amorest viesse

rustica ferucci, the tragic nobleman

[roleplaymemesforyou]

Send a flower to hear…

🌷… a compliment.

🥀…. a complaint.

🌹… a confession.

🌺… a secret.

🌸… a curious fact.

🌻… a suggestion.

🌼… a story about the past.

[decepit-archived-deactivated202]

     “ aha,  from someone like you,  there's some truth to that. ”   ( probably. )   however  ,  on the subject of beauty  ,  he can't say there's an agreement .  not all love is beautiful .   her intensity  ,  captivating as ever  ,  would never sway a sentiment forged through generations of erstwhile observation .

     “ though,  a bit idealistic for my liking.  tell me  :  can a love born from deception be comparable ?  if all love is worthy and beautiful as you say,  then,  are you including even those leading to ruin ? ”

[frothofdays]

"oh, why wouldn't it be?" for the bridegroom - perhaps it's those who know her best who know this side of her, the possessiveness, the want to keep what's hers, the refusal to ever lose it.

"to love at all is a blessing; to love someone so much you change yourself to be theirs, their needs - there's no beauty in that?" she hums, quietly. thoughtfully. "of course, it would be delightful to pick apart all those little lies, to find what hides beneath - and to be destroyed in the pursuit of love, there's a sincerity and depth to that that can't be matched."

[decepit-archived-deactivated202]

it's surreal to hear her speak so forthright . but , more than anything , that missing piece of oneself is part of what makes the tale as tragic as it is heartwarming . to be loved so fierce even in the face of uncertainty ... certainly, there's a beauty in that .

“ I suppose.      me, though ? hmm, hard to say. at the very least, few can beat the love you have experienced. ”

[frothofdays]

rustica tilts her head to the side, thinking, her eyes at once focused on the things in front of her and distant, drifting through pieces of past she wants to make sense of.

still, though, she laughs again, warm and bright, eyes narrowing like a cat in a sunbeam. "oh, your conviction is charming and i'm delighted you think of my bride and i so highly."

she means it, after all. how can't she?

"besides that, all love is worthy and beautiful - you shouldn't discount what you know like that." it's an intense, almost unshakeable conviction in her words, underlying it all.

[seafaredsinner-deactivated20230]

"I don't really think it's a big deal, but I'm probably too boring for anyone to be interested in anyways. People want someone exciting, right?"

[frothofdays]

"there's something wonderfully calming about a person who's reliable. there's certainly nothing to be ashamed about, not in the least."

[decepit-archived-deactivated202]

@frothofdays replied. "It's beautiful, isn't it, Figaro?"

“ it is. this may be in poor taste, but, do you remember feeling like this ? as members of western country, I'm pretty curious how you went about courting . ”

[frothofdays]

"do i... i suppose i must have - how could i not of, when someone moved my heart like that, with how much i loved her?" she chuckles, her smile in place, peaceful, serene. "what of you, figaro?"

[frothofdays]

"young love is such a beautiful thing." she sounds wistful, longing. "it's been such a long time since i experienced this. it'd be lovely to have those butterflies, to know another feels them."

[frothofdays]

👀 + what is your earliest, clearest memory?

rustica thinks a moment. her eyes and lids grow heavy as she contemplates, considering, reaching for things that fade back into the haze. something she remembers clearly.

( if it hurts that it can't be her bride, she doesn't intend to let it show; her face is that ordinary, good humored smile, though her eyes go a little distant, looking at nothing and fixed on a point that doesn't exist. )

"flowers," finally comes from her mouth, thoughtful and soft and far away. "flowers blooming, the branches and boughs so loaded they droop with them, that the sunlight dapples the table over the tea. the air was sweet with it. it was a lovely day, the spring."

her mouth opens again, hesitates, then closes, mouth drawing a bit taut as if she tries to remember something else. then she smiles.

"it's beautiful, isn't it?" her eyes flick to the side, to something else.

( it feels a little like an escape. )

"dear figaro, what of you?"

[rprnemes]

Send me a “👀 + a question” and my muse has to answer honestly!

