Multiple Settings 𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓥𝓪𝓷𝓰𝓾𝓪𝓻𝓭 (Main Thread)

[Hell0NHighWater]

↽LOCATION⇁ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎↽MUSIC TO SET THE MOOD⇁
Bella's Room > Chapel ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎ Lola Blanc - Don’t Say You Do

↽INTERACTIONS⇁ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎↽OOC⇁
Cashi | ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎Sorry I am armed with one braincell
‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

⫷ Arabella de Montagu ⫸​

After Isolde had made her rather abrupt exit, there wasn’t much to do but sit back and finish her tea. A couple hours past and after Roman left, Arabella resigned herself to the list of tasks she had written out for herself. The letter that she had composed to her Father was a lot shorter than she had originally intended; A brief statement of facts without a note of sincerity or remorse. She would not pretend to be broken up about the impossibility of being able to uphold the arrangement that had been decided at her birth, and she told him just that. Without fear of repercussions. William de Montagu was an ocean away and by the time he even received the letter it would be too late.

She would no longer owe Edwin Howe anything--least of all her good nature.

Arabella was half way through her third draft of the venomous letter to her previously betrothed when Isolde showed up again. Although she had completely forgotten that she had agreed to do the other woman’s hair, Bella was rather thankful for the interruption. It gave her time to simmer in a newfound elation of hatred.

The call to the chapel was daunting. She had been so distracted that she hadn’t had the time to truly digest everything that was happening and now that she was here…

Draped in white silk, Arabella felt utterly ridiculous sitting in that tiny room listening to the Baron prattle a reminder about the union’s true nature. She was not comforted by his words, in fact, she might have preferred it if he hadn’t spoken at all. The faster they were done with this mess, the faster she could get out of this dress and go to sleep. If only it weren’t impolite to fall asleep at social functions.

Bella blanched at the sound of her name. Her body refused to move for a moment longer than it should have, legs weighted by dread. While on the outside she remained perfectly composed, every step hurtled her mind further and further into chaotic panic. A swirl of anxieties, probabilities, and insecurities threatened to overwhelm her entirely. What if she had made the wrong choice? What if, in thinking that she had found a loophole, she had really traded one gilded cage for another? What if this partnership somehow did to her what her father had done to her mother?

Coming to a complete stop at the center of her respective symbol, she kept her gaze narrowed on the floor. Her stomach churned and for a moment she thought she might hurl all over Mr. Zabolotsky’s shoes. While the thought was entertaining, Bella knew better. She’d decidedly rather choke on her own vomit than give anyone the satisfaction in seeing her in such a state. Consciously flexing her right hand, she ignored the pain of her nails biting into the palm of her hand.

Arabella cast her eyes at Ilya just long enough to catch the unseeing, glazed, look in his eye and the slight sag in his posture. She bristled. In the brief time that they had known each other, she had never seen him in such a state; she had begrudgingly been around Valentin enough to know just what the dilated pupils and fine sheen of sweat meant, but he was horrendously open about his drug use. For Mr. Zabolotsky, this was extremely unusual.

A pinch of concern made the corners of her mouth droop. Bella opened her mouth to ask him if he was feeling okay, but promptly shut it the moment she heard the shutter of a camera. Her gaze shifted back to the Baron, awaiting further instruction while hiding her rampaging emotions behind a near expressionless mask.






[/color]

 

[idalie]

Location: Study - Chapel
Interactions: BELIAL.
Mentions: StormWolf Cashi Hell0NHighWater

Bernard King​

The wedding was a festering wound in King’s psyche, weeping all sorts of unusual thoughts and malevolent impulse. There had been no letters to write, no family to inform, just a room occupied by a man who wasn’t all there. Angry at what the Baron had asked them to do, angrier still the fact he had bound himself to the Bishops through duty and by duty he slaved. A twisted perversion of the marital bliss he’d never gotten with Beatrice. Intimately and forever tied to his lover’s sister. He grieved for them both during those hours which lead up to the matrimony, hunched over his desk with an empty stare and white-knuckled fists.

Shakily, he had turned Bea’s picture facedown. It had sat as a comforting reminder of his fiancee for years in the corner of his personal study. Now, her unblinking and doe-eyed stare threw accusations, following his pacing from one end of the room to the other. It was a day to put the dead to rest, no matter where they lay between heaven and hell.

