#lindwyvrm

[dcggersedge]

🎲

kiss roulette | Not Accepting! 36. a kiss on the shoulder

There’s a rumor that the queen of Elusia bathes in blood to stay beautiful.

Even in a remote village, it isn’t hard to hear whispers about what goes on beyond Brodia’s borders. In breaks between long days of work or while waiting for meager meals to cook, bowed heads huddle together and whisper in hushed voices about the world gone mad. Firene will invade any day. Solm has spies everywhere. The Elusians steal girls to sacrifice to the Fell dragon.

It’s impossible to know what’s real or not when there’s no reason to leave the village, let alone cross the borders. It’s too dangerous to leave, and even food isn’t worth the risk.

She doesn’t believe the rumors when she hears them. They can’t all be bad people, she thinks.

She doesn’t see the blood in the bathtub, but after she’s taken as a prisoner when Elusia invades their village one day, she hears the screams at night. And Queen Ivy is as beautiful as the rumors said she was.

Larimar keeps her head down and stays silent as she works. Carefully, she works the perfumed oils into Queen Ivy’s hair like she’s been ordered to. The woman has her eyes shut, but it’s impossible to shake the feeling that her every movement is being watched.

She runs her fingers through, but a small tangle snags and pulls. Larimar freezes, eyes widening in horror. Before she can react, a hand closes around her wrist and yanks her forward, pulling her over the bathtub. The movement splashes the water around, soaking the front of her shirt as she tries to catch herself from falling in.

She doesn't want to die. She doesn't want to die.

There's a bare stretch of skin before her - Ivy's shoulder. Panicked, unthinking, Larimar does the only thing she can at this point. She kisses the skin in reverence, hoping admiration can be her salvation. A mumbled apology follows, then another kiss, then another apology, then another...she continues on and on while the Queen stays unmoving. If she dies...if she's going to die, then she wants to die doing something to try and survive.

The moment seems to hang before, finally, the hand around her wrist lets go. Larimar falls a bit, dipping briefly into the bathwater, before she's able to stand up again. She takes a moment to catch her breath and then, silently, returns to her work on the Queen's hair.

[excalitress]

[ MAKEUP PARLOR ] 

The rain has ruined Ivy's makeup beyond saving, but she's doing her best to touch it up as best as she can anyway. She sighs as she cleans up running eyeliner and streaked-through blush.

The glimpse of someone else in the mirror makes her straighten up. Eyebrows raise as she turns.

"Ah, hello." she greets with a slight, gracious curtsey. "You look glamorous, if I may say. Your look accentuates your natural beauty perfectly."

She gestures to her face. "I am in a bit of a predicament myself here. The unexpected weather has completely washed my handiwork away."

She jingles her bracelet. "How about a deal? My anchor for your starfish—and your help at salvaging my look."

While she never planned to linger around the parlor for long once the pinkette has done her magic, it appears that fate had different ideas for her. For once settling out of the room, her leave is interrupted…although not in a bad way.

For it is another young lady who stands in her way, who by no doubt has suffered the same fate as she had earlier. The sopping wetness surrounding her parlor chair is more than enough evidence of the matter. Although, even when half-done, her deep dark hair and even white dress remain as beautiful as ever.

“Good day,” Sonya gives more of an exotic greeting, for the other’s kind words might as well have made her day. Or would it be night? “I’m never one to drop a compliment, but you do little to glorify yourself, even when it comes to sink or swim.”

Pursing her lips into a circular shape, the mage observes where the poor woman is motioning. “Oh? Every lady has their own particular touch when it comes to makeup…but who am I to leave a beauty in trouble?”

With a hard chuckle, Sonya first unequips a turtle charm from her bracelet. She’d easily help her out free of charge already, but this silly act seems to be the norm for making “friends” at this place. Not that she doesn’t want to be friends with such a dazzling figure.

“Let’s get to salvaging. You wanna do this meticulously, or rely on a natural’s intuition?”

[dcggersedge]

♡

●●●●● | ATTRACTION ●○○○○ | AFFECTION ●●●○○ | INTEREST ●○○○○ | LOYALTY ●●○○○ | TRUST

"I don't really know Miss Ivy too well. We fought together, sure, but I didn't really have much of a reason to bother her, you know? Runaway or not, she probably doesn't want to worry about some Brodian nobody. I wish I could've done more to help her during that attack, though. I wish I could've at least made sure she made it back to her sister. I'm glad it was alright, in the end."