[soulrph]

𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐃𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐇𝐀𝐈𝐑 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒.

i had a super SUPER productive morning and i was treating myself to the fancy shampoo (u know the shampoo u got as a gift that’s kinda expensive and v v Nice so u only use it when ur going out or have a social event going on?) and i came back to find a bunch of my mutuals reblogging the same post about hair, and i’ll be damned if i didn’t see that combination of events as some sort of sign! so here u go my dudes! another addition to the group! feel free to add “+ REVERSE” to switch the roles of this meme!

as always, DO NOT ADD TO THIS LIST! i’ll add to it as time passes! and i really hope you all enjoy this one bc i had a lot of fun making it! 

[ WASH ]:          sender begins to wash the receiver’s hair.

[ TUG ]:          sender grabs the receiver’s hair and pulls at it. ( SPECIFY A REASON! CONTEXT IS KEY! )

[ BRAID ]:          sender, sitting behind the receiver’s back, begins to braid their hair.

[ SNIP ]:          having discussed the matter, the sender gives the receiver a haircut.

[ BACK ]:          sender, noticing a strand of hair fall from the receiver’s hairdo, carefully tucks the strand back behind the receiver’s ear.

[ BURY ]:          sender buries their hand deep in the receiver’s hair.

[ BRUSH ]:          with a hairbrush, comb, or their hand, the sender begins to gently brush the receiver’s hair.

[ GLIDE ]:          sender runs their fingers through the length of the receiver’s hair.

[ BLOOM ]:          sender weaves a number of flowers through the receiver’s hair.

[ STYLE ]:          sender begins to arrange the receiver’s hair into an elaborate hairstyle to an unspecified degree of success (or failure).

[ CROWN ]:          having created a flower crown, the sender carefully places it atop the receiver’s head.

[ INHALE ]:          while embracing or in close proximity to the receiver, the sender inhales slowly, smelling their hair in the process.

[ TICKLE ]:          the sender uses the ends of the receiver’s hair to playfully tickle them.

[ PLAY ]:          the sender begins to play with the receiver’s hair while the receiver lies in their lap.

[ LAY ]:           the sender lays down in the receiver’s lap to let them play with the sender’s hair.

[ TOUCH ]:           just for the sake of the contact, the sender reaches out and gently touches the strands of the receiver’s hair.

[ MASSAGE ]:          with their hands buried in the receiver’s hair, the sender begins to gently massage their scalp.

[ ROYAL ]:          as part of a coronation ceremony, the sender places a crown atop the receiver’s hair, maintaining eye contact as they do so.

[ KISS ]:          the sender places a tender kiss on the receiver’s hair.

[ AWAY ]:          the sender, using their fingertips, tenderly sweeps a few strands of hair out of the receiver’s face so as to see them more clearly.

[ TOWEL ]:          the sender uses a towel to carefully dry the receiver’s hair.

[ DRY ]:          the sender uses a hairdryer to dry the receiver’s hair.

[ SOFTEN ]:          the sender rubs oils/conditioner into their hands, and begins to slowly massage it into the receiver’s hair.

[flevancian]

perhaps seating by shores for oh so long was indeed going to do more harm than good to him in the long run, and yet it still had him unmoving —lanky legs pressed aghast tattooed chest, gaze of gold lost where horizon would meet with the first lights of a dusken sun, a sigh muffled against his knees, sand oh so soft underneath his touch. " i ... should try and get something to eat. but the idea of getting up isn't exactly ideal. " as if bepo and the others would suddenly resurface if he dared looking away. foolish.

( @frothofdays ) &. starter call

[frothofdays]

the ocean is not one of rustica's pieces of home, but it isn't… not, either. it's beautiful and it reminds her of those whose homes are bounded by the ocean, and it's beautiful besides. at sunset, like this, as the sun starts to sink below the horizon, it's all the more so.

for once, she's almost uncharacteristically quiet; she looks solemn, even, blue eyes narrowed into the last fading light of the evening - her mind is active, behind them, trying to pull things together, to make sense of them, and part of it is composing a song, but all of it comes to a halt at the sound of someone's voice.

