gift of it, but definitely the gab- he could feel his neck tense in a moment of sudden animosity, mind hooking into the words that had just come out of her mouth. Out of place? Like it was the first of these events he had been to? Did he come across that way? He certainly didn’t think so until now- and it was not at all something that was true of him. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up and he looked to the glass in his own hand briefly before looking back at her, trying to maintain his cool and composed smile- his lips twitched as though he was holding back his tongue from some lashing that fronted in his mind. He sipped the champagne, knowing she had just handed it to him only made it bitter to him now.
“Roman Graves,” he introduced himself, regardless, once again the idea that he would be spending a great deal of time with these other mages dawned on him. The room felt smaller. “We will be seeing quite a bit of each other, I imagine,” acidic in tone he clicked his tongue, before finishing his glass, still speaking to the blonde, expecting her to follow him, “a mage as well.”
“Where are you from?” Another glass of champagne was quickly acquired, his eyes darting around the hall as he began to search for some way to escape once he had finished speaking with her. Some part of him suddenly gripped at his gut begging him to prove that he did in fact belong in this space- but how could he show her his pedigree by action- there was no way. “Unusual accent for a Greek- pardon my assumption of the name. It is Greek, correct?”
Glass Count: 4
L0ck0n
TEMPLATE © BOKEH
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StormWolf
Elder Member
Roland MacCann
A stranger’s voice from Roland’s blind spot sent a wave of frigid prickling from the soldier’s scalp slithering down his spine. He could feel his hackles prickle momentarily, forcing them back down after a moment with a shrug of tension in Roland’s shoulders. Just as with Isolde, Roland gave the gentleman a once-over from head to toe, measuring posture and gauging intent. The fellow’s familiarity was untoward, and insufferably High Class British. Roland was an old-fashioned sort, and such talk to a lady rankled him so.
The quirk in Roland’s eyebrow settled into a furrow, stifling his rancor with a long draw on his cigarette. “Yessir,” Roland said plainly to the man’s question, voice rough in an exhalation of smoke that curled and twisted from his moth and nose. He’d refilled his lungs with a breath to rebuke the fellow, but the woman – Isolde – the fellow had called her, was quicker on the verbal draw.
Now this was familiar. Oh, how the land-owners and industry moguls of New Columbian high society also engaged in such back-handed verbal fencing, limp-wristed as it was. Looking between the two as Isolde needled the gentleman back, Roland started to put pieces together. The prodding was mutually nuanced, implying some history.
Most interesting…
“I’ll take your words of warning under advisement, mister. I appreciate your example, but even a simple country boy like me,” Roland hooked a thumb casually at his chest, eyes lighting when the serving girl swept by with a fine glass of gin, departing just as quickly as she came. Clever girl.
“…knows not to grab a snake by tail, let alone shake it.” Pausing for a long sip of the gin, Roland let it roll down his throat with a pleasant burn. It wasn’t whiskey or bourbon, but it was fine enough at taking the edge off. If all the finely-dressed folks in here were mages, the lot of them were far too uppity.
“Folks give snakes a bad rap, anyway. Sleek, lithe, and graceful creatures. The prettier they are, the quicker they’ll kill you.” Roland said with a smile like a tiger’s.
“And rather than y’all calling me ‘The New Columbian’, we should at least pretend like we’re at a nice party, and since y’all have given names,” He extended a hand, knuckles pitted with scars with callouses rough as saddle leather,
“Roland MacCann. Pleased to meet you, Bernard. Charmed, Miss Isolde.” His smile endured, never quite touching his eyes.
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