#balemouns

[avcnturine]

[SNAKE PETTING] - marked eyes look down at the terrarium-contained creatures with some degree of... uncertainty. apprehension, even. venom didn't make a snake totally without spite, after all... and with the amount of exposure these ones in this exhibit had to the public, she was almost certain they carried an air of... discomfort around them at the moment. when she looks up, though, she spies a man she'd encountered on several occasions also at the exhibit. a curious look, then --- a greeting that mixes more with a what are you doing than a nice to see you.

"...mr. aventurine, just because they're said to be harmless doesn't mean it's necessarily true to their nature. snakes can be quite temperamental," a creature meant to be untamed by mankind, in her opinion. but... the more formal greeting finally comes, after she watches one of the long reptiles hiss for a quiet moment. "what brings you to liyue harbor this time of year? I can't imagine it's solely the snake exhibit."

HE'S ALSO KEPT HIS DISTANCE FROM THE SNAKE ENCLOSURE. but unlike some of the apprehensive children nearby, sniffling under their mothers' encouraging words, it wasn't out of fear of the winding mass of reptiles, but because he'd been gauging them from a distance, studying them for something other than docility. he's gone mostly unnoticed, crowds and pairs parting around him like rapids around a stone, chatting about everything from friends they'd gotten separated from to the pork skewer they'd just had.

until somewhere amidst all of that without him noticing, one more subdued voice singles him out by name.

brought out of observation, he turns smoothly to the approach of a by now familiar woman clad in the shades of freshly raked cinders. her monochrome is a sharp desaturation to the flagrant bursts of color that line the festival streets, like a single silver knife against a painting. she certainly doesn't mince words, starting right off with a comment about the snakes' potentially disarming tameness ; maybe she assumed that he was thinking about petting them after all.

a smile is the only thing that fills the pause, anticipating that she wasn't so much expecting a reply as thinking for a moment about something else. he marks the fleeting distraction in her eye, wonders what it is she really thinks of those snakes she's warning him about. and when her tenor changes a moment later, so does his smile widen——friendly, with a knowing touch of laughter. "you're overthinking it. even i deserve a well-earned vacation from time to time."

"is it that hard to believe that festivals like lantern rite draw such a wide range of visitors? the ipc is an interplanetary enterprise, so naturally it especially values intercultural exchange and the fostering of mutual understandings." head turns to look back at the milling crowds, the clusters of lanterns strung at every street corner, and tendrils of steam billowing from food carts arranged at intervals around the perimeter of the square.

then back at her, with an inviting gesture. "and, of course, it's always nice to run into familiar company. want to get something to eat?"

[fanfaire]

[BALLROOM] - she hadn't been searching the hotel to find out what all the noise was down here; it was easy enough to just tell from the crowds and music alone that there was some sort of banquet with dancing involved. instead, she was searching for one of the children who had accompanied her on this strange trip; one donning a top hat in particular, possibly in the vicinity of anyone who'd enjoy an impromptu performance. but after several minutes of wandering the room, that larger black top hat is nowhere in sight.

instead, on the very edge of the crowded ballroom, she spots a small blue hat, much like the intricate ( and inedible ) decorative topper on a cupcake. marked eyes stop there as she considers it... well, if anyone has seen him in this hotel and would know who she's asking about... after deliberating, arlecchino's feet turn in her direction, and she announces herself in advance to at least try and not startle the woman. "lady furina," a hand reaches out and touches shoulder, to try and further prevent some overreaction ( or perhaps cause one? ) before she continues. "how delightful to find you here. are you enjoying the festivities...? I've been searching the hotel for lyney, if you happened to see or hear him anywhere recently." a pause, and a tilt of her head, more curious now. "either way... not one for dancing in a ballroom, or are you searching for someone yourself?"

