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The Collected Works of Bianca La Fleur


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The Collected Works of

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Who is Bianca La Fleur?

 

Bianca La Fleur is the pen name of Yuliya Styrne, a playwright and poet native to the kingdom of Haense. She grew up in a backwater village near the sea and, due to her disability, took up writing as a hobby from a young age.  

 

La Fleur’s body of work lends itself to the genre of historical fiction – with themes centering around motherhood, marriage, spousal abuse, and toxic romantic relationships. She tends to be drawn toward little-known and little-discussed historical figures from the eras of Asulon, Anthos, and Athera. La Fleur’s admirers refer to her as a “masterful poet” whose “literary treasures” capture her audience’s unwavering attention and imagination – painting emotional, intimate, and evocative portraits of eras long past. However, an equal number of critics pan her plays as “highly melodramatic”, "historically inaccurate", “bizarre and distasteful”, “obnoxiously moralistic” and “laden with cheap shock value.”

 

In addition to her stage plays, La Fleur also dabbled in poetry and academia. She was an accomplished historian specializing in the Early Empire, the Carrion-Chivay eras, and the Reformed Kingdom. She claimed to be descended from the little-known historical figure Lorina Carrion, who features prominently in a number of her plays and academic works. 

 


 

Stage Plays

 

LORIN + AUGUSTUS

Published in FA 1772

Read Here

 

LORIN + AUGUSTUS was La Fleur’s debut work and the first play in her Black Rose trilogy. In the year 1406, nineteen-year-old Lorin Chivay – niece of St. Thomas and St. Peter – was unwillingly given in marriage to the eighty-year-old Augustus Flay in order to secure an alliance and create the the North Anthos Treaty Organization. LORIN + AUGUSTUS explores their unconventional dynamic between the couple. Despite being her first work, LORIN + AUGUSTUS is widely considered to be one of La Fleur’s best works – if not the best.

 

Accolades: Runner-Up for the FA 1772 Petrine Laurel award. First-place winner of the FA 1778 Nikischurwe (Silver Goblet) award. Archchancellor Simon Basrid's favorite play. Empress Anne I’s favorite play. Winner of the 1804 IST (8 SA) Petrine Laurel.

 

Stage Debut: 1781 FA on the Novellen Garden Stage in Helena, Oren. 

 

~

 

THE DEATH OF A SQUIRE

Published in FA 1773

Read Here

 

THE DEATH OF A SQUIRE is the first play in the Crow’s Daughter Trilogy. It is based upon the recently-rediscovered writings of Sister Lorina of Vekaro, also known as Imperial Princess Lorina Carrion. It spotlights the failed marriage between Lorina Carrion and a little-known Atheran nobleman by the name of Christopher Blackwell. Blackwell was an accessory to the coup against Lorina’s elder brother, Emperor Alexander I. During the coup, he kidnapped the princess and brought her to Angren, where she was forced at sword point to marry him. THE DEATH OF A SQUIRE follows their romance from the pair’s tender youth in the countryside village of Karovia up until Christopher’s suicide some five years later.

 

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FJARRIAUGA

Published in FA 1775

Read Here

 

FJARRIAUGA follows the controversial figure of Brunhylde Volsung, a member of the Volsung clan who landed in Asulon during the early days of Exalted Godfrey’s reign in Renatus. After a failed elopement and an accidental pregnancy, Brunhylde Volsung succumbed to the dark magic of the Fjarriauga and became Asulon’s first Frost Witch. She went on to found the Frostborn Coven, a gathering of witches who terrorized the fledgling First Empire. FJARRIAUGA details the events of Brunhylde’s life leading up to her transformation into a Frost Witch.

 

~

 

THE BIRTH OF A NUN

Published in FA 1777

Read Here

 

THE BIRTH OF A NUN is the second play in the Crow’s Daughter Trilogy, following the life of Imperial Princess Lorina Carrion. It explores  the events surrounding the construction of her first church and her failed courtship with a minor nobleman by the name of Jason Evans. The titular character, Lorina is split between her sense of duty to her family, her budding love for Jace Evans, and her obligations to her cousin, Daniel I. This play is yet another exploration into the idea of failed courtship and wrecked love, a recurring fascination for La Fleur. 

 

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INHERITOR

Published in FA 1783

Read here.

 

INHERITOR is a sequel to La Fleur’s debut play, LORIN + AUGUSTUS and the second installment in the Black Rose trilogy. It follows the character of Tiberius Blackmont, the son of the titular couple, as he proceeds into his young adulthood. Foremost amongst Tiberius’s fears are that he will be doomed to emulate his abusive father. Inheritor is a study on the cyclical nature of abuse, as well as the subject of entitlement and personal choice. 

 

~

 

THE WAR OF THE DUKES

Published in FA 1786

Read here.

 

THE WAR OF THE DUKES is the third and final installment in the Crow’s Daughter trilogy, following the life and times of Lorina Carrion. The play details Lorina’s actions taken during the Dukes’ War, the infamous conflict that brought an end to the Reformed Kingdom and ushered in the Johannian Era of Oren. It is not only a tragedy of doomed love, but also a fierce anti-war diatribe.  THE WAR OF THE DUKES is also one of her longest and most elaborately constructed plays.

 

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GOLDEN SON

Published in FA 1791

Read here.

