#hartofglass

[avechonneur-blog]

i love Orlesian mask culture, though?? like the whole idea behind it is not to hide one’s identity behind a mask but actually to reveal one’s identity with a mask. it’s such a fascinating inversion of what you’d normally assume a “mask” means or is intended for.  the masks proclaim identity, and they proclaim loyalties. they trumpet one’s role and one’s status – harlequins all wear the same mask as each other, the degree of elaboration of a mask tells you at a glance if this person is noble (and if so, how important their title might be) or if they work in the household of a noble. you can look at the mask and immediately know relevant details of who and what the person in front of you is.

and then there’s the quote from vivienne:

We all wear masks my dear, not just the people in Orlais. Orlesians codify this truth, make it visible. By giving each of these selves its own separate face, they believe they can be their truest selves unmasked.

and if you put that together with what Cole says if you ask him if he liked the masks at the ball (“Those weren’t their faces?”) you can really begin to understand the psychological and maybe emotional or even spiritual connection Orlesians have to their masks. because yes, the masks truly are their faces. 

(as a side note, given the existence of the cult of Masked Andraste – Andraste, worshiped in a huntress aspect, and masked (as she is nowhere else even in Orlesian culture) – from the Last Court game in the DA Keep, i have a feeling that Orlesian mask culture dates waaaay back, to the pre-empire days, and probably directly to tribal Ciriane beliefs. the Masked Andraste herself is likely to be a pre-Andrastian huntress deity slapped with a thin coat of Chantry paint, a holdover from Ancient times.)

[bariolee-blog1]

This time, Colombe slipped into Fabien’s chambers through the doorway, not the window. It was early yet, but she had seen the Abbess in quiet conversation with a penitent in the Chateau’s small chapel and knew that Fabien would be alone. And indeed, alone he was, the remains of his breakfast still spread upon a table in front of him.

Without asking, she curled herself upon the second chair and stole the last of the flaky pastries, spreading it thick with sunshine-yellow butter and claret-colored preserves.

“Good morning, mon cher,” she greeted him, taking a moment to consider his tired posture and the fact that, while his bedmate was already long awake and at her tasks, Fabien was still wrapped in a long silken robe, his golden curls deliciously disheveled. “Long night?”

@hartofglass

[servesorlais]

SOIRÉE  À  SERAULT ,  un  menage  à  trois  avec  @hartofglass  et  @bariolee .   VOTRE  PÉRIL  ET PÉNOMBRE  ONT  AUGMENTÉ !

[bariolee-blog1]

@hartofglass

With precisely no warning nor preamble, Colombe somersaulted through the open window of Fabien’s high tower room and landed in the center of the rug with a soft sound, poised on her hands and knees. Her expressionless white mask, slashed with bloody crimson, tilted disconcertingly as she lifted her head to regard him.

After a poised, silent moment, the motleyed harlequin straightened up from her dangerous crouch and assumed a rather more casual posture, pushing the mask back to rest upon her head and reveal beneath the face of a pretty, dark-haired young woman. 

“Bonsoir, mon cher cousin.”

[bariolee-blog1]

« Kiss me blossoms in the summer, lover. I want to taste the succulent sweet of your peach --- sweet Maker --- somewhere deep inside something primal--- No, no, I'm sorry Colombe, I can't make myself read this, it's an embarassment. »

They were meant to have had a picnic. But the weather,unseasonably chill for Bloomingtide and threatening rain, had put an end tothat plan. Colombe, loathe to be deterred from a promised pleasure, had suggested they merelychange venue; and so instead of the gardens, Fabien’s chambers had become thescene of their planned revel. The food prepared by the kitchens had been packedinto baskets lined and covered with soft cloth and festooned with ribbons; andthey, along with a bottle of wine, had been brought to Fabien’s study.

All the furnishings had been pushed back to the edges of theroom; a woven cloth and heaps of cushions now populated the cleared space.Among them, Fabien and Colombe were sprawled among the aftermath of their dining. The light which filtered throughthe windows, grey with rain, was made instead silver and nacre by the finequality of the glass. It was dim and cool and quiet; motes of dust danced inthe slanting beams.

Colombe lay with her head upon Fabien’s stomach, her darkcurls loosened from their pins and haloing her darkly. Fabien’s own brightercorona was artfully mussed, falling over his cheek as he read aloud from theslim volume, bound in dusty green leather, lightly caught in his elegantfingers.

She laughed aloud, reaching up to smooth away the littlecrease between his brows. Her fingers trailed over his cheekbone and then lipsas she withdrew them; as she had so plainly desired, he kissed at them, chasingtheir retreat.

