— There were these days, rarer than the rest, when you felt like you owned a city. It could feel like that most of the year, if you were fortunate, or simply adept at deluding yourself, at spinning shit from gold until it shone. It was in you, this ownership, this taste for the laurels. You believed it or you didn’t. You deemed yourself worthy, innate, elemental, or you didn’t. Marcus Estrada had sat down with moneylenders who saw themselves as successors to Midas, who all but fooled him into lapping it up. He had also sat down with Kings who could never look you in the eyes. Rulers, captains, governors, who never drew an easy breath after being enthroned. On whom the mantle of power lay not only poorly, but flagrant. For himself, he understood long ago that he belonged to the first. Oh, sparing the crown, of course; albeit he would’ve quite fancied one now, sprawled in his wicker chair in the gardens, supping on oysters and Italian champagne. It would’ve fared nicely, for the scene. Conqueror and demesne. He stares at the people siphoning off in pairs, at the coquettes out to catch their golden fools, at the parliament members hiding behind cravats and glasses of port. Marc takes it in like a pastel, a fresco—fragment before Pompei. At one point, he spots someone hovering nearby, staining the edge of his vision like a firefly on the lamp. They must be out of a seat, poor darling. ❝ By all means, feel free to join me. I have no company to expect tonight, and all the other tables are spoken for. Seems like there’s a bargain we can make. ❞
IT WAS HARD for isabelle to not look like she was wandering in a dream ---- she would have never imagined in her youth that she’d be draped in silks and lace, covered in her admirer’s favors in the form of emeralds, golden threads, and amethysts. yet here she is, nimble fingers scrubbed clean of the calluses and secrets of her childhood, holding a flute as delicate as she looks full of sparkling champagne. most only see her on stage, when her focus is on her music. out here, in the company of london’s finest, her mind roams, and her slippered feet weave the songstress in and out of tables and conversations, as fleeting as they are intriguing.
a voice calls out, and she turns to her side with an ambient smile upon her lips. free hand comes up to cover her mouth, and it’s only a matter of seconds before she sweeps the yards of fabric she’s wearing to sit in front of him.
“who would i be to turn down such an invitation? my feet are begging for a rest.” gentle words trickle out of saccharine lips. she likes to weigh her words, just like she weighs the lyrics in the songs she sings most every night. “the bargain being i get a place to sit, and you get a pretty face to look upon?” isabelle teases, allowing herself another sip of the beverage as she glances at their surroundings once more. “i thought i was the only one to wander the gardens alone. if i may ask, what brings you here?” the blonde was ever so polite ---- she still sometimes felt as if she were out of place, and had to guard every question with a courtesy, and a honeyed smile.
CLOSED: starter for @romantiisme
WHEN: june, 1845. (first night aboard the promethean)
WHERE: lower deck, in the common mess hall.
LARGE CERULEAN HUES are kept to the contents within the goblet filled with wine. there is a giddiness about her, a faint nervous shake upon her hands. singing for the first time in two years hadn’t been difficult ---- in fact, the biggest challenge was NOT to sing during that time. isabelle started by singing in the wardroom, blessing the first night’s dinner aboard the ship with her melancholic voice. looking through the crowd, she’d seen faces that were much too familiar. some of those faces had turned against her when the scandal broke out. yet they were all equals here, mere passengers on something that was larger than all of them. though she felt drained from the first performance, the songstress would not rest until she sang for the folks in the common mess.
it is there she decides to stay, sitting in the corner of the dimly lit room nursing her cup of below average wine. the crowd here will not ask her questions, she knows that for a fact.
isabelle does not fit in, it’s plain to see. blonde tresses are woven with ribbons of pale blue silk, and the white dress she dons of the same material could be worth than all her peers’ outfits combined. isabelle never truly fit in with the stuffy company in the nicer dining hall, either, so it made no difference to her.
it takes a moment to register that someone has sat across the table from her, an unknown, innocent face gazing at her the way all of london did not so long ago. it’s a staggering feeling ---- one she’s not equipped to handle. it’s a simple gaze, but it brings back old memories.
“well?” she asks expectantly. just because she is out of the spotlight does not mean she lost the flair of attitude that had been years in the making. “how was the performance. any notes?” she’s preparing herself for the scorn, the nasty words. she’s ready to take them in stride, to turn them into japes before she lets them crush her. isabelle will never make that mistake again.