FINALLY, A MOMENT TO CATCH HER BREATH.　✧　her lungs are winded and her legs are sore——not because she's so out of shape that a few steps and spins had reduced her like a novice, but because that metal man had all but pulled her arm out of her socket a few times! and spun her around more like a sack of flour than a dance partner!

at least the corner of the ballroom was welcoming, a quiet respite where she could take a moment to recenter herself and drink some water, still keeping an eye out on wherever that stranger could've gone after that man had accosted him. surely he didn't just appear to cause a scene and run? what would be the point in that? still pondering, she's about to lift the saucer of tea to her lips when something touches her shoulder——"ah!!"——startling her so much that the chip of porcelain on porcelain nearly precedes its shattering upon the ground. she whirls around, heart lodging up in her throat to find grey and black, and red gazing down at her: so impassively, unblinkingly, weighted with that inexplicable aura of dread the knave always seemed to carry.

"o—oh, you're. . . here, too."

where the gates of hell opened, all the devils could be found, it seems. she unconsciously rolls her shoulder, trying to banish the lingering sensation of the eerily light touched that'd grazed it.

"lyney. . . " right, the magician ; the house of hearth ; the knave. the pieces connect belatedly in her head, and she clears her throat, pretending to have caught it on something to give herself time to assemble words. "no, i haven't seen him. but i also just happened to arrive myself." owing to some less than expected circumstances. "there's a strange man here, dressed quite wildly, and wearing a. . . gun at his waist, i think." she blinks, only now beginning to process the details of him that'd gotten lost in the thick of everything earlier. what else could she recall? a strange smile, a cavalier manner of speech?

and anyway, why is she telling the knave about this? as one so. . . well, dreadful, she supposes that if the man had come here with some kind of intention to cause trouble, and was going to return later to ' make it up to her ', if anyone might be able to stop him. . .

"anyway, if you see him, perhaps. . . there's reason for caution. erm, were you intending to stay here long?"

[fanfaire]

oh, what's this! left at her door is a small box, delicately wrapped in off-white paper and with a note pinned just beneath the brilliant red ribbon. even with the lid closed, its presence alone gives off a slightly nutty and sweet scent to it, like honey and lemon with toasted coconut.

on the slip is a brief letter, scrawled in surprisingly... plain handwriting. it's nothing special or particularly beautiful: just clear, well-spaced, precise. their clarity ( and relative brevity, given the length of the note ) makes it hard to not read over quickly.

lady furina, are you fond of coconut and lemon tarts? if you have not tried them before, I've included one that even I found to be quite lovely and reminiscent of the sights and taste of warmer seas. if they're not to your liking, that is also fine -- I'll just be sure to keep that in mind for the future. x.

AT SOME POINT, SHE HAD GROWN ACCUSTOMED to the constant stream of gifts. and at some other point, equally accustomed to the sudden drought. fame & stature brought with them their own assortment of boons and torments, and their absence just as much. does she rejoice in the effusion of praise neverending? mourn its abandonment? isn't this what part of her had wanted: an intermission from the stage, unknown and unscrutinized?

was that freedom?

. . .chère crabaletta, forgive her ; she is in something of an operatic mood today ; the mistress pines still for that home she left behind, wood dressage and cut cloths. and on days like this, she hums the aria of her favorite numbers and wonders——would it be so bad if she went back on her promise from time to time? won herself that space, that applause and acclaim which she in no shortage deserved, working not only for the archon's feast but the tightrope between human feeling and godly ease and human toil again?

as if in response, a little box greets her when she opens her door without fanfare to check the morning's paper, interrupting the half-lift of one poised hand already adrift in imagination of grand curtain and velvet auditorium. in singular audience, it rests there unencumbered, peering up at her in sparkling ribbon invitational.

she's hardly begun, but thank you.