“Mon cher,” she told him, laughingly, “you havemany fine tastes indeed. But when it comes to poetry,” she plucked the bookfrom his fingers and slithered up along his body to lay upon his chest instead,“the very finest is sadly lost on you.”

[avechonneur-blog]

« I think it is too late. »

Such a pretty young man. It was evident even behind the antlered mask which hid half of his face -- new, that mask. Gaspard had taken note of it when the Divine had returned Serault’s mask to her rulers, of course; they were a minor family, far distant from the heartlands and mostly notable for their glass... and their Shame, of course. While all the other, lesser families which populated Serault’s court had gone masked, until very recently -- less than a year ago, Gaspard recalled with a hint of wonder for how oddly time could pass when great events were upon one -- her Marquis had been bare-faced and shamed. 

But this Marquis, young and delicate as he appeared, had played the Game well enough to earn back what his ancestor had lost. It interested Gaspard; this Fabien was a new and unknown quantity, a minor piece poised to become a greater. Serault’s glass was a fine commodity; for its aesthetics, yes, the mask Fabien wore being a prime example, but also for its utility. Properly infused and crafted, the glass was as hard and nigh-unbreakable as any metal, and holding a much finer edge than some.

An alliance with the cunning young lord had its appeal, and its possibilities. Gaspard smiled expansively, gesturing with a great sweep of his arm toward the door.

❛ Ah, come now! Don’t tell me you are accustomed to be abed in Serault so early? ❜ Gaspard replied, with amusement. Serault was known as a licentious sort of place, after all. ❛ You must come and share a smoke with me. I insist. ❜

pride & prejudice sentences

[servesorlais]

!!

        The Shame of Serault had been one of many stories that Michel had heard in his tenure at court, and truthfully it had left little by way of an impression; it was old gossip, and Serault forgettably far from the important parts of the empire, a place that everyone’s cousin might have disappeared to after they were embarrassed at a soirée in Ghislain. So what relevance was the Shame’s nobly-born descendant, whose face wasn’t permitted a mask that was forgotten in the Heartlands, if it had ever been familiar in the first place?  

        Now, to Michel, he was of great relevance, and he’d also proven that the dismissive assumptions were incorrect. Fabien had at least as much grace as the nobles Michel knew in the closer cities of Montfort and Val Foret, although that could be a demonstrably low bar to set. Something in his manner had seemed uncommonly kind; the fact that he hadn’t asked his chevaliers to deliver Michel back to Val Royeaux with hands bound and a flowery note asking for Celene’s gratitude continued to attest to that point, and Michel was admittedly, almost unduly grateful for it. 

        Truthfully, those honey-blond curls and amused smiles gave him a gentler look than sharp-jawed counterparts, who looked out from under their masks with glinting eyes rather than dealing out flirtatiously appraising glances. Not to say that the Marquis could not be cunning, too, in the way that any Orlesian noble had to be  —  Michel had  yet to breach the subject of the spy in his room, something he’d been delicately avoiding in his convalescence. Maybe there was more to him, and more to the recent visit from the Divine that had conveniently restored the glass-antlered mask. 

        They were details he might be able to extract, Michel considered … but perhaps not through the social means of a friendly hunting trip. In fact  —  better to keep him away from sharp objects, too, if he had such a terrible panic response. 

descriptions of ur muse  -  not accepting !  /  @hartofglass

[bariolee-blog1]

« I feel like I’ve been chewed up, spat out, and run over repeatedly. »

sparring/training sentences

          Colombe laughed quietly. Her Fabien looked rather like he felt, she had to admit. His careful coif was all in a tangled disarray which was somehow still appealing -- though she would admit her own bias there -- and there was a skim of dirt sticking to the sweat upon his cheeks and hands and neck. Overall, the sugared sweetness of his appearance had been sullied, a frilly little cake which had been chewed up and spat upon the floor to be trod into the carpets, precisely as he described it.

         She thought to herself she would like to lay with him just now, looking as he did. It would make an interesting contrast to their usual couplings.

         But she doubted very greatly, as she reached out a hand to help lift him from the dirt of the forest floor, that Fabien would find such an idea appealing in the least. It was a wonder she had even convinced him to join her on this hunt in the first place, given his usual disinterest in such pursuits. The boar, however, lay dead in the clearing’s center, its tusks and hooves having torn and tattered the thick carpet of moss and tossed up great gouts and sprays of the same dark earth which still clung to Fabien’s pale skin.

         ❝ Oh, but you did so very well, mon cher, ❞ she told him warmly, brushing his hair back from his face. ❝ When we return to the Chateau, a hot bath, yes? I will even join you, if you would like it. ❞