╰ ･ﾟ✧. ... ( olivia cooke , cis woman , she / her ) VIVIANE BAUDELAIRE is a THIRTY ONE year old working as a OWNER at house of roses with queen isabeau for the foreseeable future. she is known around the palace to be AMBITIOUS & PERCEPTIVE , but also CYNICAL & GUARDED. vivane reminds the queen of HOMESICK FOR A PLACE THAT NO LONGER EXISTS, SCREAMING DURING A THUNDERSTORM, A TEACUP SHATTERED AND GLUED BACK TOGETHER.
✧｡ –– 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗕𝗔𝗦𝗜𝗖𝗦 ,
full name : vivane baudelaire. date of birth : november the 2nd. age : thirty one. zodiac : scorpio. gender : cis woman. pronouns : she / her. orientation : bisexual. hair color : auburn. eye color : dark bown. height : five feet , five inches.
✧｡ –– 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗕𝗜𝗢𝗚𝗥𝗔𝗣𝗛𝗬 ,
unlike so many, you were not born to velvet. there was never lineage gilded around your name. it was only the streets that offered embrace. or.. a form enough to confuse you. cold, merciless, and so unwilling to forgive even a child for hunger you could not control. it was up to you … learn to barter with the silence, to steal coin from careless pockets. and survive. make the scraps worth their weight in gold. learn how to hide in the shadows, becoming a flicker of someone else’s imagination.
you’re lucky. in the beginning. but she is a fickle patron. and had your acts not landed you behind sweat stained doors, beneath the brutal glow of candle’s flame … death might have claimed you. instead, you’re taken in. granted a safe place to rest, though the morning will come with a pile of chores. the madam of a brothel you never knew existed is not soft. except with you. her reputation stretches from tavern gutter to royal ear. and you want to be every bit as powerful, as elegant as she.
it was here you were remade. woven into silk where had once been rag. polished and shiny where you once believed only grime could exist. but … you knew better than to mistake her generosity for pure kindness. every gift carries a price.
and yet, when the house of roses did pass into your hands … it was not so easy to ignore the whispers. tongues telling tale of poison spilled into a cup. and though no truth could ever be proven, no evidence set forth to undo it all, you were looking at differently. only rumor still, there was a shift. a fear that now burned in the eyes of ones you called friend. now, yours to protect.
a careful, calculated, and unreadable smile your only weapon against their lies. because survival was never going to be enough for you. you were meant to reign.
at thirty one, you feel a false sense of security. your dominion is near secured. the house of roses is known by any who venture into versailles. a confessional wall for nobles that know better than to trust those who speak directly to god. velvet beds that whisper secrets worth entire kingdoms. and you … hold it all in the palm of your hand. you have built an empire of want. an altar where power comes to kneel.
even still … ghosts linger at your heel. tenderness you know to keep locked away, a relic too fragile to ever be offered freely. some say you are nothing but iron wrapped in the finest your station can afford. and others, foolish enough to suggest they have glimpsed something softer.
versailles has given you everything. and in that same breath … nothing at all. no matter how high you climb, you are never allowed to forget where it is you began.
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