closed starter for: lady roscille alden ⸻ @rosesnare
amongst the fragment's innumerable hells, few could conceivably compare to the tortuous pomp and ceremony of the southern soiree that belisarius vauss had found himself descending into. the songs were all wrong, the dances were rigid and unimaginative, and the less said about the food, the better. it was all far too performative for his tastes.
an outlook that was reflected in his attire that evening. though the cut and quality of his outfit spoke of wealth, there was no opulence to his attire save for the fur mantle. no baubles, jewels, gemstones or embellishments save for the house and personal sigil wrought upon his clasps. he was a noble, but one of the north. of the wild reaches of geimreadh. there was little need to festoon himself with such gaudy trinkets to convince others of his supposed worth. he would leave that to the insecure and preening peacocks of the south. at least the wine was verging on decent, and better still, surprisingly plentiful. there was nothing quite like copious amounts of alcohol to make southerners tenuously bearable.
“there you are, my lady,” belisarius murmured softly as he cut through the throng of her admirers, flashing them that winning smile that showed perhaps a little too many teeth to be considered completely friendly. it was a wolf’s smile; a bearing of teeth to remind them that house vauss still had them. those dark hazel eyes staring at them pointedly until they either excused themselves or simply shrunk a suitable distance away. he passed roscille a goblet of wine of wine, tapping the mirrored twin against it softly. “i would say you looked in need of saving, but in truth i am saving myself from another hour talking to dusty officials from craego. ”
she has flowers woven in her hair and honeyed wine braided into the linings of her stomach, and in this manner the lady alden is home. it is a stiff affair, to be sure, but the rose of house alden bends and flexes as she always does: onto the arms of those who please her, away from the hands of those who don't. her laughter a turn in the wind, her smile an archer's bow. there is no straight line in roscille, save the array of suitors who congregate before her by evening's highest point.
then ⸺ from the bramble of silk flowers and green-spined lordlings comes something other. shoulders parting the brush. my lady.
"my lord vauss." their eyes match, and her heart stutters like a rabbit's. he looks like a wolf. she wonders if he would be offended by her thinking so; considers if the man she knows by ink and page alone would be — by this increase in her pulse which leaves her wanting to expose her neck. see, right here, how terribly it races. as she considers this the lord's gaze passes over the group, while hers remain fixed on him. perhaps belisarius's eyes intimidate the remaining men, but it is the distinct lack of hers that drive them finally away. it is clear her interest has been cleanly snatched, sitting pink between the teeth of a northern creature.
"well ⸺" goblet taps his own, "i do not come from ceago, my lord, but i have shared a great many conversations with the land's lieges tonight." those he had dispersed, among many. "perhaps we should be sure that they have not leaned too close."
roscille's chin brushes down, tucks to the soft fawn skin of her neck, eyes skirting across the scalloped bodice of her gown. "mm..." next her chin raises, turns over rotating shoulder as she begins a slow and purposeful spin. her gaze follows the back of her shoulder, the trail of her hem, a languid search for some imaginary spot. "do i carry any of this foreign dust on me?"
it's the work of a woman who wants his eyes on her. it's the simple act of a girl who wishes only to play.
"i can take myself further away," she steps back by one pace. perhaps it is a jest better played without a smile, but still there sits one on roscille's mouth, closed-lipped and coy. "if you have found anything that displeases you."
fingertips lace with a sheet of cold at the words of the lioness who seems rather ingrosed in her own thoughts and pleasantries than the company she is now in . it's bothersome , for this princess before her has irked her since her adventures in ardora , away from home , away from the known . " just a small break from forced smiles and uncomfortable pleasantries . " she remarked before straightening her back , finding herself ready to hurl at the lioness with snow leopard paws if need be . " why haven't you greeted your brother yet ? we all looked for you in the great hall . "
they had grown on the whetstone, this sister-creature and she. suckled on the black rock that sharpens teeth. even a stone will bleed if you gnaw it hard enough ⸺ a white milk that replaces that which a mother should give. isolde and cezara were proof enough of that: women raised by the circumstance rather than the love they were owed. it is why the younger of the pair smiles even now, as the one-day queen straightens herself.
