In their first meeting, it’d been natural to think her a queen, and nobility if not so. She’d held herself with impeccable poise, and in both mannerisms and thought, she struck him as someone well above the crowd–someone, if nothing else, with a disposition to rule.
When he steps foot inside the Regency Lounge as per her invitation, then, Kouen expects it to resemble a court. What he sees instead is something more closely resembling a temple, filled with people who are reminiscent of devout worshipers–men and women both bewitched and enthralled, willingly made prisoner by the enchanting shackles of a voice too mesmerizing to be true.
For a moment, Kouen thinks to laugh. She is no queen as he’d thought, but a woman made goddess–and here, in her domain, the difference is as clear as each shifting intonations of her song.
He doesn’t clap and cheer as the other patrons do when her performance comes to a close, but neither will he deny that he’s impressed. Eliza’s voice is a pleasant one, even when compared to the performers of the Kou Empire’s royal court, and if there is reason behind which individuals have been brought here to this city, Kouen thinks that hers is this–to be a beautiful songbird in a cage of gold, to sing and sway in a tireless repetition of entertainment and power.
With wide, even steps, Kouen approaches her stage, the pedestal and altar upon which this songbird-goddess defines her place among the crowd.
“I wouldn’t have thought you to be a performer.”
But it says enough that he is here now, stepping close rather than receding away. Kouen has never been a man to pursue that which doesn’t capture his interest, and this Eliza is no different.
She spreads her arms, wrists rolling, chic bob forming curtain along the delicate frame of her jawline, taking one last gracious bow before the gallery. It would certainly be the last they would see of her tonight, given the attendance of her special escort. It is somewhat of a shame for them that Eliza is so very changeable, but a lasting impression of her charisma would, at the very least, befit the reception, even if the star of the show won’t be present for most of it.
Kouen’s stature alone seems to pick off the usual herd of adoring fans wishing to approach her for some meaningless babble. It’s a rather entertaining turn of events: he doesn’t seem to care much for the fellows on his periphery as he passes across the aisle, making a beeline for the base of the stage. As the rest fall back, be it due to a foreign presence or his unfamiliar dignity as he approaches her as one would an old friend (the irony!), he seems to already have demonstrated command.
Parallel to hers, in fact, for it doesn’t seem as though he has a care in the world for what others may make of him centralizing the attention of the room.
“I’m flustered.” Eliza calmly pantomimes an appreciative kiss to receive him, pressing her fingertips to her lips. “Truly. Your recognition flatters me so. I’m only thankful you’ve finally risen above whatever has kept your visit. Any longer, and I’d imagine you had already overthrown those scientists through sheer, unbending will and moved right on!” She jests harmlessly.
Her heels click as she descends from the platform. “Come. Your company is a special occasion. I’d like to spend it somewhere where we can be left to chat in private.”
pst i kno the meme thing is over but i missed this so 🎁 + a human heart
Send me a 🎁 + an object for my muse’s reaction to being gifted that object. @nyantsuku
So this is the token of Junko Enoshima’s affection. A heartfelt conveyance of her feelings towards Eliza, perhaps?
In any event, the message the girl had wished to demonstrate has delivered without setback, and she would be pleased to learn of it. It goes without saying that the songstress is more than touched by such a material gesture. And what better way for Junko to wear her own on her sleeve than to indicate it in the flesh?
“Darling,” she coos. “You shouldn’t have.”
She totes the heart as she would a fruit, taking pleasure in examining the muscle: chambers, vessels, blood, and all. The laughter is impossible to suppress - it is all so beautifully base and criminally heartrending, all at once. True despair, was what Junko said, was it? And to what level must a human be driven to reach its culmination? What does it take for one to turn her back to her fellows; stab them in the back; and sell them down the river to the Theons?
“I’m positively overwhelmed! I’m afraid I don’t have the words to describe how I feel.” Elegant sadism cuts across her features. “This is the first time anyone’s stolen a heart in order to win mine.”
So she’s a woman who prefers to keep a mystifying aura about her, is she. Dropping a positively tantalizing hint like that - an act of cruelty, whether accidental or not - then withdrawing behind ambiguities.
“What’s this? You can’t seriously be going all tightlipped on me after saying something like that.”
It’d be so easy to drop the conversation then and there, depart in a huff and return to the pleasant solitude of his reading…but would it really? She looks smug, if he had to put a word to it, and though the thought of allowing her to have the upper hand leaves a positively bitter taste in his mouth, the promise of something truly unforgettable has him hooked.
The audacity of her.
