Claire Keane
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@poor-unhappy-erika
Inside Box 5
I had the unique opportunity to visit the inside of Box 5 at the Palais Garnier in Paris, France, also known as the official box of the phantom of the opera.
And though there wasn’t much time I managed at least to take some photos I’m happy to share with you here.
reblog this if you’re an indie roleplaying blog with both an LGBTQIA+ mun and LGBTQIA+ muse(s).
i’m trying to get an idea of how large portion of the indie rp community consists of queer muses being written and represented by queer people themselves. allies, don’t interact.
@fillescharmxnt
"It takes more than sweet songs to get by in life."
poor-unhappy-erika:
Erika regards this man, with all the presence and grandeur of a mouse, with a cool glare, all but hidden behind the dark shroud of her mask. Couldn’t he leave her to wallow in her own self-pity without bringing technicalities into the mixture?
“Fah, there is much more to life than the blood!” Erika says with a dismissive wave of one gloved hand. “Do you think nothing of the mind? Of the SOUL?”
THE SOUL! Oh, such a word is fearsome to Renfield, being the particular breed of monster that he is, and unable to escape a conviction in God or in Heaven. “Souls… Souls are another matter altogether. Don’t muddy the water. Souls surpass death, cannot be touched by it; therefore they are not LIFE. … I suspect you are ‘hated and feared’ because of a propensity for dramatics and nothing else!”
For a moment, Erika is sorely tempted to remove her mask, only to prove him wrong. Instead she glares holes into him.
"For a madman and a Brit, you speak as if you are of authority on the subject. You know nothing of me, you raclure de bidet, and you know nothing of death."
Erika had dealt in death her entire life, had made a symphony of it in the courts of Persia. 'Propensity for dramatics,' indeed, but she had been born into a corpse. This mewling madman dared to talk to her of death, of the soul?
By all you hold sacred, by all you hold dear, by your love that is lost, by your hope that lives, for the sake of the Almighty, take me out of this and SAVE MY SOUL FROM GUILT! Can’t you hear me, man? DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND? Will you never learn? Don’t you know that I am sane and earnest now, that I am no l u n a t i c in a mad fit, but a sane man FIGHTING FOR HIS SOUL?
(ind. r. m. renfield of ‘dracula.’ written by kay.)
poor-unhappy-erika:
“I do hope that your plan upon seeing one another once again after so many years was not to insult my theatre,” Erika said, but she could not hide the smile creeping up her face. “It may not seem like it to you, but it has been a very long time, my friend. I am glad to see you in good health.”
With a flourish Erika whisked the wide-brimmed black hat from atop her head, placing it over her heart in a mockery of a bow before laughing to herself and hanging it from one of the hooks she had made for the occasion.
“Come come, I know you are a traveler, but what has brought you to Paris this time?”
“I meant no harm by it, only jest. Had I been aware that you were here, I wouldn’t have done so.” He smiled. “Time does seem to move differently for me. It is quite surreal sometimes.”
He chuckled at her mock bow before following suite, using his shadows to put his hat onto a different hook.
“Curiosity really. When a place like this gets popular, word of mouth gets around. And you know how attracted I am to rumors like a moth to flame. Had I known you were here, I would have come much sooner.”
Erika chuckled, gesturing about the entire space with a sweep of her arms- from the elaborately embroidered cloak across her shoulders, to the gold and silver filigree on the curtains in Box Five, to the expansive theatre below them where patrons were still chattering away even as they filed into rows upon rows of velvetine chairs- and grinning like a fox.
"And how do these rumors compare to the real thing? I assure you, they are far from the truth. That is much stranger still, my friend."
©--@scarletexlibris
Erika very nearly gasped aloud at the unexpected pressure on the small of her back. In her surprise she took a few obedient steps forward, but in a moment she regained her senses and dug her heels in, wheeling around to grab Alexander by the wrist. For a few seconds English words failed her, and she gestured dumbly to the hand before spitting out whatever half-cobbled sentiment she could muster.
“What is this?”