"you really all must stop looking for me wherever you go; i know i am the realm's greatest amusement, but i simply cannot be everywhere at once." the response, in contrary to isolde's sharpness, is only lax. she shrugs, her gaze finding purchase in the distance. "solaris and i shall find each other, as lions always do." as it should be understood: as is none of your concern. "you needn't actually return to the hall, you know that don't you? you are the kingdom's young mother, all you need due to beg off such inanity is tell us all to go to sleep."
bustling streets , tournaments and happenings were taking it's toll on the mother harpy . she knew court life was stressful and without a doubt she had grown accustomed to it . however , the amount of smiles and pleasantries which had to be given with the mass of people in her home of ten years was wearing her resolve thin . with fingertips gently pressing to her forhead she'd made her escape heading back towards her own chambers in hopes of some rest . however , when did enerin ever let someone in the eissen household rest ? " are you headed out for the festivities ? " they had lived in the same castle for ten years now , and still both sharpened their claws .
i'm sure, the princess embroiders to the edge of her response ⸺ the only sewing cezara has done in uncountable moonturns ⸺ to infer that neither the certainty of placement nor the objective itself is not her own.
a sereen is dictated by the gods. a daughter is directed by the father.
"or it's throat." the remark is idle, head canting to one side so that dark hair falls omen-like over a pale shoulder, and comes from somewhere lower in the throat. a jest, in some manner. in another, a concession that where she and revelry meet, one is bound to meet their end.
her eyes flick over the length of this sister, this woman not of her blood but of shared teeth. "do not tell me the celebrations have bested you already." cezara's tone raises by a half measure, flitting somewhere higher, the tail of a lioness flicking in the air with amusement.
closed starter addressed to @rosesnare , in the great hall
the grat hall with its gilded corners and silk draped tables felt more a prison that celebration, air carrying a scent of expensive perfumes and cloying opulence that felt heavy with a desperation to appear powerful. a farce — charade that arashi endured stiffly. lingering near edge of it all, stiff as poorly placed statue or not unlike the knights that stood at attention should something threaten the royals. eyes flickering in slow blinks, the abruptness of their step forward rustling finery as they picked their way through the throng of people to the table laden with desserts ; the first since their arrival that there hadn't been a steady stream of bodies blocking their path. tarts reminiscent of the ones they indulged infrequently with in ceago lightly plucked and placed onto shimmering plate, tension filling their form as another appeared. ‘ if you're in search of the fig tarts, i took the last. ’
THE FAT PAD OF A FINGER IS LOCKED GENTLY IN THE PINK INSOUCIANCE OF HER MOUTH, a gesture of both concentration and a thickened anticipation. she turns the length of the oak table, eyes disproportionately sharp to the soft petals that comprise her body. she looks for something with the same enlivened spirit of an animal. it is like watching a flower go on the hunt.
one calls to her, and in surprise she turns, nail popping from between milky pearl teeth. the fingertip is soft and red from heat and tension, a living cherry of blood. she observes them for a moment before there is a pivot, a birdlike adjustment of her collarbone, the wings flitting as she attempts to adjust into a shape that will not show her displeasure.
"a shame. i hadn't even a chance to try them." a lie, as childish as the possessive spirit of her gluttony. she admits nothing of the fig tarts she's already eaten; the tips of fingers still tacked with honey. the lady makes a home in the velvet pit of indulgence. once a pleasure is had, roscille returns to it. nests within. "i heard they were delectable. do you find them so?"
this, as genuine a question as the girl's appetite. she paces closer, eyes moving from the liege's plate to their eyes. "or... might you recommend me a ⸺" dark in pigment, roscille notes of that solemn gaze, but not without depth; a colour hoarse and sweet as honey left out overnight. "⸺ greater pleasure?"
Libuše Šafránková as Cinderella in Tři oříšky pro Popelku / Drei Haselnüsse für Aschenbrödel / Three Wishes for Cinderella (1973) dir. by Václav Vorlíček.