Solemnly, Bernard mulled on what it would mean to be out on the Western Front with Isolde as his newest charge. Watching over her as Beatrice would have wanted, or rather, as he had failed to do for the woman he’d dedicated his youth to loving. Roland's relations toward Isa weighed on him only in fear he would whisk her from European shores instead of assuming responsibility of the familial reputation and perhaps, in fear of being alone again. The Bishops were his kin, even after all those years of infighting and tension, they were the few relations he had left and none of them by blood.

Dressing in his attire for the evening, the deep cut tunic and high waisted trousers harking back to a romantic novella with plain flamboyancy in the frills, thudding ticks of the grandfather clock marked the march of minutes and seconds to lifelong debt in the name of the King. Polished up and pristine for the photographs, King found himself tended to by a valet for any smudges or off awry buttons before he made his way to the small, familiar chapel. He had prayed there every sabbath since he was a boy, continuing even after he was discharged from service with little faith in anything but the comfort those stone walls had offered.

Now it seemed suffocating, overrun by the Vanguard’s presence and the Baron’s empty speech. Of all the Latin phrases he could’ve used, it reminded Berinhard of the greek poet Horace’s the most. Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori - the old lie.

He betrayed not a trace of his thoughts, ones which rapidly spun about his head as wool on a loom; standing with his shoulders pinned back and chest proud, yet his eyes gazed upward to the stained glass portrait of the Virgin Mary, illuminated by the moon’s soft glow. Called first to stand with the Russian and his partner, Bernard moved to find his place on the pentagram and not once did it appear he was looking toward Isolde. She was a good looking girl, her temperance enough to put an artist's muse to shame, but there was an echo of Beatrice in her appearance and resounding guilt that ate away at his resolve whenever he was reminded of the situation they found themselves.

 

[StormWolf]

Location: The Bishop Estate; Roland’s Quarters | The Chapel

Interactions: --

Roland MacCann​

Tick-tock, tick-tock went Roland’s watch on the bedside table, a mocking metronome that marched closer and closer to that dreaded hour. The phantom sweetness of Isolde’s kiss and caress lingered on Roland’s skin long after she had to depart to prepare for the shameful charade. What she left behind was the warmth in Roland’s sheets, the smell of her rose-and-honey perfume on his pillow, and a bittersweet ache.

It was about that time…

Roland swung his legs out of bed, bare toes curling against the persian rug as his eyes followed the swirling arabesque patterns. The flickering light seemed to make the scarlet lines at his naked back and the surly bite at the nape of his neck glow. As much as Roland loathed the circumstances ahead, he was thankful it was a black tie event, in this case.

Three choices stood out in Roland’s wardrobe; his military fatigues, his suit the day he arrived, or the true formal wear, best suited to a funeral or a night at the opera. Since that night at the theatre did not seem forthcoming, Roland decided on the most formal of the three. He was not, after all, part of the menagerie of ruffles and lace, but would still be expected to take part.

Black suit in three pieces and matching necktie, Roland’s suit was rounded out with polished black roper boots. He gazed at himself in the full body mirror, unwilling to meet the reflection of his eyes. He looked like the town undertaker, which seemed fitting. Should he round the whole image out and strap his big iron on his hip for the press as well?

A polite knock at Roland’s door brought him out of the cesspool of his own thoughts.

“Mister MacCann, the hour is nigh. Are you ready?” A prim and smoky voice, Rycroft, the head of staff in the Manor. Roland had seen him about, spoken to him only briefly. He gave a noncommittal grunt, and there was a pause,

“Sir, are you decent?” Rycroft asked, insistent.

“I’m dressed,” Roland replied, and was sure he heard a tut of austere humor on the other side of the door,

“But of course, sir. And they said you cannot be taught. If I may?” The question was a formality as the door swung open. Rycroft was an imperious older gentleman, his stiff upper lip pressed into a tight line beneath the fading luster of his mustache. “Oh, no, Mister MacCann. This simply will not do.” Rycroft gave a soft shake of his head, his face soured in disapproval at Roland’s dour dress.

“You appear dressed for a funeral, old boy.” Rycroft seemed to float across the room, tracked by the cold blue of Roland’s eyes every inch.