@scarletexlibris
“Ah… you know, I might have guessed that you and Devil might be conspiring in the night somehow,” Alexander couldn’t help but quip, the first shadow of a smile creeping back onto his face. To say that Erika and Theo got on like a house afire was to vastly underestimate the average house fire; no sooner had the two collaborated on her first heist than they became kindred spirits of a kind, nearly inseparable around the hideout unless she was working on some opus of her own. It was enviable in a way… Alexander wasn’t sure if he could call anyone that close a friend. Except for Lydia, of course, but… well… there was a different matter altogether. One he hadn’t quite emotionally sorted…
“Well, we shall not have much longer to wait. The longest way must have its close - the gloomiest night will wear on to a morning.” He leaned against the railing, rapping a gloved knuckle contemplatively against it. “I still need to decide how we shall spend that morning…”
"It is lucky for you that he convinced me to abandon my original plan to force you to get some rest." Indeed, the chloroform she had been intending to use had been rudely confiscated by her more pragmatic companion.
Her speech seemed to have moved Alexander, though, and would perhaps do some good yet. His spirits seemed to have been lightened, at the very least, if only temporarily. Gliding to stand beside him, Erika fixed him with a pointed look.
"However, that is a decision that can wait until you have had a proper night's sleep," she said. "The world will not stop spinning because Aleksander Scarlet decided to get some rest, my friend." Truth be told, she was dying to know what sort of plot he had in store this time, but she wasn't going to encourage him by inquiring as to any details just yet.
poor-unhappy-erika:
Madame Giry was about to offer some scathing remark to this man’s insolence, but luckily for him Erika interjected before she could get a word in edgewise, throwing her voice into the corridor.
“Let him enter, Madame.”
A face was fleeting, unreliable, but Erika never forgot a voice, and she remembered this man’s quite distinctly. It had been the first one to speak to her with genuine kindness in her entire life.
At the melodious, hissing whisper that filled the upper lobby, however, quite a few other patrons startled, looking around for its source before their eyes arrived with more than a bit of trepidation on the small audience gathered outside of Box Five. Madame Giry did not flinch at the noise, but raked her skeptical glare across the Shade before slowly lowering her cane to allow him entry.
“Very well. The Opera Ghost would see you, monsieur. I suggest you do not keep her waiting.”
“And I will not.” He tipped his hat to the woman and reached to open the door.
Part of him nagging that he knew that voice. But he had met so many people that it could simply be one that sounded like someone else. But he had long learned to follow his instinct.
He glanced behind him accusingly at the small crowd before opening the door, only enough for him to slip in and close it behind him.
And there she was. Sitting with her back to the door with the confidence that… well that rivaled his.
He took off his hat and sat down next to the woman, eyes scanning over her for only a moment before a small smile broke out onto his face.
“My my, what a quaint place to reunite.”
"I do hope that your plan upon seeing one another once again after so many years was not to insult my theatre," Erika said, but she could not hide the smile creeping up her face. "It may not seem like it to you, but it has been a very long time, my friend. I am glad to see you in good health."
With a flourish Erika whisked the wide-brimmed black hat from atop her head, placing it over her heart in a mockery of a bow before laughing to herself and hanging it from one of the hooks she had made for the occasion.
"Come come, I know you are a traveler, but what has brought you to Paris this time?"
The nineteenth century, this sword was made from a light cavalry saber blade model 1816. The guard represents a skeleton, whose skull serves as a pommel and the body grows on the guard, fighting against a snake.
From the Musée de l'Armée
poor-unhappy-erika:
If the recent ghost stories nor Monsieur Lefevre’s own request that Box Five be kept empty during all performances were not enough to deter the discerning patron away, then the shrewd woman perched like a harpy at its doors typically was. Before the Shade could take even one step inside, a loud CLANG! was heard, and Madame Giry had planted her cane firmly across the doorway, fixing the man with an aquiline glare despite the noticeable height disparity between them.
“We do not enter Box Five, monsieur. I must ask you to choose a different seat.”
There was certainly no malice to her tone, but it was not one that invited any debate.
Erika, already tucked safely inside Box Five via the hollow pillar on one wall, always delighted in watching her faithful box-keeper turn away potential intruders, especially if they tried to object. She pitied the fool who thought they could take on Antoinette Giry in a game of verbal prowess. Settling into her plush red velvet chair, Erika turned a ear to the scene outside her door and listened intently.
“Oh, pardon me Madame.” He looked the woman up and down. “If the box is closed, you should put up a sign. Otherwise you have foolhardy men like me trying to get in.”