“Come on, if you really have a valuable life lesson tucked away in this delightful sounding story, don’t you think it’d be best to share it?” He flashes her a smile that could almost pass as genuine. “What, are you worried that I’ll go telling people about some big secret? Please. You don’t have to worry about little old me.~”
As if the words of a talking flower of all things would seem trustworthy, not to mention believable. And who’s to say he hasn’t learned a thing or two about withholding information?
“I happen to know a thing or two about wonders and what happens when they’re in the hands of someone who doesn’t understand their potential. So, how about it? You share a little something with me, and I’ll return the favor.”
Moving forward, now? The antics of a real go-getter. At this rate, Eliza would happily let the cat out of the bag just to award his delightfully enterprising appeal, even if doing so could prove troublesome in the long run. But for the flower to implore a lady for an unspeakable secret: the gesture is truly quite childlike. It would do him well to realize that not every grownup is your poor, old, easy fool. Nevertheless, it does seem rather appropriate for him to learn a thing or two - especially given how eager he is to become corrupt.
Oh, dear. Or is he already? Either way, Eliza’s mind is already made up. It would be best that he makes good on his promise, even if it’s no longer a real concern whether or not she gets something concrete out of this deal.
“Hm! You really know how to drive a hard bargain. I’d be in peril if you weren’t just our everyday blossom. Your specimen doesn’t exactly cultivate by the hundreds, does it?” She quips breezily. “I’m at pains to play along now that you’re looking to trade. And since you’ve asked, darling, you should know that confidentiality is the least of my worries. You’ll take my my secret to the headstone, of course, if that’s the fate that meets all flowers.”
Eliza beams coolly. “But if you’re prepared for anything, I’d say we're as good as agreed.”
His code in such cases might not be so much about honor as it is about his own enjoyment, but he would never once let his satisfaction lead to a female feeling disrespected. After all, this is a game of give and take, isn’t it? He offers his company and sweet words, physical displays of affection, perhaps a gift — a memento of the time spent together — and the only thing he asks for in return is their acceptance of his passionate ways.
❝ That is a sad thing to hear, but I’m set on helping you forget, bella donna—at least for the time you grace me with your presence. ❞ Eyes closed for a brief moment, his expression is one of satisfaction at the positive answer his propositions have been met with. The blond reflects, then, on the fact that she looks nothing like the women he is used to have clinging to his arm. Her appearance is rather telling; it makes it easy to assume that she is most definitely familiar with people trying to make such advances on her, so he will have to put the full extent of his skills to use. And that is quite alright, as it makes the reward for his efforts seem more appealing.
❝ Ladies first. ❞ Arm signaling forward as he takes a slight bow before the woman, he lets her lead the way only to walk beside her once she has set the pace. Now, rather than laying sight on the path in front of them, the Italian chooses to grant her his attention, clearly interested in gaining hers in return. ❝ May I ask for your name? ❞
He can certainly put up a fight against any old wooer of hers - Eliza will give him that much. He must vest plenty of confidence in his ability to court risk in its many forms, even if he has little clue who·he’s fraternizing with. But his honeyed words do, in fact, have an effect on her. The praise is honest flattery: much of her self-assurance can be attributed to her painstaking attention to beauty. Her appeal has taken her a long way, after all. And the rest? History.
Still, his guileless charm makes for a rather handsome profile, especially as the diva’s acknowledgement doesn’t in any way cater to no-hopers. The songstress likes them polished; prefers them to be more urbane than sharp, even, as it would do no good if their gravitation lead them straight to her dirty little secrets.·If she must have an escort, she won’t settle for anything less than trophy in a man. Terribly prejudiced of her, of course, but Eliza’s regal bearing is more than enough to indemnify her choosiness.
“Why, yes. It’s Eliza, if you must know.” She complies simply. “And what of yours? I hope I’m not meant to hang off your sweet talk, and nothing else! I’ll take that arm of yours, darling.”
Despite how strangely put the intention, Eliza gracefully links her arm around the crook of his. “If you don’t mind.”
Rubatosis: the unsettling awareness of your own heartbeat. @ignisimperii
When his name appears on the guest list, she is nothing short of surprised.
He seemed much too no-nonsense for recreation - too erudite to pass time on anything asides from research and technicalities, as she saw him. Eliza had made made it relatively clear that open arms would await him, should he first overcome that fatal hard-headed nature of his and confront the realities in a manner suitable of his pragmatic outlook. As it stands, his obstinacy is so strong that it’s patent even through first impression. Sadly, she has never had much taste for those who can’t waltz in step.