 

GOLDEN SON is the first play in La Fleur's Rosebud Trilogy. It follows the tale of Tuvya Rosebud, a bastard later legitimized as Tobias Carrion. It could be viewed as a sort of spiritual sequel to LORIN + AUGUSTUS and a companion piece to INHERITOR – since both works follow the children of Lorin Chivay as they grow toward manhood. GOLDEN SON represents a departure from La Fleur’s usual wheelhouses of romance and tragedy. While the play does feature tragic elements, it ends surprisingly on a positive and uplifting note. Certain scenes in the drama are outright comedic, such as the scene where Tuvya convinces Silus to dress up in women’s clothing.

 

Stage Debut: 1800 FA (4 SA) at the University of Haense in Karosgrad

 

~

 

THE FRANCISCAN MASSACRE

Published in IST 1797. SA Year 2

Read here.

 

THE FRANCISCAN MASSACRE is the second installment in the Rosebud Trilogy which began with GOLDEN SON. It is one of La Fleur's bloodiest and most violent plays with far and away the most on-stage deaths. Interestingly, it's a rather passionate treatise on the need for peace and human unity. La Fleur once again employs the figure of Tuvya as her mouthpiece on the subject of peacefulness and anti-war rhetoric (running sometimes counter to reports of how St. Tuvya actually was). THE FRANCISCAN MASSACRE is perhaps La Fleur's most overtly political play. It was published a few short years after Haensi secession from the Empire, as tensions between Haense and Oren were slowly rising. La Fleur's plays typically did not take a hard political stance, which makes THE FRANCISCAN MASSACRE unusual and speaks volumes about her concerns at the time of writing.

 

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THE COURTSHIP OF SARAI

Published IST 1798. SA Year 3

Read here.

 

THE COURTSHIP OF SARAI is a rare piece from Bianca La Fleur. As she grew older, she shifted away from the tragedies that made her famous and began writing more plays with comedic scenes and unambiguously happy endings. THE COURTSHIP OF SARAI follows the mythical figure of Harren Horenson as he attempts to win the hand of his elven wife Sarai. He struggles throughout the play due to his brashness of character and pride - learning the value of humility by the end when he asks his future wife for help taming the unicorn. The play was written explicitly as a Tuvmas gift for her longtime friend Edward Napier, who allowed La Fleur to stay with him at his house after the Inferi Invasion of 1795 rendered her destitute. The play caught some critical flack for its relatively positive portrayal of Harren, who is widely considered a wicked and corrupt figure. La Fleur was also criticized for her flattering portrayal of a mixed-race elf-human relationship. (Rumor had it that La Fleur had a longstanding romantic fixation with her elven friend James Chapel, which may explain why she opted to write an elf-human romance.) Orcish envoys to the Holy Orenian Empire critiqued the portrayal of Krug as a kinslayer and claimed it was inaccurate. As always, La Fleur's response to these critiques was to assert that her play was a work of fiction and therefore not beholden to any ideas of historical accuracy.

 

Stage Debut: 1807 IST at the University of Karosgrad.

 

~

 

ACCURSED

Published IST 1802. SA Year 6.

Read here.

 

ACCURSED is the final and shortest play of the Rosebud Trilogy, which follows the life of St. Tobias Carrion. ACCURSED is unique among La Fleur's plays in that it explicitly employs magical effects - a feature seen in none of her prior plays. Although La Fleur sometimes referenced sorcery in her previous texts, it was never displayed on-stage due to the natural limitations of theater.

 

~

 

MORAL CHARACTER

Published IST 1804. SA Year 8

Read here.

 

MORAL CHARACTER is a stark departure from La Fleur's usual stylings and represents her foray into more modern and experimental storytelling. For this play, she did away with her usual metered prose and wrote the dialogue in a naturalistic manner. It's also a complete work of fiction with no ties to any real-life or historical events - the story, plot, and characters being La Fleur's own invention. MORAL CHARACTER is a comedy filled with incisive commentary on the upper and middle classes of Providence. It was commissioned by Lady Aimee de Frand, to be staged in her upscale, exclusive club - The Ivy House.

 

Stage Debut: 1810 IST at the Ivy House in Providence

 

~

 

LORIN + SIEGMUND

Published IST 1806. SA Year 10.

Read here.

 

LORIN + SIEGMUND was written as a prequel to LORIN + AUGUSTUS. Like its predecessor, it revolves around the fraught and passionate relationship between two people. While LORIN + AUGUSTUS explored an abusive marriage, its prequel features a forbidden love affair. LORIN + SIEGMUND also functions as a prequel to La Fleur's Rosebud Trilogy, since it spotlights the extramarital liaison that created Tuvya Rosebud. Despite being billed as a tragedy, LORIN + SIEGMUND features no dramatic deaths. Instead, the drama focuses on the simple, human sadness of loving someone you aren't supposed to love.  LORIN + SIEGMUND was La Fleur's final play before she succumbed to arthritis of the hands, which prevented her from writing for many hours a day as she once did.

 

~

 

ON THE SHORES OF PARADISE

Published IST 1816. SA Year 20.

Read here.

 

ON THE SHORES OF PARADISE was published as a posthumous addition to La Fleur's Black Rose trilogy, officially making it her first (and only) quartet. The finished manuscript was discovered among La Fleur's personal affects following her unfortunate death. It was published by Penton-Napier publishing with permission from La Fleur's estate and the proprietors of her theatrical company.