"hm…?" her head tilts, shifting her gaze to find who'd spoken, at which point she lights up, realizing she isn't alone for the first time. "oh! you haven't eaten? i haven't either; perhaps we might go together?"

she offers one gloved hand to him, then, an offer to help pull him to his feet.

[winterdying]

he sits up on his elbow, just enough to move his torso, and he easily rests his head in the lap of the younger woman; eyes flutter shut thanks to the scant shade, his breathing calming, the cage of his ribs rising and falling in a quiet, rhythmic pattern.

it seems peaceful. almost beautiful- this feral monster calmed by the song of the enchanting prince, this howling storm tempered by the lull of the twinkling blue sky.

but eventually, the song has to come to an end. the lyrics fade, and the gentle and calm voice that murmured them has to stop. when it does, mithra's eyelids flutter still closed. his black-painted fingers flex in the fabric of rustica's slacks, and his chest raises in a deep exhale.

"i was so close, too." he mumbles, irritable; even rustica's song, as lovely as it was, could not heal the injury committed against mithra's very heart.

[frothofdays]

rustica's face softens and gentles as she watches mithra relax in her lap. her fingers begin to card through the red strands, stroking and petting to try to help soothe him into rest - her fingertips and relatively short nails scrape against his scalp.

she drags the song on as long as she can; she watches as mithra finds some peace, even if he doesn't fall asleep. she doesn't mind that, though - even though he's irritated, and even though she can't blame him for being so, it's simply a minor inconvenience.

next time, she'll just have to try harder. she smiles serenely down at him, as he mumbles. "perhaps we'll have to try again," she says, quietly, but with a keen edge of determination and intensity.

it's not only that she wants this for him - she wants to succeed.

"this time, maybe humming would be better. then i can keep it up as long as you like."

it's a genuine offer, as much as anything can be. she means it. there's nowhere else she'd rather be and nothing else she'd rather do; there's nothing that could interest her more than this.

"or would you rather do something else, dear mithra?"

[immoritor]

You can't be bothered to argue with a western wizard. You'll always be beaten- You know you will. It's simply the ways of how their birthrights work... So, instead of being difficult in this moment, you raise your hand up to allow the bird to shift from Rustica's finger to your own. The bird is small and easy to hold on your finger. A little song bird with many stories to tell as they chirp at you, along with the other birds you've gathered.

All she can do is fly? That is it? What being runs this world that is even able to strip them of these powers they were born with. it is frustrating- It feels uncomfortable to even be in your own skin at this point. There are no spirits, there is no magic. It all feels fake and void. Where this bird now on your finger you'd be clenching your fists in frustration.

❛ I'll pass. ❜ Your words are harsher then how you'd usually address Rustica, but your frustration is mounting. You feel like you are going insane already and you've barely been in this place for 6 hours. ❛ Who else have you seen here? I've seen Mithra, Cain and you. ❜ You aren't sure if anyone else is here yet... But you are still exploring. It's the only thing you can do to keep yourself sane right now.

❛ ... The spirits are quiet. They must not exist here. How we are able to use any magic is beyond me~ They even made Cerberus the size of a cat. How amusing. ❜

[frothofdays]

If his harsher words bother you, it doesn't show on your face. You blink in that languid, typical way you always do: slow, gentle, patient. You don't mind; Owen is just the way Owen always is, and sometimes he bites and doesn't mean it.

(Sometimes he bites and does mean it - still, though, you find that endearing. You find him endearing. Who can mind sometimes being bitten? Love is pain, on occasion, for you, for everyone, especially when it involves a Northern wizard.)

"I haven't even seen Cain - only Mithra and now you, so my thanks for that news. What a lovely thing, for another one of us to be here." You mean it - perhaps it's the way that you don't quite parse things the way everyone else seems to but, as much as this might be a disaster, as much as you might miss your magic, as much as you might want to try to find your bride; how can you look down on the chance for another set of experiences? The chance to grow and change?

"I'm sure they do exist here, in some form. They have to, or else we wouldn't be able to do any magic, at all." You say it simply, like a matter of fact - for you, it is. What else could it be? "They're simply finicky. More like cats than ordinary."

You pause for a moment. You think.