As gauche as he is, he isn’t completely unlikable. A fortnight had passed since their parting, and still, he is memorable enough for Eliza to recall whenever nothing else can sate the restlessness she has contracted in this city. Stately, towering, with the gaze of a perpetual thinker: he boasts all the constituents of a cold but fair ruler. Like her, his presence alone makes a statement. It’s only a crying shame that their ideals are a clear miss,
– but she had furtively hoped he would pay a visit. A demonstration of wiser judgment.
The pizzicato of the double bass concerts with her heartbeat; the tempo of the piano complements her voice; and her voice resounds throughout the banquet hall as though the rest is complete stillness. Eliza basks in the warmth of her spotlight, indebted to fate for protecting her domain. This is her scene, the stage from where her sovereignty bids. Although he’s visited on the night of her very first charity performance in Hive city, for her it is simply another evening of holding court.
The crowd is a congregation of her vassals, her dependents, her fans. Among them, a pronounced silhouette of a past king, sparing from his wealth of time to give her his audience. She’ll have to thank him for his conspicuousness; perhaps set him up with a tuxedo for next time.
❝The nightingale tells his fairy tale A paradise where roses bloom; Though I dream in vain In my heart it will remain; My stardust melody, The memory of love’s refrain. ♫
All things considered, his late arrival had worked in her favor. As she makes her curtain call, relishing the even ovation she receives, Eliza can only focus on reprimanding the way his presence had thrown her metronome an entire tri-tone off.
A mistake the gift of her voice can offset, at least.
Send me a 🎁 + an object for my muse’s reaction to being gifted that object.
It would seem that the hazards of their like-mindedness is already beginning to peek through. Then again, their friendship has always been built on precarious foundations, and the potential for a sticky situation to come about is sizable. Be that as it may, Shyarly has been as hospitable as they come; arguably the most lavish of company in Hive City. If not for the various services she had done, Eliza would have been hard pressed to find someone quite as agreeable in this alien city.
Needless to say, she is terribly indebted.
“Shyarly… How you spoil me silly! I fear I won’t know what to do with all this generosity.” Tipping the wine bottle by its slender neck, Eliza inspects the label, an enamored glimmer thrown back upon her charged blue irises.
“Come, darling. I’ll provide the glasses. Vintage this fine is meant to be shared between only the closest of companions.” A quirk in her lips. “We’ll drink to the strength of our partnership, of course.”
Send me a 🎁 + an object for my muse’s reaction to being gifted that object.
“Oh, Emi, sweetie,” Eliza’s exclamation of surprise is cloyingly sweet as she gathers the miniature bouquet from the child’s tiny hand. The scent of simplicity and guilelessness wafts from the bunch. The singer can almost picture the pint-sized girl huddled over in the green slope plaza of sector six, unrooting each daisy with the painstaking care of her delicate fingers.
“I say, this must be the most pleasant gift I’ve received all year! That’s so considerate of you, buttercup.” The flowers come away from beneath Eliza’s nose with a smidgen of dark lipstick.
“Shall we make some hair wreaths together? It’s been so long.”
The amount of times this one discharges….she won’t know what hits her. She’ll need a rest after all that. A dirt nap.
How can she help herself….help spoiling and pampering herself? She’s got a point. How can someone so obsessed with playing it cool resist?
A scoff.
“How can you even afford this? Don’t tell me you’ve picked up a real job killing people for money instead of sport and a little sweat beneath your collar.”
The way he says it, Wolfwood assumes she’s as horny for blood as any old killer. No art to it.
Burn.
“We’ve only met the once…you don’t know a thing about me. It’s cute that you’re so obsessed, though.”
“Tut, tut,” what a terrifically uncouth tongue on his person. Upping the ante ever since their little bar episode, is he? The man’s inability to maintain a cool tongue speaks volumes about his inner state - and yet he contests the fact that she can see right through him! Admittedly, she would feel better had he realized that his own lack of discretion takes all the color away from him. Alas, her charity doesn’t extend to willful vagrants.
For a lamb that subscribes to religious folly, he seems absolutely forsaken.
“Darling. I see now why you can’t seem to resist staking everything at hand. I’m afraid the rest of us have better to do than wait to be caught dead scraping along! Least of all by you.” Despite her nonchalance, Eliza’s smile oozes malignancy. “The way you remain in the dark is too much for anyone to watch. But if you really must know, you look right at home.”
The sound of that voice…dark eyes flicker to her moments before his fingers search, automatically, for his Punisher. It isn’t because he feels threatened, no…Wolfwood just feels better with that around when this woman is involved.
(especially after the whole…sharks sniffing out other sharks in the water deal)
But actually? This image, this situation, there’s too much humor in it. His shoulders droop as he chuckles.