 

 


 

Academic Work

 

THE DIARY OF LORINA CARRION, VOLUMES 3 & 4

Published in FA 1773

Read Here

 

In addition to being an authoress, La Fleur also dabbled in book binding and restoration. After stumbling upon the original diaries of Lorina Carrion in an obscure library, Bianca La Fleur went through the painstaking process of restoring the 250+ year old text. The restoration was a years-long process, as the pages were badly yellowed and several of them were missing. In 1773, La Fleur published copies of the diary for public consumption and donated the restored original to the Northern Geographical Society as a relic of Haensi history. 

 

~

 

LORINA CARRION:

THE COMPLETE BIOGRAPHY

Published in FA 1794

Read here.

 

LORINA CARRION: THE COMPLETE BIOGRAPHY represents La Fleur's first foray into academic writing. In this exhaustively cited and research biography, La Fleur translated her impressive historical acumen into an educational and analytical text rather employing it than a theatrical drama. LORINA CARRION: THE COMPLETE BIOGRAPHY is not only a riveting story, but an analysis on one of Oren's most divisive and controversial historical figures.

 


 

Poetry

 

 

FIVE SONNETS ON THE SUBJECT OF MARRIAGE:

Lessons from an Old Wife to a Young Bride

Published in FA 1779

Read here.

 

FIVE SONNETS ON THE SUBJECT OF MARRIAGE is a short book of poetry published by La Fleur. It was written as a gift to her patroness, Lady Wilhelmina Helvets of Kaedrin, on the eve of her wedding. The sonnets each contain a lesson for a young woman on the verge of becoming a wife. It is the first collection of poems published by La Fleur. 

 

~

 

THE BALLAD OF AUGUSTUS FLAY

Published in 1815 IST

Read here.

 

Prior to her death, La Fleur was commissioned by her longtime friend James Chapel to write a short verse, which he would later put to music. The verse was performed by Corwin von Alstreim at the Northern Geographical Society's 50th Anniversary Banquet, following La Fleur's death. She unfortunately did not live to witness the performance - though Corwin and James were both beloved friends and she no doubt would have enjoyed it.

 


 

Miscellaneous

 

DEAR BIANCA: A LIFE ADVICE COLUMN

Launched in FA 1792

Ongoing

Issue No. 1 ● Issue No. 2 ● Issue No. 3

 

DEAR BIANCA was a life advice column started by Yuliya Styrne, published and edited by her friend James Chapel of J.D. Chapel & Associates Media Group. For her column, La Fleur solicited letters from the general public seeking advice about difficult social situations and heartaches. The first issue was published in 1792 and contained four letters on varying subjects, from long-distance relationships to forbidden homoerotic passions. 

 

~

 

IN DEFENSE OF LORINA CARRION:

A Request to the High Pontiff

Published in FA 1794

Read here.

 

Ms. La Fleur published this open letter as a companion piece to her 1794 biography of Lorina Carrion - in which she reveals publicly for the first time that she is a descendant of the infamous nun. She makes the case for why Lorina's crimes did not warrant eternal damnation and asks that High Pontiff James II affirm her ancestor's place in the Seven Skies. 

 

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A LETTER CONCERNING THE NEEDS OF THE ELDERLY, INFIRM, & DISABLED

Published in FA 1795

Read here.

 

If asked, Ms. La Fleur would often state that she "hated politics" and had no interest in the dry, dull business of debating tax laws and rent hikes. This open letter represents one of her rare forays into political activism. Ms. La Fleur was herself physically disabled and could not walk without the aid of a cane. She had severe burn scarring which severely limited her mobility. This is one of the few print mediums where she describes - albeit briefly - the difficulties of life as a woman with a disability.

 

~

 

BADMINTON, THE SPORT OF GENTLEMEN

A Rules Handbook

Published 1808 IST

Read here.

 

Despite her status as a disabled woman, La Fleur had an enthusiasm for court sports such as badminton. She developed a limited, seated version of badminton that she could play in spite of her limited ability and even hosted a badminton tourney for the Imperial Association at one point.

 

 

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A blanket of still silence lay over the town of Owynsburg. The only sound that penetrated the deep blue night was the musical chirp of frogs, singing each other sweet love songs on the bank of the nearby pond. Fireflies floated like stars broken free from their heavenly sphere. The smell of petrichor and fresh-turned dirt perfumed the air.

 

Yuliya Styrne – sometime known by her pen name Bianca La Fleur – sat at her writing desk with the windows of her cottage open to the air. A mischievous breeze crept past the casements and rustled the pages of her latest manuscript. Yuliya’s fire-charred hand moved to grasp a nearby paper weight and set it upon the sheets. With a flourish, she put her signature on the title page.

 

Part of her worried that she had begun to grow repetitive in her own age (the venerable and ancient number of... thirty-four). She felt herself echoing the same sentiments over and over across different time periods and different characters. There was always a woman who loved a man, typically a man she shouldn’t have allowed herself to love. Sometimes the woman had a sort of scar or mutilation – or perhaps she was simply just ugly. And often she was trapped in a situation often not of her own making, but handed down by the cruel whims of fate, and forced to make choices that had no easy answers. 

 

In other words, Yuliya was writing about herself over and over ad nauseam. Her own woes made manifest in the theatrical biographies of these long dead women. Such was the domain of novice writers, though. They say every first manuscript is written about the self – but Yuliya had completed four now and they were still all about her at their core. She had to branch out, write a play that did not so closely echo her own lived experience.