“I wasn’t aware those of us outside the ritual had a dress code, Rycroft,” Roland muttered, tugging unconsciously at his tail coat.

“Not so much, sir, no, but one must always exceed expectations if you wish to get anywhere in this world.” Rycroft snapped his fingers, and an adjunct member of the staff came in with a bag on a hanger. “I took the liberty of having this tailored. Much better than the penguin coat you have, I think.”

Furrowing his brow, Roland took the hanger by the hook on his finger, and Rycroft dismissed the staff as surely with another snap of his gloved fingers. Inside the bag was a Kashmir frock coat of deepest black with the occasional glimmer of metallic lurex thread , the inseam lining hewn of scarlet silk. Blood in the starry night. How apropos. Roland shrugged out of his old jacket to try the new coat. It fit like a dream, hanging to Roland’s mid-calves with silver buttons in twos at the breast and cuffs, cut in the latest fashion of an austere New Colombian gentleman. Puritan, practical, and poised.

“An improvement, but you still need a touch of color. Ah! This will do nicely,” Rycroft said, snatching a bolt of fabric from the desk chair to drape over Roland’s broad shoulders like a shawl. It was a scarlet scarf, one of a kind. Her scarf.

“Perfect…” Rycroft said, his voice almost a growl. Roland’s eyes flashed to the mirror, steel and iron clashing in the reflection as the butler’s firm hands wiped away errant lint and tugged away crinkles in the fabric.

“Come now, Mister MacCann, I am not blind, nor am I deaf. If you can manage to exist outside of your own little world for a moment, you might learn a great deal from simply listening, on occasion.” Rycroft rounded on Roland, straightening the gunslinger’s tie.

“A small statement can go a long way. The subtle knife can cut to the quick better than a battleaxe. Keep your chin up and your wits about you, sir,” said Rycroft. Roland scoffed, earning a quirking of an imperious eyebrow,

“With respect, Rycroft, I think that ship’s long sailed,” Roland said, his hands flexing by his sides. The butler paused, taking Roland’s chin on one knuckle, looking down his nose into Roland’s eyes. The man wasn’t taller than Roland, per se, but he had an air about him,

“With similar respect, Mister MacCann, you’ve got nobody but yourself to blame for your malaise. Losers talk about doing their best. Winners bed the queen,” Rycroft mused, smiling at Roland’s blanching. “Grasp your bootstraps and pull yourself up by them, old boy. Be the lion and suffer not the lamb in you nor about you any further. It is unbecoming. If I can manage this house at my age, you can handle a few witches and wizards, and the aggravating whimsy of high society.” A gloved hand clapped Roland on the cheek, hard as a mallet beneath the fabric.

“Put a comb and pomade through your hair, sir, and I think you will be fit for the camera.”

* * *​

Roland was situated in the front three rows of the chapel, looking every part the man in black. Rycroft had ensured that one of the girls on staff came by and doctored Roland’s appearance despite his protests. Concealer and powder covered the bruises on his face enough to just make Roland look merely harrowed, rather than splotched with bruises.

The tireless patriot from across the sea, the man of many nations.

What a crock of shit. He was situated beside the Witchfinder-General and Captain Vickers; their liaison, attaché, and protégée. Far from the finest conversationalists, and serving only to drive that wedge between him and his supposed peers. The mages in their white silk and frills, Roland bore hardly a slip of white on him beyond the flash of his shirt collar; all dark and crisp lines with the shawl of crimson pouring over his neck.

Roland sat silent, hand folded in his lap with fingers laced together as he put every scrap of his willpower into maintaining his manner and not drawing iron on some petulant reporter. The small blessing of the coat provided by Rycroft was that, yes; Roland was strapped with his behemoth of a revolver in a shoulder rig, and nobody was the wiser. He would play along with the Baron’s sick game, but he would not dance for the media circus, especially when the Baron’s speech rang hollow to the mere soldier among them.

The names were called, and Roland was thankful for the concealer that covered his paling complexion, or perhaps the hot rush of rage that he felt creeping up his neck. Calloused and scarred fingers clutching so tightly at one another that his knuckles blanched as pale as marble. Save for the tightening of his jaw, Roland’s expression remained placid, if more severe than usual. There was someone that he did not recognize among them; a woman with an easy smile and kindly demeanor that just rankled the New Columbian in his current state. Ilya had apparently been the hidden genius among their number and had utterly defiled himself in order to cope.