“To think even you come to public salons to get your hair done….I would have figured you got some poor bastard to do it for you. If a confession is on your mind, it’ll have to wait.”
Just another man with a stiff upper lip. Sadly, grit alone won’t be sufficient to take issue with Eliza, and he would be sorely mistaken to find solace in a weapon the size of his ego. On the other hand, it looks as though it more than compensates for his disenchanting personality. Should he put up a fight with as little constraint as the nature of the weapon, it suffices to say that Eliza will just have to commit herself to him.
With a fight that he won’t be able to forget, that is.
“How can I help myself?” She confides in high spirits, shaking out her freshly-trimmed locks. Angling her face, Eliza contentedly inspects the coiffeuse’s handiwork, left and right.
“Things just aren’t as they ought to be. Despite our differences, I’m sure you’d find that hard to deny.” As usual, she minces her words at full tilt. “Though, I certainly can’t say much for the lifestyle you’ve chosen to lead.”
“Ren Kouen. And you have my gratitude, for the directions if nothing else.”
He isn’t being the most cordial, he knows, even if this Eliza has been exactly that. But being brought here as part of some experiment has more than put a damper on both his mood and patience, and Kouen has never been one for pleasantries to begin with. Still, he’s meant every word when he expressed his interest in her–not because she is strangely alluring in a manner he cannot identify, but because she is self-aware and comfortable here, truly a queen within a gilded cage.
It’s as pitiful as it is admirable, and though he’s spoken rather harshly against it, he hardly has to know more about Hive City and its scientists to see that he’ll be better off adopting her method. Their captors have the power to give and take away abilities, after all, and so it is bitterness that sharpens his tone.
(Yet again, he is in this position–wanting to do something, knowing he should, and yet being unable to because his enemies go beyond the scope of his imagination. It is a reminder, if nothing else, that all the power he’s worked to amass means nothing–that in the end, he could help himself no more than he could ever help his family and country.)
There’s a clear, biting edge to her tone. Pleasantries aside, she has neither liked or disliked their little exchange. To come away from it knowing more of him, and not vice versa, already makes their acquainting endurable. Alas, she can only imagine how well he would take blatant compassion - or condescension, should she say? As formidable as he may have been before, he’s but a shadow of the man before.
Then again, nothing but shadows exist in the Hive. Were she to discount every single one of them for the inadequacies imposed upon them, Eliza would fail her own charitable guise. They’re both bound to the same circumstance of demonstrating their fitness to survive in this terribly left-wing society. She loathes that it makes neither of them better than the other. As irritating as friendships are, she has little choice other than to pick and choose with utmost care.
“Well, then,” she politely solves the spell of touchy silence that follows their introductions. “All things said and done, looks like what I’m able to offer you ends here.”
Her words are more of an invitation to follow up, rather than a decisive farewell. “Should you change your mind on taking a little more guidance? Saturday evenings, the Regency Lounge in sector six. Give the concierge your name. I’ll be sure to let them know I’m expecting an important guest.”
Verdant eyes shift up to meet hers at her question, lips pursing. He was more annoyed that she was interrupting him rather than letting him work. Her question was easy for Rohan – probably not the answer Eliza wanted to hear.
“My narration is more important to me than a muse.” He paused. “They feed off each other, but if I had to pick one or the other, it would be my work. As long as I’m getting read… I wouldn’t care if a particular muse didn’t visit me for a few weeks.”
To be read was his one true goal; although he did more work when he had wonderful work to base off of, he’d been forced to… reconsider this idea. Printing once a month was slow work, but he found that if he didn’t want to get hurt, he’d have to get used to that schedule.
Rohan didn’t care if a few lives were lost in his art. That’s what art is for, right?
Green eyes shifted back down to his work. “If you don’t mind,” he trailed off.
Her face falls flat. The nerve of the conceited little sheep. For her to condescend with her charity, only for him to bite the hand with which she fed him! As it stands, she's still providing outside of any form of binding agreement, but something compels her to remain seated, catering to his baser needs. The thought that he’ll take just about anyone grates at the woman’s lofty ego.
Then again, she would be hopeless to even try to exemplify her dignity as a woman with such an unreliable artist. Bore. There is absolutely nothing visceral about this work relationship.
In a rare gesture of concession, Eliza backs off with a petulant look about her. As difficult as it is to humor such poor work ethics, game over begins only once he’s exacted her form and all its details with his pencil: from when and where he’ll come to see his own death warrant signed for within. Now, admittedly, he remains rather beloved for his artistic spirit: but the rest is simply a letdown.