 

Setting the quill down, she leaned back in her writing chair and regarded the still night beyond the window frame. Her finger – so scarred that it resembled a crumpled sheet of parchment rather than a bone covered in skin – twirled a strand of her dark, thick, curly hair.

 

“How dreadful,” she muttered to spluttering lamplight. “When did I become so boring?”

 


 

OOC:

 

Added THE BIRTH OF A NUN.

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When the bandages came off after the accident, Yuliya spent hours looking at her mutilated face in the mirror. A vanity leaned against the wall across from her bed. Propped up on her pillows, Yuliya could see her reflection. Is this my face? she thought, gazing at the scarred, cycloptic thing framed in the glass. It can’t be. It can’t be. Her father used to pet her curls and tell he what a pretty child she was – how she’d break every heart in the village when she came of age. Family friends cooed over her crow-black ringlets and lush green eyes. Her smooth, milky-pale skin. 

 

The thing in the mirror didn’t look like her at all. It was as though someone had taken a drawing of her and wadded it up, scribbled all over it with red. Her skin was creased with licks of fire. Blisters clustered like mushrooms after a rainstorm. Her lips were drawn in and dried like the teeth of a death’s head. Yuliya would fall asleep and be haunted by nightmares of her own face.

 

As the years passed, the shock of her ugliness began to wear off. Yet it was replaced with a growing, empty ache inside of her chest. Yuliya saw other girls of the village courting, falling in love, marrying, having children. She held onto hope at first, wondering if there might be some enlightened man who saw past her outward looks and into her soul. (Your soulLiya, her uncle, the priest, said. He called her ‘Liya’ affectionately – for as a toddler, she’d had not the capacity to pronounce her full name. That is where true beauty lies. In your soul.) But over time, Yuliya forced herself to reckon with the facts. Men’s eyes possessed the power to view the body and the face, not the soul. No man wanted to look at her long enough to know her soul.

 

Cold comfort, to know that one had a beautiful soul trapped within a mutilated body. Love – the kind of love between man and wife – was not something she would be privileged to know. 

 

A man did take her hand eventually. Not because he saw past her scars into the shining creative mind underneath. No, she would never enjoy something so romantic. He married her because of the small fortune left by her father – a fortune he quickly whittled away on booze and prostitutes while Yuliya lay crying from pain, alone, at night.

 

~

 

When Lady Helvets asked Yuliya to write an epithalamium for her wedding, Yuliya almost interpreted it as an insult. She took up the charge anyway, not wanting to deny the wish of her patroness. It was thanks to Lady Helvets’ good graces that Yuliya wasn’t rotting on the street. But no matter how she scrawled on the page, nothing came out right. Every verse about love and beauty was tinged with a tangible bitterness. An unspoken anger at having been denied what came naturally to every other woman. Perhaps that’s why my every play is a tragedy of wrecked love, Yuliya thought. That seemed as true a reason as any. 

 

Eventually, she managed to scribble out something. A set of moralistic verses. Preachy, perhaps. Trite. But they would do. What else could one expect, when one asked the tragedian to write a wedding verse?

 


 

OOC:

 

Added FIVE SONNETS ON THE SUBJECT OF MARRIAGE: Lessons from an Old Wife to a Young Bride

 

 

 

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Perfect.

 

That would be the word Yuliya used to describe her directorial debut. Absolutely perfect. It could not have gone better. Why, all the Saints and the aenguls in Heaven couldn’t have staged a finer show.

 

The high of her success energized her. Previously, she had found herself in something of a rut, writing-wise. Between the taxing rehearsals and her move to Helena, she hadn’t the energy to put pen to paper. In addition, her work left her feeling uninspired. The plays had begun to bleed together. All that scribbling struck her as empty since none of her productions ever made it to the stage. But now! Now, one of them had at last been brought to life. And it filled her with an energy unlike anything she had ever felt before.

 

How could one put the feeling into words? The pitiless glare of the stage lights. The frenzied roar of the crowd. The cascade of applause. But most of all, the exhilarating sensation of being seen. Of being known. Of being validated. When Yuliya closed her eyes and imagined that moment – stepping on stage, arm in arm with Princess Elizabeth, to the screaming adoration of the audience – it washed away any doubts she had about her chosen profession. It was not something she got to experience often, that utter and complete certainty. 

 

Again.

 

She had to taste it again – those staggering heights of emotion. Her day-to-day life paled by comparison to that rush.

 

Her next play had to be just as good. No, better. She’d make sure of it.

 


 

OOC:

 

Added INHERITOR.

 

 

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Yuliya Styrne did not precisely remember how she met James Chapel. The eccentric elf, clad in his questionable green trench coat, had appeared seemingly out of nowhere. Chapel wasted no time in making himself a fixture in Yuliya's life. He took a bit part in her production of Lorin + Augustus. Then, all of a sudden, they were splitting the rent on a flat together. 

 

Before Yuliya knew it, she and James had become attached at the hip. He accompanied her to all parties and events. They shared a pew at mass. He lounged in the seat next to her during play rehearsal. No matter where she went, James followed at her side. He was the constant hand helping her ascend a difficult staircase. If she stumbled, he caught her with the grace and deftness only an elf could muster. The wry, smirking son of Malin was always prepared with some cutting quip or pithy remark. Yuliya, who was not prone to smiling, found herself cracking up in his presence far more than she ever had before.