ripe pink lips pursing against spring petals, the practice of a passion; mouth and flower indistinguishable, things one and the same, sticky with nectar / a breezeless night & the white gossamer curtains floating next to an open window, as if reaching for the girl sleeping within / a coil of black scales among the wet earth / an ornate vase filled with unidentifiable flowers: their bloom sudden & intoxicating under a ray of moonlight / sugar - spun glass fogged with the sighs of pleasure / a shift of feminine eyes behind a sheer veil / the red bead - tip of blood from a thorn's prick / an empty stone room filled with water and something hissing beneath it / a length of tulle used as a blindfold / the nectar of a ripe fruit spilling down lithe wrist, and the pink tongue that meets it / sweet voice deep and sticky with sleep, left by half in the dark honey of a dream / a bramble smelling thickly of flora, of strange roses and dew - wet desire, a scent so intoxicating it compulses you onward ⸺ forward, forward, into the thicket / the dark velvet eyes of a white ermine / blood left behind on a stone dais / bare feet in a slow pace along wet, thick moss, the drag of fine pale silk behind / the echo of harp and soft song played in the witching hour, a call that pulls you forth into the dark
( MUSINGS ) ⸺ ( WANTED ) ⸺ ( PINTEREST )
FULL NAME . roscille halia alden SOBRIQUET(S) / ALIAS(ES) / TITLE(S) . lady of house alden / the great rose, ( our lady ) star of the sea / ro, rosie, rose AGE . twenty - eight ( 28 ) GENDER + PRONOUNS . cis woman, she + her ORIENTATION . bisexual, male lean ALLEGIANCE . her family + her hungers
( + ) alluring, dreamy, curious, flirtatious, ambrosial, romantic, explorative, esoteric, persuasive, coy, imaginative, immersive, magnetic, charismatic, graceful, fervent, languid, affectionate, lunar, playful, elegant, enchanting, witty, creative, passionate
( - ) insatiable, selfish, vain, quixotic, precocious, demanding, gluttonous, enigmatic, spoiled, dissatisfied, lustful, fickle, impulsive, manipulative, jealous, fanciful, flippant, prideful, coquettish, woolgathering, prone to being consumed/addictions
TOUCHPOINTS . scarlett o'hara, gone with the wind. lucy westenra, bram stoker's dracula. katrina van tassel, sleepy hollow. juliet, romeo & juliet. helen of troy, greek mythology. sarah williams, labyrinth. vanessa, the little mermaid. margaery tyrell, asoiaf. ofelia, pan's labyrinth. kitty shcherbatsky, anna karenina. claire hamilton, etoile. lottie labouff, the princess & the frog. odile, swan lake. victoria, casanova. margot fenring, dune. ellen hutter, nosferatu. sleeping beauty, fairytale. thumbelina, fairytale. the love witch (2016). the company of wolves (1984). maleficent (2014). the bloody chamber by angela carter.
THE PARABLE & THE ROSE .
she has the mysterious solitude of ambiguous states; she hovers in a no-man’s land between life and death, sleeping and waking, behind the hedge of spiked flowers, nosferatu’s sanguinary rosebud.
01. they find her amongst the rosebushes amid the storm. how long she had slept nestled amongst the thicket they cannot know ⸺ there are no signs of an intruder, no entrance in or out of the royal gardens; and yet the naked babe is so thoroughly soaked by rainwater she nearly slips from the hands of the high lady, falls to sudden death against the cold stone of the keep. slept through the thunder, she did, the septa whispers, peering avidly into the gossamer cradle. slept right through the great cries of the sky, it's violent tears... only to awaken at the flash of lightning. this much is the truth, at least. it is only the disturbance of light which stirred you. a wail so loud it could be heard above the crack of thunder; a cry so perfectly matched to the flash of lightning it seemed another twin of nature. and yet you bare no disturbance now, no shiver or ailment⸺ only a bright red spots on each cheeks, as if blood pools like a kiss. as if roses bloom beneath skin. the lady's eyes widen, grow deep and wide as a scrying pool. seem, for a moment, to glow red as the strange blood that curls beneath infant skin. a rose gifted to us by the gods. our rose.
all children mythologise their birth. It is a universal trait. you want to know someone? heart, mind and soul? ask him to tell you about when he was born. what you get won’t be the truth: it will be a story. and nothing is more telling than a story.
02. she is nourished on the mythology of this making. fed on the sand-grains of truth that have calcified into pearls. it is no way to live. it makes her skin glow. it leaves her ever-hungry. roscille is raised as a beloved daughter of the aldens & of the land, attended to especially obsessively by their mother, she who discovered her among the roses. she is told as lesson and fact that she is a gift from the gods, and that she will one day be proven as much as a sereen. that vittra will claim her hand, or perhaps atesia ⸺ brought cross the lands by the lightbringer herself, too beautiful to deny.
i thought i longed for her, before. now I begin to feel a longing so great, so sharp, i fear it will never be assuaged. i think it will mount, and mount, and make me mad, or kill me.