Clever boy.

It was salt in the wound to see Isolde up there, situated at the point of her element in the geometric array of the pentagram. Roland’s eyes followed the curve of her spine with appreciation, feeling a churning of cold in his gut as resolve and resignation warred inside of him. Seeing Bernard across from her, something darker flickered across Roland’s expression in the fickle light of the chapel. Roland held no hope that the ceremony, despite masquerading as a wedding, would have the portion about objecting as part of the ceremony. The Baron would not risk his plans on something so inconsequential as propriety.

So Roland sat, silent and still as the chapel’s own gargoyles, forcing himself to watch for as long as he could bear.

 

[L0ck0n]

Vasilis Laskaris

"Che palle"

Vasilis woke up with no recollection of what had happened the evening before. The last thing she remembered was taking shot after shot at a bar until everything became a distant haze she would forget about. The itinerary for the day was going to be a tough one, so she reached over to ring for a staff maid to bring a few shots of whiskey. Wincing at the sharp pain in her side she fell back onto her pillow. Che cazzo… Lifting the covers with one arm, Sil pulled her sleeping shirt up to check her abdomen, and saw a pretty large reddish area on the left side of her body. It was a fresh bruise, but it looked to be getting worse.

Pulling the covers back over her Sil rolled on her right side, and surveyed the room to make sure there was nothing out of the ordinary. Unluckily enough there seemed to be no one with her. Though, that turned out to be a good thing considering who she went to the bars with. The person she was hoping wouldn’t be in the same bed with her was Maclerie. It would be a rocky start to their newfound relationship if she had somehow persuaded her drunk partner to go to bed with her. Unless the other agreed to it, but when drunk all morals went out the window. Letting a yawn escape she abruptly shut her mouth as another spark of pain shot from her jaw to her chin. Placing her hand on her jaw Sil let out a huff. Another wild night i suppose…

When the maid knocked on the door Sil sat up to greet her as she carefully opened the door to let herself in. “Ah, Grazie signora.” The maid said nothing, but glanced in her direction as she placed the cups on the desk nearby. “Is there anything else I can do for you?” Sil thought for a moment, and then patted an open spot by her bed. “Some company? Got a few hours before the ceremony~” The maid avoided looking at Sil, and practically ran out of the room without saying anything else. “Guess not.” Sil chuckled to herself. Due to their ceremony not taking place until later in the day Sil dressed in casual attire, and decided to go have some time to herself.

There was a path outside that led away from the mansion, but would not lead to any kind of an escape route. She had checked... On any usual day she was not fond of being alone with her own thoughts, but today was different. She wanted to be alone, if only for an hour or so. Walking along the path was uneventful, and quiet. An occasional gust of wind blew between the leaves of the trees, and small animals like squirrels and birds were going about their lives. It was the one peace she was able to have when she needed some downtime, and it seemed no one else had found the same path yet. “She reminds me of you…” Sil whispered suddenly as she remembered the life she lived in the past. “A bit…inquietante if you ask me, but if she was exactly like you I’d be running as faw away as i can go…” A soft chuckle escaped her lips as she walked, but then a thought stopped her smile from completely forming. “Once the Mafia find me I’m out...Well, I’m dead either way, but…” Trailing off from finishing the sentence Sil looked up at the bright blue sky. “Not the best way to put it, but yeah. I’m dead either way...Ya' know they been trying to find me for years, right? But I escaped-” Sil knew she was talking to no one, but she hoped that Signora Kastaros was listening from wherever she was. “No matter where they found me I always escaped. Now? Can’t escape, and they will find me...I’mma be on the news for shits sake.” Kicking a rock that lay on the path Sil winched as a wave of pain spread throughout her left side ”...Be lyin’ if I said I didn't know that the Vanguard was gonna be big news, but I was hopin’ I could negotiate something with boss-man to keep my name out the papers. Never got the chance to do that,” She shrugged. “Or even attempt to try to speak to ‘em.”