[nobilisseoblige]

“Ferdinand.” Ivy had not much of an opportunity to speak to him when they had escaped the mountain path, and less so when they had ventured together into the city, but she feels that it is paramount that she seek him out now.

“Are you alright?” she asks, more out of courtesy than anything else. How could he be, after what he had witnessed in the borders of his own home? 

“The city we… visited.” It sounds like too light a word to describe the ordeal they had just endured in Aegir territory. “It is part of home, isn’t it? Aegir lands.” A beat of silence as Ivy studies his face, mulling over what to say next. 

“I am sorry,” is what she settles on to start with. And she is, truly — Ivy knows the pain of seeing one’s home consumed by unknowable forces, of seeing desolate streets and empty-eyed people, people she was supposed to bear the burden of watching, of protecting.

The natural course of action, she knows, is to comfort him, assure him that things will be alright. …but Ivy does not know that they will, does she? Ever the pragmatic, she finds that speaking in such absolutes would be nothing more than lying to the poor boy.

“I know it is hard, to see your home in such a state.” she says. “But keep your head high, Ferdinand, and be strong. Your people need you to be.”

Week 2 Intermission

"Instructor Ivy." Ferdinand greeted her, bowing his head with an apology already traced on his lips. he was compelled to smile for her, or to do as a polite student would and hold himself in a nature, unburdensome. emotionally, he had been strung up, put on display like a prisoner of war. but it was worse knowing that his dearest home had been a testimony to his negligence. he is, by default, crowned by only disappointment, and by the heartbreak of coming to terms with that. it is unbearable. but she is his professor, so…

"you need not apologize to me. but…" hushed, his gaze lingered, lost in a moment he cannot gain back. gradually, their gazes clicked, and his lips teased into a broken smile. "yes. that is my home. it shall remain as such until the day I pass." it is a return to form, in a sense. a smile. he was not sure what to do with it, besides hold onto it like loose pearls about to fall from a line around his neck.

"I am… Ferdinand Von Aegir. I think I will be okay, in time. anything less would be compliance to the systems in place that have brought my people to ruin."

he missed his father. the figure of guidance in his life prior to the academy, his everything, his… (downfall.) he wondered: where was Ludwig Von Aegir in all this? and why did Ferdinand seem so sure that this was all entirely his own fault? probably because he was just a son. he was cut of the same cloth, from the same sleeve, drawn from the same stream of blood. his father… he missed the ignorance that came with being made to fit within the shape of him. that he could be protected in naivety, that he could believe "just another year more" would lead to him being different. being someone worthy of the Von Aegir name. it was his fault that he could not grow up any faster than eighteen. it was his fault for not gathering enough evidence to bring his father to justice.

it was his fault for playing pretend, like a doll in pretty lace.

maybe it was because Instructor Ivy was both his mentor during the fall, and a witness to the collapse of the Aegir duchy, but he almost wanted to cry. but no. it was his duty: not to lean, but to lead.

he missed his father. he missed guidance. the world was telling him to lead, and to be someone, and—

how was he even remotely worthy of claiming to protect Adrestia when he could not be more than eighteen?

what was a throne or a crown when people saw him, stripped of his bearings, and thrown off the streets with no real weight to his name?

"um." his voice cracked like glass. "yes."

"they need me."

"ha..." a off-key laugh rung from his lips. "ha ha! yes, they do."

pushing his brows up and closing his eyes, he peacocked and preened, fingers ghosting his chest.

("I'll do my best, instructor." "I'll be the best I can be, instructor." "I am meant to be great, instructor.")

"thank you!"

[lordleonster]

tiptoe around the postscript { quan & ivy

Dear Ruby Rose (@lindwyvrm), Thank you for arranging this—it would be wasteful to lose contact when we were having such a riveting conversation at the masquerade. Pray tell, why partners in pen, instead of person? Does the nature of anonymity provide you a better sense of security than my own company can provide? I jest. A person of your stature should keep a healthy dollop of mystique at your side. Besides, I found myself rather entertained at the notion of writing for pleasure... You'll be hard pressed to find a man as endeared to 'trivial' sentimentalities as I. Today, I write to you curious about what you thought of that contraption at the ball. The one with the instant photographs. Do you have something of the like in your homeland? By the time I realized it, it was too late to be sorry for myself— but I had certainly wished for us to take one for the sake of memories. I had taken one with my family, and also my son's dear friend. (More on that later. She's a curious one.) If I find the hostess of that stall again, shall we take one ourselves? In any case, to save you from a lengthy bit of nothings, I leave you with a question. Is there any one thing you would like to do? Outside of your duty for your nation, and whatever it is you are assigned to at the academy. From, Ascalaphus

Quan leaves the letter folded neatly by the fountain, under a carved paperweight shaped like an owl.