03. there are those who believe the queen, a woman once an alden, bespelled the king with a rose from the noble house's strange garden. there are those who believe roscille emerged fully formed from the roses. as a matter of arithmetic, of the lesser-understood science of alchemy, there are then those who believe she is an alden rose incarnate. that she wields the same enchantments as the magicked flowers, and has since birth; bewitching her family and lady-mother into adopting her as their own. her beauty a thing impossible, her desires & her song irresistible.
to the credit of skalds and rumourmongers, she does always smell of roses. inexplicably. even fresh from an unadorned bath, the scent persists.
a creature at odds with herself. simultaneously deeply loving and fickle. delicate and wild. dreamy and dark. lovely and playful and prideful and vain.
known for her immense talent as a harpist & compulsively lovely singing voice. despite being a girl who argued against anything she found unenjoyable/unentertaining as a child with a great deal of septas and tutors, roscille has always been drawn to the harp, and knows the power of her voice.
gluttonous by nature & commanded by her impulses, both bodily and of heart. perpetually hungry ⸺ for experience, for touch, food, love, for all the hidden portions of life. it both drives her and frightens her, this insatiable quality.
the deep, dark hunger that exists inside her has called into question where exactly she comes from. if it was not the gods, than who? who, or what, is responsible for this black feathery turnings in the pearl-gut of her stomach? who, OR WHAT, is she?
a devout creature, but not to faith. she worships that which fills her heart.
quiet unnerves her in more ways than one. she is used to the permanent clatter and clash of her home, where storms take place of calm sky. she needs motion, noise, restlessness. if there is none she will create it. that can subsequently make her a touch of a troublemaker; she is certainly in the least half wild and prone to wandering any place green or wet
related to the above, she's both deeply tactile and carnal; she is one with sensations and material, silk and rain, moss and cold pearls ⸺ and as a result, she is often in a state of undress. bodily pleasure, be it sexual or platonic, is incredibly important to her.
had more than one gardener fired at home for her hysteria over their perceived ill-treatment of the roses in her youth, and has become the overseer for the alden gardens in womanhood. they are one and the same, the thorns and the petals and roscille. she talks to flowers in general, and it would seem from her pauses ... they must talk aback.
among the rumours about roscille is that she was fed pearls as a child. that the only way to cease one of the lovely alden daughters from crying was to place the heavy, milky gem on her tongue and allow her to swallow. that her hunger for this taste grew hot and irrepressible, and her father was left with no choice but to sweep the seas surrounding them with great nets, dredging up every oyster in the bay.
v much envies sereens for their "ability" to be worth the gods blessing, for accomplishing what she was always told she was or would be
has a white ermine as a pet, named elio. he is both incredibly intelligent & notoriously mischievous/difficult to those who aren't roscille. has more than once been mistaken as a fur stole as he lays draped across the back of her neck. roscille adores him and had a collar of deep plum-coloured rubies commissioned for elio
exchanges love letters with many a soldier she's never met ... think marty of grease with a whole booklet of GIs who are writing her. she doesn't consider it duplicitous, she means everything she says. her heart is too big and ever-swelling. she needs each and every one of them.
tl;dr the place where dreamy, enchanting fairytale & dark tooth-laden folktale meet<3
WANTED .
( secret ) ex, masc 27 - 35 . will at some point become a proper wc up on the main ! many moons ago, the great rose of alden was kidnapped ⸺ so they say. they, these eponymous people, certainly have a great deal to whisper about, don't they? her song, cast with such an impossible sweetness over the sea, called to a crazed sailor who climbed the walls & took her in the deepest mouth of night. this was, in fact, actually the attempted elopement of roscille and her beloved. they made it only so far before alden ships recovered her on the shore of another isle, and in panic, unable admit to her transgression or her love, roscille claimed she had been taken against her will. though she did not divulge the identity of her lover, he was wounded by her story and inability to own up to their love in the face of adversity. something torrid and unresolved lives between them still.
misc . homoerotic/codependent female friendships; despite never thusfar meeting, she has been in your dreams, and you recognize her instantly; "remember me love when i'm reborn as a shrike to your glorious thorn"; feyd rautha & lady fenring coding; sereens she is openly jealous of; those openly jealous of her; one who asked for her hand & she spurned only to regret it now; someone aiding in her quest to find where her origins truly are; frenemies; finger stuck deep into a wound pain/intimacy; classic bad influence but in the sense of mutual destruction, of their heart swelling to see her descend/follow her darkest impulses and join them; first love; previous event horizon that's never been forgotten / magical evening / "i remember that night i might just regret that night for the rest of my days".
