ᴛʀᴏᴍᴘᴀɴᴛ ᴍᴀsǫᴜᴇs | ( theravenlocks. )
❛ ♛ ┆▌ The dulcet assonance of the orchestra hums and beguiles the grandiose atmosphere where laughter and mirth permeate even as the girl queen shuts the twin doors softly behind her, spilling from even the narrow of cracks. Outside in the gardens, the air is cool and brisk— though not so much that a coat would be warranted to conceal the gown she’d commissioned for the evening. Dark and starless with details and trimmings of gold, a sweetheart bodice caged her ribs and allowed the slimmest of space in which to breathe. Slender digits fiddle loosely with the ornate porcelain mask that disguised delicate features as the femme peels herself away from the entrance, elaborate edges custom to fit the contours of her face.
The gaiety of the masquerade could not be avoided with joviality saturating the ambience, prompting nimble footsteps further into the hedged garden. Lungs pique as much from the starry night as possible and she can practically feel the anxiety she has hoarded since the beginning of the ball slacken from petite frame. The gardens are lovely despite the frigid winter, green hedges clean in their cuts, and the scenery does much to loosen her qualms (she’ll also need to ask the baroness for her gardener’s trade secrets later, she takes note). As far as company goes, solitude is appreciated in equal amounts and she is far tired of being introduced to society’s most eligible bachelors or to the sons of corporate giants.
The smiles she’s worn— saccharine, gracious— takes its toll on her as feigning does often.
Perplexity defines itself within the frown that tugs at the corner of burgeoned lips as she tugs on the skirt of her gown. Another tug, more effort placed— why is she stuck? It’s only after when she cranes slender neck does she realize that the tiny thorns of a rosebush had caught onto the hem of her skirt. She knows she shouldn’t be forcing the fabric free, yet ostensibly proceeds anyways with the certainty that she’d be able to liberate herself easily. Another forceful tug, then— a loud ʀɪᴘ, and the softest of utterance, a curse beneath her breath, as the girl queen stumbles backwards in the aftermath.
Svelte shoulders collide awkwardly— surprisingly— with another’s larger form, an act that elicits genuine surprise in the form of a hushed gasp. Despite brightest mind, it hadn't registered in her thoughts that perhaps there would be others who'd ventured outside of the festivities. Posture immediately regains its rigid poise, lips parting automatically to apologize, "My sincerest apologies...!" The girl queen straightens herself, small steps taken to increase the distance between them as emerald hues gazed unwavering in the stranger's way (staring would have been very rude, after all). "I— hope I haven't caused any harm in my indiscretions, sir," she murmurs hesitantly.
A fraction of her hopes he doesn't notice the tear in her dress; how unladylike society would aghast if it knew!