now, who could have sent this? a tribute from an old patron, perhaps, for the quarterly parcels from the palais were never so ostentatiously wrapped. both hands pluck it from the ground, swiveling to gauge its exterior ; but in that motion its very contents are teased: a puff of sour-sweet on the morning breeze, resting on a subtler, trilling note of clarity. hastened steps fetch both it and morning paper and pivot once more upon threshold with a click of finality ; usher is there in a heartbeat to assist her with the load, graciously relieving her of the news so she might turn the unsuspected prize again in practiced palms with interest. "yes, yes, i know," she tuts at his direction to see the sender first, and sets the parcel down upon the countertop, stalling for only a moment more. could she not take the time to properly appreciate the rare occasion? the suspense is, after all, half the joy.

and, in another moment, would only come crashing down about her when she does lift the tag, embroidered with its plain little letter, and see that simple, scripted cross punctuated on the bottom like a bullseye. like a caesura, stopping all music. the crumbling of some rafter in the wings out of sight, lights shutting off into cavernous dark. transcendental silence. ——because although it has been some time and only once, she knows this handwriting and the dreaded arrival it precedes.

she releases it at once with both hands, stuttering steps back with heels aclick on the hard kitchen floor, and stares at it as though it had bitten her.

. . .

the day quickly becomes one of discourse and deliberation. a grave, heated discussion about a roundtable four, watery and human appendages alike gesturing in fervor. should she eat it? should she not? in the absence of the former advisors of her archonhood, these friends are her counsel now, no less robust and a good deal more plainspoken.

at last it is she—stalwart crabaletta—who for her lady would forfeit shell and claw.⠀(⠀the apple of furina's childish dreams, and the forward future of her own envisioned self.⠀)

it is inconclusive in the end—at which point any of them ought to have realized that a body of pure hydro possessed little bearing on what may befall her should she take the same risks. & yet, surely poison might contaminate water as easily as it does blood? or else there should be some trace of it left behind besides.

this is a matter of her own courage, in the end.

and in the end, she. . .

she——

is not half so brave as crabaletta.

[cisoriaseams]

🎲 expects the whole house of the hearth to roll up again to her shop like

A kiss to the back of the hand

For as common as a ballroom dance was in the Court of Fontaine, it was rare to find someone so talented. Everyone knew the basics, but the basics do not make one talented. It is what one does to innovate, to create their own name and reputation, that sets one apart from the rest. Be that in the fiscal world or the social world.

Each step anticipates what is to come next, where they will end five paces from now. It is not reactionary, always on beat and aware of the next note to come after. Dances were difficult to pry from the seamstress for that exact reason. Most could not think to the end of the song, only living in the moment, staggering to react to each note as it came. It was disrespectful not only to the artist performing such songs, but to the artists dancing to them.

At least the Fatui knew how to present their finest. A girl might lose hope with how pitiful most suitors held themselves.

Much like each step, each touch was calculated. Ghosting down triceps, crossing ridges of the elbow, gliding across lacy forearms to raise porcelain hands as a chalice of wine. Another comes down, etching her side like chalk on pavement, except no small crease could stop gnarly appendage, masqueraded as digits. Down further, dipping around a sash, quick to make itself snug on her hip. Each time the harbinger sought to find new purchase on the seamstress' body, modesty tempered desire.

Scarlet eyes could not be deciphered.

Even as the music ceases, exposed back to a decorative vest, a head tilts back. Brunette bun catching just slightly amidst the buttons of the Fontanian as gazes meet. A polite applause, though not directed at them. Simply celebration for finishing a dance. People were truly so easy to amuse.

A step away, pivoting to curtsy. Though her own hand rested comfortably in Arlecchino's, a devious little thought. Not letting go, a thumb keeps a darkened index ensnared. Raised but a few inches so that the Knave's wrist is bent upwards, she catches a glimpse of the back of her hand. Cheek meeting knuckles, storm clouds roll over. Parting lips are quick, a tender offer to a busy woman. Eyes flick from the hand nuzzled against her face to the Fatui's. Lingering only a moment longer, she lets go.

"Satisfactory."