"… Cerberus is the size of a cat?" You turn from your place on a bench and look at him, eyes wide and delighted. The size of a cat? Able to be held in one's hands? All else is immediately forgotten - there are bigger concerns. A cat-sized Cerberus trumps all. New world? No magic? Quiet, reticent spirits? Cerberus.

[frothofdays]

hihi... uncapped isola rp ad for rustica. react for a starter of variable length. <3

[immoritor]

The bird chirping would be annoying to any other person other then you... or rather, that is what you think until the person before your enters your vision. This city is big. Confusing. Almost terrifying. Yet, when in doubt, you can ask the local animals for anything and everything... if they know something, they'll very willingly tell you. Yet, you weren't expecting them to lead you to someone so familiar. It's almost frustrating, but at the same time relieving.

Rustica is easy enough to talk too.. even if she'll lead you in circles sometimes. Westerners are hard to deal with.

❛ I'm not surprised to see you here... Out of anyone, you are the one that makes the most sense. ❜ Though, any westerners would make sense to be in such a strange situation. Their want for knowledge and curiosity for the unknown would lead them into such a place. ❛ A little birdy told me you'd be here. ❜ People usually say that as a joke, but you are being rather literal... You have at least 5 birds following around you.

❛ Or rather, I was told a "pretty sound was coming from here". Hmph... Heyyy~ Rustica. Did you also lose your powers? What about your magic items~? I'm pretty annoyed. ❜

( starter call for @frothofdays ♡ )

[frothofdays]

You don't mind the presence of the birds - they're familiar friends, the snatches of words you catch in their cries, familiar but twisted slightly, an accent sometimes rendering the sentiments unintelligible.

They like you anyway - and you, of course, like them. So your gloved hands are out, a songbird perched delicately upon your fingers as if it belonged there, your eyes narrowed as you smile at it, and you play a game.

It's simple - it sings a tune and you riff on it; you spend time this way, perhaps hours, perhaps more (it's so hard to tell without your dear Chloe. He kept you right; he kept you making sense.). A voice behind you makes you tilt your head back from where you're sitting, eyes widening with delight before re-narrowing; there's a pause, searching things out to decide what you want, wheels turning in your head to pick things out of your memory.

"Oh! Owen - it's so wonderful to see you." You lift the hand with the bird to him, as if expecting him to take it. Perhaps he will. He's a sweet boy, and he does like them.

"The spirits are quiet, for now - it's disconcerting, to not hear them, isn't it? They normally whisper to my heart, a constant soothing presence, but they're so silent.

"... Ah! I can fly, though. It would be so much more lovely to have a concert though, wouldn't it?"

You pause a moment. Thinking. It clicks and, then, "But - with you here, dear Owen, we might be a duet."

He's not getting out of singing with you that easily.

[winterdying]

mithra hears "laying down" and does it.

no, really. he lays down right there on the sidewalk, knees cracking in his pensive, climbing age.

the scant passerby give a scant passing-by look of worry, seeing by all accounts, the troublesome mithra who had been causing problems across spirale for a month and a half suddenly on the floor in front of this doe-eyed, sweet looking nobleman. (they of course, might have assumed rustica's gentle demeanor belied a power that couldn't be contained. they were not aware that their assumptions were nearly correct.)

he throws his arm behind the back of his head as a pillow and releases a fangy, cat-like yawn. red lashes flutter close prettily, dusting his cheekbones. "well?" asks the northerner impatiently. "please hurry up."

he doesn't realize how ridiculous the situation was, though... likely, neither did rustica. this is why they made a good pair- thoughts of frivolity and impulsivity were met with welcome abandon on both sides, a northern wizard's power matched by a western wizard's chaotic heart.

[frothofdays]

perhaps, with most other people, they would have insisted they meant a bed, not immediately following mithra onto the sidewalk, knees folding carefully under them to make sure they had somewhere comfortable to sit. for rustica, though, who was well known for her ability and propensity to nap anywhere the mood struck her, it was simply logical.

the sun was warm, the weather nice; it would have lulled her to sleep, if she were still and patient enough, and the quiet susurration of the crowd and passersby was only more soothing, a pleasant equivalent to white noise so far as the western wizard was concerned.