Letting a sigh escape Sil walked on the trail for a while longer before heading back to the Mansion to get ready. Getting dressed for the occasion wasn’t difficult as she wasn’t going to be wearing a dress. If there was one thing to be grateful for it was the fact that they had accommodated her dressing style. “Thank the fuckin’ stars…” The only thing she really had to do was fix her hair, but macassar oil got the job done. Not long after finishing up the Baron summoned them early. For what? She wasn’t sure, but they would find out once they were all there. They were told not to answer any questions the press asked them; a request Sil was more than willing to obey. In any other time she would have yelled for someone to hear her side of the story; for someone to show the public how it was for the mages, but no one ever asked. Here and now, it was the least thing the press wanted to know.

Listening to the Baron speak Sil couldn’t help but roll her eyes as he spoke of mages getting the short end of the stick on life. No shit, stupido. But, something about the ending half of the speech got to her. I offer something… Sil thought as the Baron finished speaking. For all that we will lose, he says. Sil wanted to speak out, to say something. Instead, she shut her eyes, and looked down.

The only thing I have left to lose is my own life…

As the ceremony commenced butterflies started bouncing around in Sil's stomach. Not literally, but it felt that way. She glanced in the direction of the door, and whispered to the person to her right. “You think if I tell them I need to take a piss they’ll let me?” It may have looked like she wanted to get out of the situation, and she did, but she also did need to use the restroom. Out of nervousness? Possibly, but she did have a few more drinks while getting dressed. That wasn’t a mistake, but a calculated move to keep from being fully present.

Mood: Tipsy, Anxious, Unconfortable| Location: Bishop Manor: The Chapel | Tag: BELIAL.

coded by weldherwings.

 

[Cashi]

MOOD: Just let Ilya sleep rip

LOCATION: Church

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MENTIONS: Hell0NHighWater idalie BELIAL.

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TAGS:
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TL;DR: uR sO...pr EttY...

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Ilya

The room wasn't spinning anymore so much as very distant from all his senses, as though he were under a great lake and whatever was going on around him was separated by several feet of heavy water and a sheen of ice. The lights from the candelabra were incredibly bright, little orange stars that sparkled blurrily in his vision, like when one squinted with wet eyelashes. Standing was a chore, one he only did out of some subconscious effort at social decorum, drilled into him simply by existing in society. He desperately wanted to collapse into one of the hard wooden pews (which were looking particularly comfortable at that moment) and sleep off whatever had been given to him to make him more...palatable. The symbol beneath his feet, the pattern on the floor, gave him a vague sense of nightmarish déjà-vu, but the thought was gone before he could truly grasp hold of it. The rest of the Vanguard sat in the pews, looking a variety of tense or encouraging. This had to be one of the most dismal weddings in the history of British weddings.
And that's saying something, thought Ilya.
Bernard, standing next to him with a straight spine and level shoulders, looked for all the world as though nothing bothered him, but Ilya noted through his muzzily thoughts that he made no more eye contact with Isolde than Ilya did with Arabella.
The presence of her almost came as a surprise, and Ilya realised with some trepidation that she was standing across from him. He had never seen her in such a controlled state of distress. Gone was the fury and bite from the afternoon, replaced with a tension, almost like every one of her nerves was being scraped raw. He caught her eyes just before she looked away, and could have sworn a flash of concern swept across her fine features.
Ilya watched her unabashedly, hooded eyes skimming down her white dress and back up to her face. Even with how much of a horrible situation this must be for her, her stature and poise remained noble.
The lights reflecting off of the stained-glass windows behind her kaleidoscoped. Ilya might have swayed on his feet, he wasn't sure.
He had no control over his mind or his mouth, and he would tell himself later that that was the only reason he said anything at all.
"Ty takaya privlekatel'naya..."
The ceiling seemed to drop almost at the same time as the floor and Ilya stumbled slightly, distantly aware of the flashing cameras. His stumble had pushed him off of his symbol, and he caught himself on Bernard's shoulder, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. Ilya searched for the constant anger he held within him, and used that to center himself. A moment later, he stepped back onto the symbol and fixed the Baron with the iciest glare he could manage in his glazed state. His face said, get it over with.

We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars

code by valen t.