[hermidetta]

“…Bernadetta… Bernadetta… Berdenadetta?”

Ivy shakes her shoulder, brow creased in worry. The sound if someone screaming had sent her to investigate its source; it does not take her long to stumble across Bernadetta’s rigid, still, unresponsive body, face paler than a ghost’s. A cup of coffee rests nearby, piping hot. Ivy brings it under Berndadetta’s nose, hoping the smell will jolt her back to consciousness.

“Bernadetta, are you alright? I’ve caught the mouse… did it startle you?”

Something squeaks in Ivy’s free hand; her grasp on it tightens as she feels it squirm in her fist, desperate to escape.

“Do you need me to escort you to the infirmary, Bernadetta? What happened?”

bernadetta's bizarre rat saga (part three: dusted crusaders)

the distant waft of dark roast and chocolate seeps into bernadetta's senses. as it happens, she is lodged in the throes of another dream.

bernadetta is small again. she is in her room, hiding under her bed with mr. bearkley. small bernadetta loathes the idea of ballroom dancing lessons, loathes the idea of anybody except uncle or jules touching or getting so close to her (and they were both gone, weren't they? gone, so never again. never would that small bernadetta know a kind touch again.) and the first time some little boy had been forced to try she remembers hurling on his dress shoes before the song had even started.

which made that the last time. nobody in their right mind wanted to dance with her after that. but she had still been forced to learn the moves, the cues, all that etiquette and more.

all just to use it with a talking rat in her nightmares. saints, she never should have come to the ball. she never should have ventured out into the hallway alone.

"bernie doesn't wanna,"  is the slurred, delirious murmur ivy gets from her. bernadetta's nose twitches once or twice, but ultimately her shock is too strong to rouse her from its jaws.  "no more dancing... bernie wants to go back to the garden, bernie wants to grow sweet potatoes on the magical farm..."

the little rat trombonist—michael?—wriggles and flails in ivy's grip.

"sir griss!"  it squeals in its little rat voice, whether ivy can understand it or not.  "wicked sir griss! launcher of my brothers! enemy of our state!!!"

talk about a snitch. bernadetta in the meanwhile sways from the shaking motion, tipping off balance into ivy's own shoulder, which is also still fine.

[starrook]

[ fashion police ] &.

"Prince Alcryst. Your cape is caught in your belt."

Ivy lightly tugs at the fabric, letting it flow freely behind him. Her eyes rove over him, catching on the details of his outfit. He really does look quite distinguished tonight, dressed in Brodian regal furs and wools. Gaze catches on the fluffy white fur of his coat, and she thinks of how a similar trim adorns many Elusian outfits — there is something to be said there, of how they are more similar than they think. It is a a welcome sight compared to the glaring edges and rigid detailing of their armor.

“I’ve never need Brodian finery before,” she remarks off-handedly. “It suits you. You look dashing.”

She tries for a smile. “Have you come with someone? Looking like that, I can’t imagine you’ve shown up alone.”

“Is it?” Alcryst stands still as Ivy tugs at the cape, pulling against one of his belts until it’s freed. “Oh, thank you Queen Ivy. I hope I wasn’t walking around like that for too long…”

He isn’t sure what to make of her ogling him, though. Does Alcryst have scuff marks on his pants? Rusty armor? Something between his teeth? He holds his breath when Ivy begins speaking, then sighs in relief when she compliments him. “You’re too kind. I’m not sure if dashing is the right word for someone like me, but hearing you say so gives me some confidence… I didn’t come with anyone, no. I just think that, as the new crown prince of Brodia, I ought to look the part when representing my country.”

Is that embarrassing to admit? Alcryst speaks up before Ivy has a chance to tease him about it. “W-What about you, Queen Ivy? You look lovely as well.” The dress she wears reminds him of the ones she’d wear into battle, giving him an impression of strength that compliments her natural beauty. And without the fascinator, it gives Alcryst a clear view of her face, her smile. He smiles in return. “If anything, I can’t imagine you not having a partner for tonight. Or at least someone you have your eye on?”