🌙 — ALL ABOARD ! The HMS PROMETHEAN welcomes ISABELLE ARRYN to the expedition in their capacity of songbird. They are THIRTY-TWO & CISFEMALE and might be painted as AMANDA SEYFRIED. When you strike up an acquaintance, address them as she/her. Their deeds on land precede their arrival — people say they are charismatic, joyful and open-minded but melancholic, distant, and critical when the tide turns. Their purpose aboard the Promethean falls in line with self redemption, and coming to face with the biggest demon of all: rejection.
ACT I : GOD’S GIFT
NO ONE TRULY knows how or when you appeared. A scrawny naked child caked with dirt from blonde head to pinky toe. You like to say, now that you know better than to divulge this information, that you were born on a sunny summer day, to a loving mother while your father was off to war. There was never a mother or a father. Just you, and the constant hunger and fear that envelops all of London’s street urchins. A golden voice that brings tears to the eyes of all that are lucky enough to hear, is your meal ticket. A tiny thing, singing with conviction of love and loss, hope and despair.
ACT II : SAVIOR OR DEVIL ?
IT IS ONLY a matter of time before someone with the entrepreneurial flair sniffs you out. Your vulnerability is too easy to take advantage of ---- the price for your voice too low. He coaxes you out of the streets, into a scalding bath. Maids rub you until you’re pink, and you lift your hands, truly seeing them for the first time. Blonde locks are combed, and you’re stuck in a scratchy dress that screams wealth. Then come the lessons. Voice lessons, history, reading and writing --- you do it all. When you’re finally done, you are a woman flowered, ready to take on the world, and provide the return on your savior’s investment.
ACT III : A STAR IS BORN
THE FLU APPEARS as suddenly as it leaves. Your savior is bed ridden, the kiss of death moments from pressing against his lips, the only true lover’s embrace he will ever feel. There are no sons, no daughters, no aunts nor uncles. He gives it all to you. It was never meant to happen this way, and though you are a songbird finally free from your gilded cage, you can’t help but shed a tear as his grasp on your hands loosens. With the estate and the coffers at your disposal, you make your debut on the entertainment stage - a mysterious, beautiful creature with a voice that enchants common folk and aristocrats alike. London goes crazy for you. When once you were overlooked, you are now revered, a queen in your own right. You can have any man you desire - and you do desire, though you keep your nightly obsessions to yourself. You wouldn’t dare risk all that you’ve worked for. Until you meet HIM. The one who finally puts some sense into the songs of longing you sing every night. The stab of pain in your chest where the heart is supposed to beat makes you think you’re about to die. He brushes you off, toys with you to fuel more songs that are sung more beautifully by a heartbroken songstress than an indifferent composer.
ACT IV : A FALL FROM GRACE
IT DRIVES YOU to madness. You lose yourself to drinking and frolicking, first with London’s top bachelors, but that’s not enough. You’re losing the thrill. If you lose the thrill, your mind wanders back to the composer you can never have. You want MORE. You meet him backstage, a little older than you’re used to, but oh so regal. Grey eyes look at you as if you were the only girl in the world ---- no matter he already has one waiting at home. You feign ignorance when the tabloids hit, you try to spin yourself into the victim, but you realize quickly these people don’t actually LOVE you. They love what you do for them. The minute you are a threat to the good marriages of the people surrounding you, they treat you like the plague, whispering stories lewd and mad as they come. You even hear whispers and hints of a scheme you plotted to get rid of your savior, access his money. You stay holed up in YOUR estate. Not theirs, not his. Yours.
ACT V: REDEMPTION, AT WHAT COST ?
You board the Promethean, acutely aware of the crowd’s hushed whispers as you walk up, luggage in tow. Head held high, you’ve prepared yourself for this day. It’s been years since you’ve made a public appearance, but you’re determined to keep it cool. You know what they’re saying, but you pay no mind. There are no married aristocrats on the Promethean that you know of ---- and if there are, you’re determined to stay well away from them. This is your shot at redemption, at getting away from the whispers that fuel London’s bourgeoisie. You’re stronger now, you’ve found the little girl with the dirty feet in yourself, and you don’t plan on letting her go.
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