The female’s frame catches his eye almost immediately, her standing apart from the walking crowds only increasing his focus on her. She might be alone on her own accord, seemingly lost in thought, and as uncalled as his presence might end up being, he can’t help but seeing that as an invitation for company. That is quite the questionable mindset, yet it has never given him trouble before. Charisma, a somewhat bold approach and a pretty face can work wonders; that much he has learned from past experiences.
❝ You seem troubled, miss. ❞ Arms slightly open as he speaks, his voice holds a velvety tone that makes itself present almost immediately when he’s dealing with women. ❝ If there is any way I could help you clear your mind, I’ll gladly oblige. Perhaps taking a walk? Chatting over a coffee? ❞
Although he doesn’t seem as aware of his own imminent plight as he is of hers, Eliza must say the man is rather bold. Meddlers are typically insufferable for a wide variety of reasons, but to his credit, he is as generous as he is well-versed in getting familiar. Judging from where he derives all that self-confidence, it’s quite easy to see how justified he is. As well and good as he may be, her interest is costlier than her appearance lets on. If only he knew that her predicament would be a little more than any bite he's capable of chewing without hurting himself.
That said, he is free to do as his code of honor demands.
“Would you really be so obliging?” She quizzes rhetorically. “How sweet of you to have noticed. I regret to say these woes won’t be chased off so easily, but a little company would be a fine start. I’ll take the walk, if you don’t mind.”
[[ Subscribing to the same fashion magazine sounded about right. Bright red spots rested on Junko’s otherwise blemish-free face, hilariously enough resembling the freckles on her dear sister’s face. She remembered learning not so long ago that blood in that kind of pattern indicated a quick blow, since the blood made such a quick and misty splatter.
Such things tended to be somewhat messy, though, and the occasional drip came around her face and dripped down her chin. ]]
“ It’s a pretty color, don’t you think? It’s got a primal attraction to it.
I can’t help but be attracted to it.. “
[[ Junko didn’t bother cleaning it off. It was a trophy that she’d eventually get off in a bath. Much like a mandala, a beautiful work of art that is to be claimed by time. A temporary masterpiece. ]]
Unlike the vivid statement made by the young woman’s smear, Eliza’s own indicates unhurried indulgence, albeit just as merciless. She sweeps calmly beneath her lip as though evening out concealer. The warm tone blends in with her complexion.
As much as Eliza would not be opposed to savoring the treat, it is never in good taste to lick one’s plate clean before an audience. Her palate has already been sated, although tonight’s menu had not been quite as... full-bodied as she had bargained on. In time, a more fulfilling alternative would have to take its place.
“Hm hm. You’ve proven your very point by reading my mind.”
The young woman has grit. Judging from the scent of the spray that has marked most of her, Eliza can already guess that she isn’t just a simple case of cruelty, and had least of all committed her deed out of self-defense. She’s said it herself: she has also recognized their like-mindedness. Impressive little human girl.
“The evening has been lovely so far, but I’m just dying for some agreeable company for a change. It would be a shame to waste the night away alone.” Eliza tilts her chin confidently. “Say you’ll join me in a soak at the bathhouse, darling.”
Her welcome to the city had passed relatively without incident. Save for a certain couple of peripheral blemishes that had managed to worm their way onto her ground plan, Eliza’s aspirations for her comfortable little Hive are well under way. With the favor of Renenutet, she can even go as far as to say the initial month has been smooth sailing. Making a name for herself has only been a matter of staying true to herself, so to speak. Bar her entitlements as they may try, the researchers can by no means challenge her charisma. Needless to say, she has garnered playmates and adorers both to occupy her precious time with.
And as time has it, the occasion would arrive that Eliza needed to crop her hair once again - only without her trusted personal stylist to provide for her this time. At this rate, her appearance is beginning to render her a token of bygone days. A former guise. She raises no qualms against retaining the length -- but the songstress becomes bored rather easily. To trim the locks back would promise a spell of thrill for her fans, at the very least.
Only, it would seem that fate has a minor trial awaiting her at the salon.
“... ...”
Of all the places to cross paths with that loathsome priest. Eliza maintains her dignified stance, elegantly cross-legged as she fires a pointed look in his direction, allowing the hairstylist to do away with her tresses. She watches him lift his head from the salon chair -- having just had a straight razor shave done, it seems. How very olde-worlde.
“Nicholas, darling.” Despite her genuine smile, Eliza’s words drip sarcasm and mockery. “What a wonderful surprise. Never did I imagine this is what you meant by ‘confessional’ the last time we had our little chat.”
kaledo-art
izzy806
dailybridgerton