 

What is this?

 

That was the question that kept her awake at night. 

 

She and James rented a small apartment together on Basrid Boulevard, with white walls, hardwood floors, and big, airy windows. It was simply a quirk of economics and fate that led to them living together. Yuliya needed a roommate to afford the place - and James needed a room. 

 

In the mornings, she and James sat in the breakfast nook of their apartment and shared a cup of coffee. Yuliya took hers black, whereas James tended to turn his cup into coffee-flavored sugar slush. (He had these little ways about him that Yuliya found infinitely charming.) As they sat together, her eye would often trace the slope of his nose and the point of his chin. He had high, angular cheekbones that leant his face a sort of delicate, inhuman grace. The line of his cheek led into the long, slender point of his ear in a way pleased Yuliya aesthetically. She wanted to kiss that place where they connected.

 

There were a lot of things that made her want to kiss James. The way he lifted the cup to his mouth and parted his lips to drink. The wisps of dark brown hair that escaped his ponytail and fell in waves to frame his face. The angle of his jaw so sharp and precise, it could have been cut from glass. The way the corner of his mouth twitched when he said something clever (or something so stupid it went full circle and became clever). The way his eyes crinkled when he spoke kindly. The slender V-shape of his torso as it tapered to his narrow hips. Those long legs that buoyed him so gracefully through the streets of Helena.

 

Yuliya Styrne did not precisely remember when she started to feel this way about with James Chapel. It reminded her of a story she heard once about frogs. If you place a frog in a pot of boiling water, it will jump out immediately. But if you place a frog in a room-temperature pot and slowly increase the heat over time, the frog will remain in place and never notice it's boiling.

 

She loved him in that special way that writers do, where every detail of his mien became the subject of a poem. 

 

She did not think he loved her back.

 

Why would he? 

 

She was forty three years old and had never been a beauty. The fire made sure of that. Moreover, there was the conflict of their race. Him, an ethereally lovely elf preserved perfectly in time. A face as unchangeable as marble - never wrinkling, never sagging, as flawless as stone. Meanwhile, the weight of age had already begun to drag Yuliya down. She'd never had the vigor of youth. Her disability required a cane, even when she was as young as fifteen. But now she felt slower than ever. She could not imagine James being attracted to a crone like her, not when he himself was ever so youthful and pristine. Besides, the Canon forbid any union between them. It was impossible no matter how you looked at it. 

 

Of course he would never love me.

 

But that fact hardly mattered to her. Yuliya was used to not being loved. Enjoying his company for what little time she had -- that was enough. 

 

Wasn't it?

 

As she drafted lines for the character of Jason in her newest play, she suddenly saw her own feelings reflected back from the page.

 

"Her His voice, her his smile -- those should be enough.
And yet I cannot be satiated.
In my heart of hearts, I desire more."

 

Having written those lines, Yuliya looked up suddenly and found her face wet with tears. The droplets followed the furrows of her scars and dripped off her chin onto the parchment.

 

"What is this...?" she asked herself, her voice so hoarse and soft that even she could barely hear it. “What is this?”

 


 

OOC:

 

Added THE WAR OF THE DUKES

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“I love you.”

 

The words were too hasty by far. Panic widened in James’s eyes. His posture went rigid as a board and, all too quickly, he scrambled to escape. Yuliya recalled the fateful moment with a mixture of regret and heartbreak. She knew James would never respond to her feelings. He acted exactly as she had predicted, so why was she so hurt by it? A small, naïve, childish part of her had hoped – against impossible odds – that he just might love her in return. But he didn’t. And that was that.

 

They remained friends, although Yuliya’s confession had driven an uncomfortable wedge between them. They didn’t speak about what happened. Tacitly, they’d agreed that silence was best in this situation. No one needed to go through the painful, awkward process of relationship autopsy – figuring out who misunderstood what and why. Better, simply, to just get on with life. Bury it. Pretend as though it never happened.

 

James left behind a void, though. For years, he’d served as her bosom companion and friend. Now Yuliya suddenly found herself alone.

 

That was when Lauritz Christansen appeared. She first laid eye (singular) on him during a production of The Mouse Prince in New Reza, where he’d acted the part of the narrator. Lauritz strolled casually on stage in his red ascot and purple suit – and strolled off with her heart in his back pocket.

 

Yuliya tentatively drafted him a letter expressing her interest and admiration, expecting once again to be rejected out of hand. But Christiansen responded. And responded. And kept responding. 

 

Before Yuliya knew it, they’d become regular pen pals. Ten, twenty, thirty letters exchanged back and forth over the span of two short years. The missives, written in Lauritz’s handsome, swooping penmanship, sat in a pile on her writing desk. Despite her best efforts not to obsess, Yuliya found herself reading them over and over ad nauseam – dissecting each word and turn of phrase to divine Christiansen’s true intentions. 

 

Was it possible?

 

Did he really... like her?

 

As Yuliya put the final touches on her latest play and prepared to send it off to the publisher, she lingered over the title page. Would it be too much, she wondered? To give her new friend a nod on the cover sheet?

 

The new drama centered around fatherhood – a virtue which Lauritz himself exhibited as a single parent of six children. Somehow, it seemed appropriate. She signed off on the dedication the same way she signed off on their letters.

 

“Yours.”

 


 

 

Dedicated to my dear friend Lauritz,

Who raised six children by himself – all of whom became upstanding men and women of character.

