VOTUM

[aureliebarre]

biography | skeleton | pinterest

I.  STATISTICS

skeleton:  votum. 

faceclaim:  Yada Villaret

full name:  Aurélie Itsari (อิสรีย์) Chivaaree Barre

gender & pronouns:  cis woman & she/her.

sexuality:  bisexual.

age & date of birth:  28 & May 18th 1988.

place of origin:  A suburb of Toronto, Canada.

[aureliebarre]

When: June 10th, 1923, morning Where: The local chapel With: @patrickryland

Most churches in the middle of nowhere in Yorkshire could probably expect reasonable business on a Sunday.

But this one seemed especially well-attended today. In fact, with the whole of the Fortescue-Ryland-Balfour family tree and their wildest friends, foes, lovers, and staff descending on the place, there was barely room to breathe.

As if to illustrate that point, even Caro had showed up. She wasn't here to repent, however. She was here as a spectator, performing being as pious and untroubled as possible, while she enjoyed counting the sinners. It was like a kind of sport – much more her forte than cricket – guessing what misadventures from the weekend might've landed them here.

And lo and behold, totally unbeknownst to her, as she made her way to the door, she bumped into a figure deeply in need of repentance.

"Patrick," she said, sidling up next to him and becoming keenly aware that he looked far more distracted than usual. He typically presented as so sunny and untroubled that it could seem sickening, if you yourself were having a gloomy day.

"Mother of god," she whispered, aware but not entirely caring that this may be slightly inappropriate for their current surroundings. "What on earth happened to you? Bad night, or something?"

[aureliebarre]

When: June 8th, 1923 Where: Front hall, Montmere house With: @prudenceryland

Just our luck, Caro thought, as she did her best to push and shove through the well-bred and the plebeians alike, all of them desperate to avoid being electrocuted as well as they possibly could. She was never one to shrink from a bit of drama, but, really, she'd been hoping for something more like a bust-up or a nice, moist little tidbit of gossip. As deus ex machinas go, a furious downpour would not have been her top pick.

Especially not when she'd chosen this previously lovely afternoon to break out a new silk shirt.

Time being of the essence, she was quite relieved to make it through the doors. She'd just barely rushed through to the hall, and was about to assess the damage done to her outfit, except – "Shit!"

She watched, a tiny flicker of glee fighting to show on her face, as her drink sloshed in perfect tandem with the obscenity as it flew from her mouth. . .

. . .straight onto the already pitiful-looking figure of Prudence Ryland.

A total accident, yes. But, certainly one that Caro's subconscious had had brewing for months, at least.

[angylbedisa]

Prudence was in no mood. She had been drenched in the rain, escorted inside only by the bumping of shoulders with practical strangers that had invaded her space. They were far too plentiful and far too difficult to entertain and now they were shoving her, and in her own home!

In some ways, Caro’s presence was a relief, if only because she was a presence Prudence needn’t put on an air of politeness for. In fact, that was the only reason. They had often been coupled together at various stages of her courtship with Prudence’s cousin (already a strike against her in Prudence’s eyes) and she was quick to note how little they shared. Caroline was parties and cocktails and expensive silks, while Prudence was hours alone and black tea and cotton dresses.

Indeed, when Caro’s cocktail spilled on Prudence’s blouse, she half-believed it to be anything but an honest slip of her hand. Mouth agape, Prudence gasped and managed a wipe of her now gin-stained clothes before an extremely curt “Caroline” was released from her lips. She refused eye contact, instead focusing on the scene behind Caro.

All of the tension she felt was slowly being released through the wringing out of her clothes. “Your inability to show restraint knows no bounds,” she muttered just within range of her cousin-in-law.

[aureliebarre]

Isn’t it just grand when the universe decides to smile on you, even if it’s just for a millisecond? In her weakest moments, Caroline had dreamed of performing this exact sort of meaningless yet satisfying slight. And now, here it was, by total accident. Ladies, Caro was well aware, are not supposed to be titillated by things like the sweet, sweet, jolts of schadenfreude, but . . .

Sometimes the sight of one’s least favourite sister-in-law is simply too much to resist. In her first months at Montmere, Caro had been far more bent on winning the approval of her in-laws. She’d assumed – entirely incorrectly, to her horror – that her husband must’ve gotten his bouts of wit and pre-war verve from somewhere.

Either the war had squashed and squandered their sparks just as much as it had Edwin’s, or he was simply some kind of anomaly. Her in-laws, despite all her fantasies, seemed . . .  disarmingly normal. She’d been crushed.

In the intervening years between then and now, she had discovered far more quirks and strange habits among them all, but she still couldn’t help considering Pru to be an emblem of that initial collision with disappointment.

And what a reaction she’d gotten. She did her best to attract Pru’s gaze, eyes huge and saucer-like, as if she was simply asking about the weather, or something else entirely innocent. “What?” she asked, taking on an almost simpering tone. “Just some butterfingers, that’s all. An accident, promise.” 

Now would be the typical point for an apology, yet somehow one failed to spring from her lips.

“Samira’ll get it out, anyway,” she says blithely, even in the sight of the rapidly spreading wet splotches currently working their way through Pru’s outfit.

“Not like it matters.” Now she was simply a drowned rat with a little extra moisture to sell the look. “That’s surely last . . .not last season . . .” She paused, as if genuinely trying to place the brand of whatever pile of thread Pru had chosen for today. “Last decade?” “Not that anyone’s looking at you anyway. Just as you like, right?”

[aureliebarre]

When: June 8th, 1923 Where: Front hall, Montmere house With: @prudenceryland

Just our luck, Caro thought, as she did her best to push and shove through the well-bred and the plebeians alike, all of them desperate to avoid being electrocuted as well as they possibly could. She was never one to shrink from a bit of drama, but, really, she'd been hoping for something more like a bust-up or a nice, moist little tidbit of gossip. As deus ex machinas go, a furious downpour would not have been her top pick.

Especially not when she'd chosen this previously lovely afternoon to break out a new silk shirt.

Time being of the essence, she was quite relieved to make it through the doors. She'd just barely rushed through to the hall, and was about to assess the damage done to her outfit, except – "Shit!"

She watched, a tiny flicker of glee fighting to show on her face, as her drink sloshed in perfect tandem with the obscenity as it flew from her mouth. . .

. . .straight onto the already pitiful-looking figure of Prudence Ryland.

A total accident, yes. But, certainly one that Caro's subconscious had had brewing for months, at least.

[aureliebarre]

Where: the breakfast room When: June 8th, 1923 – morning With: @patrickryland

Unlike many of her peers – the sort of good, hardy, well-bred women who are most at home with the muck from a stable clinging to their riding boots – Caroline did not necessarily abide by the idea that early rising and endless cheer at 6 a.m. signified good character. She could pretend that this was some kind of moral position or spark of contrariness. Really, though, it was because she enjoyed a lie-in, and frequently found one to be essential after one too many nights of fun.

Today, though, she seemed to be hopped up with energy, particularly with the upcoming match to look forward to. The promise of both competition on the pitch this weekend and gossip off of it sent her practically racing down the staircase.

"So?" she said as soon as she spied Patrick alone at the table. "Are you ready to get smacked in your well-padded shins. . . over and over, and over?" She draws the last part out for emphasis.

"Come on," she said, laughing. "It's only fair. with your being the heir and all. Highest in the household pecking order is the biggest target to get flattened by the rest."