[cisoriaseams]

smiles. 🎄

As the second of the children scurried off that night, hands would dust each other off. Face like stone, all that crossed the seamstress' mind was where she should go next. Most likely back to the boutique...

A look back to all the gifts sitting, waiting for tomorrow to come. The night sky, speckled with glowing stars while the moon neared its apex, reflected the faintest of glows through the window. Pulling the door shut with a click. Head on a swivel, making sure no ambushes awaited her again. Freminet and Lynette kept her diligent as she weaved through the halls towards the exit. Chiori would pass the room that once held the Knave and her children, no empty. Flames extinguished, the darkness cast is unnerving. A sigh. She'd have liked a word their Father, yet she was nowhere to be found...

Stepping back, she makes for the exit once more. It is only then that the Knave calls. Hand freezing just before the knob, the seamstress pivots on her heels. "I'm glad someone here can approach me normally. You ought to teach Lynette and Freminet to make their presences known better." The intricacies of the House of Hearth alluded Chiori, though she had heard stories; less than savory ones at that.

Arlecchino's approach is calm, intimidating, looming over the shorter of them. Eyes narrow, unafraid to bite back, yet no such hostilities would be needed. Gazing upwards, they hold this tension for a moment, then another, and scarlet's set upon that pesky plant once more. Shoulders cut slack, releasing nerve she'd been hiding.

"I find the amount of mistletoe you have in this orphanage rather concerning." Expression a mixture of aforementioned annoyance and something more, something deeper. A stronger jet of air escaping for nostrils. Hesitation already worn down, she embraces the tender exchange.

Peculiar. Chiori never imagined that a woman of her nature could be so... gentle. As one may imagine dragging their hand through a cloud, placid lips pull back barely an inch. It could not have lasted more than a second, yet breaths still brush lips. Leaning in again, dodging a second go, she whispers, "That's all you get until you teach your children better." Pulling away, one final glance up as the door opens. "Goodnight, Arlecchino."

[romaritimes]

about arlecchino :eyes:

"I didn't interact with Father much before, when she was of equal standing with me underneath Mother. I caught Father's gaze here or there in passing at the time, but she had always terrified me… Today, I know she might be harder on me than she is with the twins, but I know deep down it's because I'm lacking and in need of much improvement. Her way of being firm and tough is to harden me so I can carry out my duties and protect my loved ones. She's done much more for me than I could ever repay her for, and with each passing day her resolve continues to leave me in awe… suffice to say, my current impression of Father is much different from my first impression."

[romaritimes]

a simple approach, a simple blue gift bag, as its contents are truly best left unbound. simplicity here does not betray the thought behind the gesture -- or, at least, she should hope as much. "freminet. happy birthday," and she offers it out, waits for him to accept, then departs as soon as he does so.

contained within is a fine pocketwatch, carefully crafted by one of the most reputable horologists in the court of fontaine. this one in particular comes with a durable titanium chain and waterproof mechanisms designed to withstand extraordinary pressure; something practical, simple, but carefully picked for the recipient.

"Oh- thank you, Father," he responds, a small smile gracing his lips as he takes the bag with a bow of his head. He's more surprised than anything that she's around for the occasion, thinking that she may have been too busy for something insignificant like his birthday; her presence, however brief, and remembrance of him today in and of itself is gift enough.

Later that evening, as he opens the remainder of his presents in the privacy of his room does he finally lift the pocketwatch from the fine tissue paper protecting it. Freminet turns it around in his hands a few times, buffing out any of the fingerprints he happens to be leaving as he does so with the hem of his shirt.

Through force of habit alone, he pulls his toolbox and box of spare parts out and begins prying the thing apart to examine its inner workings, looking for any possible enhancements he could make... only to find that the pocketwatch was perfect in each and every way. Freminet lets out an exhale of incredulity at Father's thoughtfulness, wondering how much she must have spent on something like this, and all for him...?

He hugs it against his chest and sets it beside Pers and his pillow when he goes to sleep that night.