You’ve been a darling companion and may our friendship last for many years more.

Yours,

B. La Fleur

 


 

Added GOLDEN SON.

 

 

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Then, all of a sudden, the letters ceased. Yuliya checked her mailbox every morning and afternoon to see if he'd written to her, but nothing ever came. Years passed, but she kept waiting. 

 

Eventually, the realization began to settle on her. She'd been unceremoniously dropped. For what reason, she didn't know. Had she done something to offend him? She read and re-read every letter they exchanged, focusing excessively on even the tiniest of details. Every word of their correspondence, she interrogated thoroughly. Somewhere along the line, she'd made a mistake. She had upset him, offended him, frightened him off, driven him away. But how? What had she said? What had she done? It crossed her mind to write him another missive and plead for his forgiveness. Beg if they could resume their friendship. But no, that was too pathetic. Even for her, starving as she was for affection.

 

Disappointment after disappointment. Failure upon failure. Every misstep confirming her deepest and darkest fear. She was hideous, unlovable, and would die alone. 

 

Tomorrow had never been a guarantee for Yuliya, between her disability and poor health. Death could knock on her door at any moment. Every night, she went to bed with the same terrible, lingering thought - "What if I don't wake up tomorrow?" She imagined her corpse moldering for weeks, months, years perhaps, before anyone realized. No one would find her until the taxes lapsed and the neighbors started complaining about the smell. 

 

Yuliya decided suddenly that she could no longer bear to live in a house by herself. The silence oppressed her like a tomb.

 

A chance encounter with the Count of Metterden's son had alleviated her anxieties. The child - a youth of fourteen - needed a tutor. Yuliya had never taught before, but... Hell, why not give it a go? How hard could it be? In exchange, she would have the company of other people to interrupt her solitude. Someone would notice - and care - if she suddenly stopped showing up to lessons. She wouldn't die completely alone. She wouldn't become that rotten carcass lying forgotten in a small, dirty, one-room city apartment.

 

That was all she needed. 

 

OOC:

 

Added DEAR BIANCA & LORINA CARRION: THE COMPLETE BIOGRAPHY.

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It had taken Yuliya many years to accept the face that looked back at her from the mirror. She had grown accustomed to living inside this body, with all its quirks and idiosyncrasies. Sometimes, in her more cheerful moments (which were admittedly rare), she could find a certain primal beauty in the way the fire left patterns on her skin. She might compare them to mountain ridges... or the furrows in the sand left by running water. 

 

But while she had learned to accept her body, society at large continued to overlook her needs. Everywhere she went, she found subtle reminders that the world was not made with her in mind. The steep, uneven staircase without adequate handrails. (Spiral staircases were in vogue lately and she despised them with a burning passion - no pun intended.) Apartment buildings with no rooms on the ground floor and no lifts. Social conventions - such as curtsying and bowing - that she could not physically perform, yet was expected to do anyway. Clothing with elaborate ties and snaps that she simply could not maneuver without assistance. Doctors who did not understand her specific needs and how best to take care of her. A lack of public transportation that could help her more easily get from one place to another. In fact, occasionally, the world seemed downright hostile toward her existence. 

 

The Emperor himself needed a wheelchair to get around. Yet the Emperor had attendants gathered around him in a flurry. Getting up and down stairs wasn't an issue when your fifteen or sixteen servant boys could simply pick you up and carry you. Yuliya, for her middling level of fame, was not rich enough for that. 

 

Was it too much to hope for a world that could accommodate her needs - even if she wasn't rich, famous, august? 

 

OOC:

 

Added IN DEFENSE OF LORINA CARRION and A LETTER CONCERNING THE NEEDS OF THE ELDERLY, INFIRM, & DISABLED

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“Tell me you're getting me a new cane for Tuvmas.”

 

“I thought about that very thing.”

 

“Thank God.”

 

“And unfortunately - found nobody around to make one.”

 

“…My hopes and dreams dashed.”

 

“I then thought of another gift! Salves, specifically for your skin. But... the apothecary was unable to make them due to lack of the required herbs."

 

“…St. Tuv is not looking out for me this year apparently.”

 

"Soooo...."

 

"So?"

 

"I devised another idea. I took a trip to Elvenesse. Where I found a gentleman skilled in the art of healing."

 

“My, elvish skin cremes? You are spoiling me, Mr. Napier.”

 

"Better than that, my dear. This Elvish fellow is going to heal your scars."

 

"I - what?"

 

"Exciting, isn't it?"

 

"Pardon me. I don't wish to seem ungrateful. I am grateful, surely to God. But I've had my fair share of snake-oil salesmen try to sell me cures before and… well... the state of my face should speak to their effectiveness."

 

"Oh, God, of course, Yuliya. It's - well. I'm sure you've had this very talk before, and been disappointed. We're not going to count our ducks until they've hatched. But this seems hopeful, doesn't it?"

 

"I am not naturally inclined to hopefulness, Edward. And after the first hundred, two hundred, three hundred bullshit cures, well…"

 

"Try it. For me?"

 

"...For you."

 

OOC:

 

Added THE FRANCISCAN MASSACRE

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“You should write. I know I've told you that before. You said you didn't have the patience.”

 

“I certainly have the time now.”