He joked with her, but did not argue with her. By the way she stood, the way she talked, and the way she acted, she had an authority.
And he respected that.
“Have a nice day Madame. I hope you are able to get an out of service sign for your broken box.” He said, tipping his hat. “And maybe a nice ribbon on it to match the decor.”
Madame Giry was about to offer some scathing remark to this man’s insolence, but luckily for him Erika interjected before she could get a word in edgewise, throwing her voice into the corridor.
“Let him enter, Madame.”
A face was fleeting, unreliable, but Erika never forgot a voice, and she remembered this man’s quite distinctly. It had been the first one to speak to her with genuine kindness in her entire life.
At the melodious, hissing whisper that filled the upper lobby, however, quite a few other patrons startled, looking around for its source before their eyes arrived with more than a bit of trepidation on the small audience gathered outside of Box Five. Madame Giry did not flinch at the noise, but raked her skeptical glare across the Shade before slowly lowering her cane to allow him entry.
“Very well. The Opera Ghost would see you, monsieur. I suggest you do not keep her waiting.”
Lucky Number Five
@poor-unhappy-erika
He had heard many things about the Opera Populaire, both good and bad. And while he knew that reputations could be built on exaggerations and lies, he was tempted to visit the Opera house himself.
So he paid for a box seat, as he sometimes did when he did not feel like sitting near people.
Making his way upstairs, he noticed the distinct lack of people who were avoiding box number five. Most likely the haunted box with so many rumors that it scared people off.
But not him. He was not scared of ghosts or rumors.
If the recent ghost stories nor Monsieur Lefevre’s own request that Box Five be kept empty during all performances were not enough to deter the discerning patron away, then the shrewd woman perched like a harpy at its doors typically was. Before the Shade could take even one step inside, a loud CLANG! was heard, and Madame Giry had planted her cane firmly across the doorway, fixing the man with an aquiline glare despite the noticeable height disparity between them.
“We do not enter Box Five, monsieur. I must ask you to choose a different seat.”
There was certainly no malice to her tone, but it was not one that invited any debate.
Erika, already tucked safely inside Box Five via the hollow pillar on one wall, always delighted in watching her faithful box-keeper turn away potential intruders, especially if they tried to object. She pitied the fool who thought they could take on Antoinette Giry in a game of verbal prowess. Settling into her plush red velvet chair, Erika turned a ear to the scene outside her door and listened intently.
‘American Gods’ Sentence Starters
‘ I can believe things that are true and things that aren’t true. ‘
‘ Life is what happens when you’re alive and you might as well lie back and enjoy it. ‘
‘ Once you learn your answers, you can never unlearn them. ‘
‘ The really dangerous people believe they are doing whatever they are doing solely and only because it is without question the right thing to do. ‘
‘ I believe that all men are just overgrown boys with deep problems communicating. ‘
‘ This country would get along much better if people learned how to suffer in silence. ‘
‘ Fuck you and fuck your mother and fuck the fucking horse you fucking rode in on. ‘
‘ You will die with a kiss on your lips and a lie in your heart. ‘
‘ Don’t start anything you’re not prepared to finish. ‘
‘ I want to be alive again. Not in this half-life. I want to be really alive. ‘
‘ Goodbyes are overrated. ‘
‘ You’re fucked up, _____. But you’re cool. ‘
‘ Aren’t you going to show it to me? I’ll show you mine. ‘
‘ Some things may never change. People, however… people stay the same. ‘
‘ I could be blindfolded and dropped into the deepest ocean and I would know where to find you. ‘
‘ I could be buried a hundred miles underground and I would know where you are. ‘
‘ I believe that anyone who says that sex is overrated just hasn’t done it properly. ‘
‘ You’re slow, but you get there in the end. ‘
‘ I’m tired of mysteries. ‘
‘ You shine like a beacon in a dark world. ‘
‘ I think there are several aspects of our marriage we’re going to have to work on. ‘
‘ The outcome of the battle is unimportant. What matters is the chaos, and the slaughter. ‘
‘ You can always cheat an honest man, but it takes more work. ‘
‘ What makes you think I’m giving you a ride? ‘
‘ That’s when I miss you most. When you’re here. When you aren’t here, when you’re just a ghost of the past or a dream from another life, it’s easier then. ‘