​

Spoiler: Easy on the Eyes

The room wasn't spinning anymore so much as very distant from all his senses, as though he were under the great lake and whatever was going on around him was separated by several feet of heavy water and a sheen of ice. The lights from the candelabra were incredibly bright, little orange stars that sparkled blurrily in his vision, like when one squinted with wet eyelashes. Standing was a chore, one he only did out of some subconscious effort at social decorum, drilled into him simply by existing in society. He desperately wanted to collapse into one of the hard wooden pews (that were looking particularly comfortable at that moment) and sleep off whatever had been given to him to make him more...palatable. The symbol beneath his feet, the pattern on the floor gave him a vague sense of nightmarish déjà-vu, but the thought was gone before he could truly grasp hold of it. The rest of the Vanguard sat in the pews, looking a variety of tense or encouraging. This had to be one of the most dismal weddings in the history of British weddings.
And that's saying something, thought Ilya.
Bernard, standing next to him with a straight spine and level shoulders, looked for all the world as though nothing bothered him, but Ilya noted through his muzzily thoughts that he made no more eye contact with Isolde than Ilya did with Arabella.
The thought of her almost came as a surprise, and Ilya realised with some trepidation that she was standing across from him. He had never seen her in such a controlled state of distress. Gone was the fury and bite from the afternoon, replaced with a tension like every one of her nerves was being scraped raw. He caught her eyes just before she looked away, and he could have sworn a flash of concern swept across her fine features.
Ilya watched her unabashedly, hooded eyes skimming down her white dress and back up to her face. Even with how much of a horrible situation this must be for her, her stature and poise remained noble.
The lights reflecting off of the stained-glass windows behind her kaleidoscoped. Ilya might have swayed on his feet, he wasn't sure.
He had no control over his mind or his mouth, and he would tell himself later that that was the only reason he said anything at all.
"Ty takaya privlekatel'naya..."
The ceiling seemed to drop almost at the same time as the floor and Ilya stumbled slightly, distantly aware of the flashing cameras. His stumble had pushed him off of his symbol, and he caught himself on Bernard's shoulder, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. Ilya searched for the constant anger he held within him, and used that to center himself. A moment later, he stepped back onto the symbol and fixed the Baron with the iciest glare he could manage in his glazed state. His face said, get it over with.

​

​

 

[SavannahSmiles]

Olivia Andersson

The sudden whisper to her left startled her slightly, as she had been nervously staring at the front, wondering what was going to happen and fretting about the fact that the ritual involved blood. It couldn't be all that safe if it involved blood, could it? It seemed rather barbaric in her opinion but it wasn't like the Baron was giving any of them any choice in the matter.

Glancing over, she realized it had been Devin that had spoken to her and she did her best to give him a smile and not look as nervous as she felt. "At least we have a chance to see what's going to happen." It was true, she was glad they weren't going first. As nervous as she was about the whole ordeal, at least she was given the chance to see what she was in for and mask her emotions accordingly; she would be so embarrassed if she made a scene in front of all these people watching.

She turned her attention back to the front just in time to see Ilya stumble. She let out a soft gasp and almost took a concerned step towards him, catching herself just in time as she remembered that there were press ready to capture any movement they made. She leaned in close to Devin, eyes flashing with concern.

"Is Ilya alright? Should we go help him?" She whispered to Devin worriedly, glancing back up at the front as she watched Ilya steady himself and step back onto his element that was etched into the floor. She had been there with the group when they had drinks, and Ilya didn't seem nearly this intoxicated, so what had happened between then and now? Had he had extra drinks in his room? Was he not feeling well? He certainly didn't look well, if his swaying figure were anything to go by.

Location: The Chapel
Mood: Concerned and Nervous
Tags: Devin - wickedlittlecritta
Mentions: Ilya - Cashi

code by RI.a

 

[wickedlittlecritta]

Devin Murphy​

Location: Bishop Manor Chapel
Interactions: Olivia SavannahSmiles [/USER]
So say a prayer for me in silence, no cathedral mock our hearts

Devin frowned at Olivia's soft question. What Ilya needed was a quiet room to sleep in until he was no longer drugged like a naughty horse at auction, but neither of them were really in a position to make that happen. Besides, Ilya was significantly larger than the pair of them combined, so their kidnapping options were rather limited.

Instead he said, "Well, that depends. How much of a scene are you interested in causing?" His gaze trailed from Ilya to the bank of journalists, though he didn't let it linger there. Though he was sure even is own mother would hardly recognize him in a grainy newspaper photo, he wasn't willing to push his luck.

He looked back at Olivia, and wanted to say something comforting, but couldn't find any comfort to share.