 

“This theater is going to outlive me. I want someone to keep doing things here… rather than it just turning into a venue for… oh… I don't know. Boring state-of-the-empire addresses. Political shilling. Write something funny. You'd be good at that.”

 

“Something funny. I could do that.”

 

“Nobody's doing comedy these days. The fashion is these plodding historical dramas. Utterly dreadful.”

 

“You're a real trendsetter. I'm good at bucking trends.”

 

She smiled.

 

“Thank you for being my first friend, James.”

 

“Thank you for being mine. I don't know where I'd be if we hadn't met. So, thank you for the plays, the parts. For dragging me out here."

 

"Pah. As far as I'm concerned, you deserve the world for indulging my prattling and clinginess."

 

"Still grateful."
 

OOC:

 

Added THE COURTSHIP OF SARAI

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Yuliya showed up late, dashing into the throne room as fast as her stiff, hobbling legs could carry her. She took up position along the outer walls, quietly hoping that no one had noticed her hasty, ungainly entrance. But honestly, how rude! Did the Emperor really have to schedule court the same day - the same time, no less - as an important dress rehearsal? Frankly, he ought to be glad she showed up at all!

 

Her cycloptic eye found its way to the elderly man sitting on the dais. There, upon on that small stage, sat two thrones - the left one occupied and the right noticeably empty. If the Emperor felt any grief for his departed wife, he didn't let it show. Rather, the expression on his face was one of stoic statesmanship, revealing nothing of the man's interior workings. As Yuliya studied his mien from afar, he suddenly tilted his head and looked directly at her. Yuliya felt the blood seep immediately from her face and she swiftly averted her eye. 

 

Why had he invited her here? 

 

The ISA officer at the Emperor's right hand cleared his throat and bellowed out over the members of the Court. "The Court of Augustine shall now receive Archchancellor Franz Sarkozy, Sir Basileus Baelius, and Madam Yuliya Styrne."

 

Yuliya's feet moved automatically without her willing them. She moved less swiftly than the other two - and arrived last in front of the throne. Hundreds of eyes tracked her movements across the vast throne room. The silence rendered her shuffling footsteps and the click of her cane deafeningly loud. She stopped a few feet apart from the Archchancellor. Her thoughts whirled in a dizzying spiral. What was she doing here, next to these people? Standing in front of the Emperor, who stared fixedly at her as if she were the only person in the entire room?

 

The ISA officer spoke again. "Sirs and Madam, kindly make yourselves known to the court."

 

Franz Sarkozy cleared his throat. He bowed to the Emperor, the picture of grace and composure. "Archchancellor Franz Sarkozy," he said.

 

"Chief Justice, Sir Basileios Balthazar Baelius, Your Majesty," the lawyer presented himself, bending at the waist in a crisp display of his respect.

 

Yuliya let out a short, wheezy chuckle as the court's attention once again landed on her. "With respect to His Imperial Majesty," she ventured cautiously, taking care to focus on the Emperor's feet rather than meet his eye. "My disability prevents me from doing a proper curtsy. If he would allow for a respectful incline of the head instead?"

 

"We shall," came the voice from the throne.

 

Yuliya bowed her head low. "Yuliya Styrne," she said. "Not so grand as these two, Your Imperial Majesty. Merely a scribbler from a Haeseni backwater." At that, she stole a glance up toward the Emperor. 

 

Why does he keep staring at me?

 

Yuliya was used to being in front of crowds. Even in ordinary daily life, she had become accustomed to stares. Children gawked at her as she passed by on the street. The lower orders sometimes shouted insults or made unkind commentary. Yet this pair of eyes struck her as the heaviest of them all. 

 

The Emperor rested his hands in his lap as he spoke again. "The Court of Augustine should like to offer our gracious thanks to the three who stand before us, for their service of the pen," he intoned. "Sir Basileios, for your invaluable services rendered in the renovation and reform of our codes of law, We dub thee Knight-Commander of The Most Esteemed and Most Especial Imperial Order of Merit."

 

He paused a moment to let the words settle. "Franz Sarkozy, for your invaluable services rendered to the culture and political theory of our commonwealth - in the forms of two novels which His Imperial Majesty holds in the highest regard - we dub thee Knight of The Most Esteemed and Most Especial  Imperial Order of Merit."

 

Yuliya's eye darted back and forth along the floor as she began to process exactly what was about to happen to her. "Yuliya Styrne," he said - and her name sounded strange and foreign coming from his lips, "for the shows of the stage which have rendered the great stories of Orenian history into acts which Our subjects may see and live for themselves, We hereby dub thee Knight of The Most Esteemed and Most Especial Imperial Order of Merit."

 

A wave of thunderous applause broke over the throne room - nearly deafening in its magnitude. Yet Yuliya hardly heard it.

 

Is this real? 

 

Her scarred, papery hands trembled as they gripped the head of her cane. She made some truncated gesture of thanks to the man atop the throne, unsure of what else to do. As the applause died down, though, the Emperor spoke again. "There is an additional prize..." he said, and she felt him watching her. Assessing her from his elevated position. "The Petrine laurel, the highest accolade bestowed upon the artists of our commonwealth, has not been awarded for nigh three decades."

 

At the mention of the Laurel, Yuliya's heart began to hammer even faster than it had before. 

 

"The poet and artist lends himself, just as the soldier of the sword, towards the perpetuation of our commonwealth unto eternity," the Emperor continued. "Generations hence, our descendants shall speak both of the great battles which we have fought, but also the great works which we have produced. Works which tell the stories of our fathers, or vindicate the worth of humanity."