‘ Mostly you are what they say you are. ‘
‘ You are so full of shit it’s a wonder your eyes don’t turn brown. ‘
‘ You are the nearest thing I have to life. ‘
’ You’re walking on gallows ground, and there’s a rope around your neck. ‘
‘ Something feels weird. ‘
‘ It’s all in your head. Best not to think about it. ‘
‘ Just because you’re small, doesn’t mean you got no power. ‘
‘ If they think you’re a hero, they’re wrong. ‘
‘ I feel like I’m in a world with its own sense of logic. ‘
‘ Whoever-the-fuck you are, there isn’t enough money in the world. ‘
‘ It’s the unwrapping that’s half the fun. ‘
‘ It’s all imaginary anyway. ‘
‘ This is a poor place for Gods. ‘
‘ I love you is a good thing to say if you can mean it. ‘
‘ Changes are coming. ‘
“Most people don’t know this – Guill[ermo] doesn’t even know this – but I played it that her fantasies are more about women than men.” […] Chastain describes the intimacy of that murderous act, “of holding someone’s hand as they die: it’s a very sexual thing to do”. [x]
@poor-unhappy-erika
Gorgeous details from a Replica of a Stradivarius violin by Ezequiel Carvalho (Goiânia-Brazil). Does anyone know the name of the original? :) please let me know!
©--@scarletexlibris
Erika very nearly gasped aloud at the unexpected pressure on the small of her back. In her surprise she took a few obedient steps forward, but in a moment she regained her senses and dug her heels in, wheeling around to grab Alexander by the wrist. For a few seconds English words failed her, and she gestured dumbly to the hand before spitting out whatever half-cobbled sentiment she could muster.
“What is this?”
@scarletexlibris
Oh, for pity’s sake, Alexander was not in the mood for a debate at a time like this. “This, Mademoiselle, is not an overture of any sort. This is a reminder not to disturb me while I am working on a new plot. If there is anything you need, I suggest you consult—“
Then he noticed his glove riding up his wrist from where it had dug against his desk, exposing not only a dull purple pressure mark marked with wood grain pattern, but the edges of the red welts across his palm. Oh, bloody perfect… “And this—“ he pointedly fixed his glove and straightened the cuff of his jacket over it—“is none of your concern.”
“Your people are concerned, Aleksander,” Erika said, releasing his wrist at his behest and turning on him. “You have not left that silly office of yours in two days! Not even Lydia has heard anything from you!”
Inevitably, her gaze flashed to his movement, and she caught a glimpse of his exposed hand. Often she had wondered why he wore those gloves at every occasion, just as she was certain he wondered what her mask hid, but she would never had tried to pull the curtain back on purpose. In an instant the anger left her voice. “Forgive me, that was…not my intention.”
Two days? Good lord, had it really been that long? Alexander supposed he had no realistic way of knowing—his office in the library attic, such as it was, had no windows or even a skylight to let in the sun or fresh air. His only indication that time had passed at all was the melting of the candles on his desk and the occasional spells of fatigue that would overcome him, causing him to doze off over his blueprints. Two days… that explained the ache in his head, how it might have more to do with just hitting the desk with it when he got too tired to hold it up. And he couldn’t remember when he had last eaten… or drank anything other than out of the same pot of tea…
Shaking his head to dispel her concern—his hands were the least of his problems—Alexander wandered a little past Erika to contemplate the lower level beyond the attic stairwell. “Are they here still? Lydia and the men?”
Erika was not exactly the best one to be admonishing Alexander right now- after all, she was hardly any better herself. How many nights had she spent awake, languishing in some dark corner with nothing but her instruments, a quill, and ink? How many compositions had she thought to be masterpieces by night, and then torn to pieces the next morning? But if she didn’t reign Alexander in, she doubted anyone else would. They were far more subservient to the Bookworm than she. Erika worked with Alexander, not for him. Whether he would agree to that was a different matter, but the fact remained that someone had to snap him out of it.
“Printer’s Devil may be here still, but he would be the only one,” Erika said, gliding to stand beside him. “Seeing as it is approximately five in the morning...”
oof.
Clair De Lune by Claude Debussy except you’re exploring a supposedly haunted cave at night, and it seems to just start playing somewhere in the depths. As you head toward the source of the music and as it gets louder, you begin to hear whispers.