"yes, yes," she chuckles quietly as her fingers again reach out, easily carding through his hair, stroking and petting the red strands that she can, and she considers a moment.

leaning over him, offering a bit of shade, at least over his eyes to help making resting easier, she takes a breath in, beginning to sing a quiet lullaby.

at least the people wondering whatever's happening as they walk by are getting a lovely little concert?

[decepit-archived-deactivated202]

     it's genius identifiable by all who knew her.  pacifying,  pronounced musicality plucked from the heart;  appeased by simply observing her movement.  crowds        minute when compared to what once was drawn        begin withdrawing after accepting entertainment was met.  this,  too,  is unusual.  he distinctly recalls manor inhabitants huddled for hours whenever @frothofdays played ( and the children whom eagerly requested encore after encore ).  slipping between the midst of departing bodies,  figaro steps before her wearing easy-going smile and tone as relaxed as her performance.

“ my,  aren't you a sight for sore eyes.  does a reputable musician have time for little ol' me~? ”

[frothofdays]

music is something beyond the tune to rustica - to wizards in general, it feels like. perhaps it's food for their hearts, the way they respond to it - respond to her. they don't respond to her the same way, here in spirale, but it hardly matters much; she doesn't play for fame or for attention, but for the simple joy of playing.

when they leave, then, it's not offensive - it doesn't bother her at all. her fingers rest upon the keys, mostly still but for the twitching with a want to play more; perhaps she might have, had a familiar voice not had her lift her head.

"oh!" her eyes light up as she takes in the southern doctor; she plays a quick crescendoing trill before pulling herself standing. she bows at the waist, ever a gentleman. "why, of course i can make time for a doctor's attention; is it an autograph you want or simply time?"

her tone is the playful good humor of a western wizard, through and through.

[winterdying]

murr: that's a name he recognizes. the microwave whirs inside of mithra's head, and then- ding! it produces a vague, sleepy image of a man with purple hair and brilliant eyes and a catlike smile. yes, he knew murr.

(after all, tiletta must have known the man too. had she lusted after him, seeking children with that brilliant mind? mithra's eyebrows knit at the thought.)

her hand against his face must feel like a shock. proud cheekbones that were pale as ice and just as temperate, like despite the warm summer air he had simply walked out of the winter itself.

"yes, i suppose they would." comes the curt reply, solid. he doesn't pull away from her tender touch, her warm fingers and the perfumed cuff of her sleeve that lacked the notable acrid and metallic tang of miasma and blood. so unlike a northern wizard.

"if you want to sing, i will listen. if i get bored or if i don't feel relaxed, i suppose i can lop your head off and shrink it into a totem."

mithra's own cold hand comes up to fold over rustica's fingers, though there's no affection in the gesture. it's simply reciprocal, automatic. a tree that bends under the weight of ice; a snowflake at the whims of the turbulent storm.

"please do not disappoint me."

[frothofdays]

honestly, for all that it was surprising, it was also soothing - the cool of his skin radiating off, half-nipping through her gloves, a reassuring breeze despite the heat that made her almost regret the sheer number of layers that were required for her to be a proper gentleman.

she leaves her hand there, as he threatens her in his casual, apathetic way, as his fingers curl around hers - she doesn't seem at all bothered by the content of his words. and why should she be? she demonstrates the exact reason and what she's not worried when she smiles at him and says:

"oh, i never disappoint. you should know this." she says it without vanity, without bragging; she says it like it's the calmest, most obvious thing she's ever said in her life. she's a musician - and a good one. a skilled one. why would she need to fear disappointing?

her fingers instead play with his sideburns, with the hair there, tempted to thread through the hair properly, as if they weren't in public, as if they weren't quite obvious, as if this couldn't be misunderstood.

(and why would she care?)

"we should get you laying down, shouldn't we? i'd be honored if i could get you to sleep for even a few moments."

no matter how mithra treated her, no matter what he was, no matter how he was half a force of nature than a living being, she was just as warm, as if this were nothing more than a deeply fond conversation between dear friends. that was just her way, after all.