 

Could it be? She'd never forgotten that day in 1772, when she lost to Peridot Carrington. The Laurel had, since that day, represented an unattainable goal. The radiant crown that would don her head the day she achieved artistic immortality.

 

"Chief among these, and highly esteemed among our subjects - which has not gone unnoticed - is a work of the stage, entitled Lorin and Augustus," the Emperor recited. At last, Yuliya looked up. At that moment, her eye met the impenetrable gaze of the Emperor's. His grey-green eyes bored deep into her own. "In the days of yore, when romance was in the lands, this estimable play of the stage tells the story of Augustus Blackmont, that fearsome warrior, and Lorin, the daughter of Kaedrin and the White Rose. We hold it chief among our hearts, and so too do our subjects." 

 

"Thus, in witness of the Court of Augustus, we grant the Petrine Laurel to this work and its progenitor, Dame Yuliya Styrne."

 

A fresh cascade of applause poured over her. Yuliya found herself leaning heavily on her cane simply to keep from collapsing. Tears welled up in her eye, which she quickly brushed away - unwilling to show such vulnerability in front of the masses. She took a slow, dignified breath and uttered - barely audible, even to herself - "Thank you, Your Imperial Majesty."

 

A combination of adrenaline and nerves rendered the rest of the event a blur. Yuliya blinked and suddenly found herself outside, hobbling away from the palace, with tears of silent joy on her cheeks.

 

OOC:

 

Added ACCURSED and MORAL CHARACTER

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“Your sovereign Emperor, ma'am, is old and weary," the old man, known to the masses as Joseph II, said as he gazed toward the stage, "That journey into the millennium which awaits us is near - it is fresh at scent.”

 

“It troubles me to hear you say that, Majesty," Yuliya replied. 


She studied the monarch from behind. He stood with his back to her, his arms folded with the fingers of one hand encircling the wrist of the other. Froths of lace at his sleeve concealing his thin, wan, semi-translucent skin.

 

“There are things he has not yet done in this world, that he would like to make done. One of these," he paused and turned to look at her. His grey-green eyes glinted under the gas-lights, "is to write a drama." At that, his face split into a smile. "Who better to instruct us in the art but Dame Yuliya Styrne, bearer of the great laurel?”

 

“Oh! You…” she began haltingly, “…want to be my student?”

 

“If it please the Dame,” he bobbed his head in confirmation. The gold of his monocle chain caught the light, casting tiny fragments of luminance over his face. “History, politics, philosophy - we have written it all. But not drama. Drama is, chief among those genres of literature, a hill we have ne'er conquered.”

 

“Ahaha,” she lets out a breathless little laugh. “You'll have to pardon me. This has all caught me by surprise."

 

When she managed to corral her laughter, she gave the monarch a gentle smile - a smile that might have been pretty, if it had been displayed on any other girl's features.

 

"I should love to have you as my student, Your Majesty.”

 

She had entertained pupils before, of course. Young men and women who felt themselves called toward the stage. Yet the prospective student who stood before her was an entirely different beast.

 

How would one teach iambic pentameter, verse, and story structure to an Emperor? How would one balance helpful critique with the deference necessary when talking to a monarch?

 

Yuliya Styrne was about to find out.

 

OOC:

 

ADDED LORIN + SIEGMUND

 


 

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"If there's anything this profession has taught me, it's that no work is ever finished. It keeps evolving and taking new forms."

 

"Very true. This art form is not so set in stone, like a painting. It is much more alive."

 

“That's precisely why I have loved it so. The fact that it's always changing. A play lives anew every time it's retold.”

 

"It's a lovely thought."

 

She paused for a time.

 

"I put everything I had into these plays, you know. They're not even really about the historical figures." 

 

"They're about me." 

 

"An autobiography written in verse. My voice, speaking through the mouths of individuals long dead."

 

"It's a morbid thought, but one that reoccurs as I get older. As long as these plays live, as long as this theater lives… I can live too."

 

When she turned toward him, there were tears threatening to spill down her furrowed cheeks.

 

"You won't let me die, will you, James?"

 

He took her hand in his.

 

"Never. You will outlast the Empire as long as I have anything to say about it."

 

The words made her smile. She gazed at where he sat amid the dark theater seats. It was there, in that stale, warm, and hazy darkness, that she had always felt most at home. Together, with him.

 

"No one ever understood me quite so well as you, James," she said - and meant every word.

 

"You've understood me better than anyone too," he replied.

 

All her life, Yuliya Styrne had hungered for love. She suffered from what felt like an incurable loneliness of the soul. A gaping hollow in her heart, begging to be filled by someone, anyone.

 

For a moment,

 

There,

 

In that theater,

 

The hollow closed up. 

 

And she thought...

 

Oh, what a joy it is. To find the one person in all the world who knows you fully and completely. All the darkened corners and crevices of your heart, laid bare to them. To have your soul fully understood by another soul.

 

Whatever souls are made of, hers and his were forged from the same stuff. Yuliya knew that to be true. 

 

In that one moment, together in the dark theater, she found what she had been hungering for all her life. 

And so, when the end of her journey arrived but a day later, she met it peacefully and in wholeness. He would be the one to complete her story, for no one had ever understood her so well as him.

 

It wasn't an ending. Not really. 

 

James would write the rest.

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