Pompadour

Username: Pompadour_
Discord:
Skin Name: Frilly Frock
Bid Amount: $5 USD.
Previous Bidder: (if applicable) None.

Victoria Pruvia-Albarosa Sarkozy glares down from the Seven Skies, dismayed. “Oh dear, once an idiot always an idiot...”

Skin: top down ac

10 Mina

Bowpomp#3549

Introduction

The escape was successful. She was able to flee before those wrought iron gates of Providence snapped closed. As the powdered Victoria Sarkozy wept, the carriage leapt over hills and mounds towards Redenford. 

She was a woman with nothing to lose and nothing to look forward to, other than her useless position at the Augustine Palace. 

Once surrounded by family, and people of peerage, Victoria had been deprived of her strength and happiness. She was once a free woman, now reduced to nothing more than a depressed wife. Albeit this escape was the only moment of action she would be able to experience in her thirty-two years of life. 

Insulted at the Augustine, temperamental, filled with backlash, she had been chased from existence. Her brougham carriage, snatched, would bring her to fate. Redenford. 

Chapter I

The Redenford rain was in the midst of a heavy downpour. The carriage moved at a grueling pace, its fresh shiny paint on its white oak cab peeling. Its groaning wheels growed as it progressed through the mud and gravel of the trails. A gray coachman, dressed in the blackest of blacks, halted the leather reins of the giant black stallion. 

Victoria sat in the dismal cab, lit by the dimmest of gas lanterns. She winced as the droplets dripped down the glass of the window. The air in that small space began to sink, the sky turned to a murky black. Victoria was having a fit. She felt trapped. Suffocated. 

“Help! For the love of GODEN get me a knife!” She yelled, smacking the front glass of the tiny coach. 

This coachman, as aforementioned, would have fallen asleep on the bench. As the wench had smacked the front of this space, he jolted awake. Hearing this, he whipped out a small pocket knife. Pushing against the glass, he let in the knife!

She snatched the weapon off the ground instantaneously, and brought it up to her overly garish stomacher. The blade rested on the top of this stiff piece, and Victoria would pull down, splitting the stomacher in half. A popping sound could be heard within the coach, in which the overly decorated wide panniered robe de cour would burst. Victoria was left with only her brocaded corset and silk drawers, not to mention her crystal-glass pumps. 

Chapter II

A figure appeared in the distance. As if summoned by GOD himself. However, this figure was not any ordinary figure, it was translucent, and shined of ivory. 

Victoria’s brow lofted. With a drag of the finger she pushed the door open, and plopped herself into the rainy atmosphere. The droplets hit her pale painted face, leaving streaks that consisted of her natural skin color. Reaching an arm into the coach, she’d take hold of the gown, dragging it out, throwing it on the ground. 

The door slammed shut, and the coach sped off. Victoria’s jaw dropped at the lack of service. 

In the near field, the figure still loomed, dancing in a sort of spin from one side of the area to the other. 

Victoria trudged closer and closer to this mysterious bright blob. A mist could be seen steaming from it. She lofted a brow as this figure began to change into a humanoid version of her late mother. 

It caught sight of Victoria stepping closer, and charged towards her at a rapid pace. It was the ghost of her mother. 

“No! It can’t be!” Victoria gasped, putting a hand over her mouth as the spirit loomed over Victoria, outstretching a hand, a wry smile formed on the ghost’s face. 

Victoria collapsed on the ground and started to weep. She wept for Redenford, what could have been hers. She wept for her husband, who never paid attention to her. She wept for her cousin, who had been divorced. It was a life not worth living. 

Her mother had her hand still outstretched. “Time.. to.. go…”

Victoria did not look up, but her spirit did. A translucent green figure, a decadent figure of grace dripping in ectoplasm, stood from Victoria’s pale body. She smiled at her mother, taking hold of her steaming hand. Walking forth, they’d both disappear when a bolt of lightning shot at the ground. 

Victoria’s corpse had vanished. Where could it have gone? 

Victoria Hildegarde de Sarkozy née Pruvia-Albarosa (1767-1799).

SURNAME:de Sarkozy/Pruvia-Albarosa

FIRST NAME: Victoria

ADDRESS OF RESIDENCE: Adria St. 5

YEAR OF BIRTH: 1767

Are you registered and eligible to vote in Providence District? Yes.

Do you have any other title, peerage or military service that may conflict with becoming a Member of the House of Commons, as per the Edict of Reform (1763)?

 
No.

If yes, do you understand that you will be required to resign or abdicate from this position should you be elected to the House of Commons, and if this does not occur your seat shall be considered to be vacant?:

 
Yes. 

((MC NAME)): _Pompadour

Penelope Hamilton O'Rourke would run towards the nearest tailor, whispering her request into the tailor's ear. A package would arrive days later containing a beautiful silk ball gown with a ten foot long train!

8 hours ago, Nectorist said:

Franz Sarkozy finally learns the names of all the palace servants and staff he yells at for making his tea improperly every single time he visits.

Victoria Pruvia-Albarosa sinks on to her husband's arm. "A slummy cesspool its become..." She'd groan.

Victoria Pruvia-Albarosa marvels at the idea of an exclusive club. She took a piece of parchment, a wonk eye tipped fountain pen, and scribbled hastily on the paper. She sealed it and sent it off. 

Jeanne Poisson de Motte's bright red lips curled into a wide smile when she saw her friend enter the gates of The Seven Skies. Striding forward in her panniered yellow gown, she took out a small velvet box, containing the earrings made of wonk eyes. "Florenza! You forgot these..." The Auverginian said, smiling, tears rolling down her face somewhat as she was reunited with her only friend in heaven.

Victoria Pruvia-Albarosa read over the announcement made by her dear cousin. Shuffling over to her wardrobe, she chose the widest hoops available and the most tackiest of silks. 

Margaret Annabelle Helvets watched with an odd smile when the dissolution of marriage was announced. When let alone in her apartment of the Augustine Palace, she raided her mother's makeup cabinet before her departure. 

Johanna Pruvia-Albarosa welcomed Sabrina to the Seven Skies with open arms, smiling at the arrival of her old friend. 

Victoria Hildegarde de Sarkozy would sit in her dressing chamber, powdering her finest wig, garbing herself in expensive pink silks. Following this guide, she looked her best. 

To Their Imperial Majesties

& The esteemed members of the Imperial Cabinet,

On the 9th of Godfrey’s Triumph 1796, it was published that the Imperial Charter for the settlement of Redenford, the continuation of the cultural habitat of the former residents of the Commonwealth of Kaedrin, has been granted to His Excellency the Duke of Cathalon.

On behalf of the Kaedreni, I write this letter to express our severe discontent with this decision, and petition you to install our rightful figure of leadership, His Excellency Adrian Othodoric Helvets, to be the proprietor of the colony of Redenford.

The inhabitants of this would-be settlement find themselves completely estranged and in opposition to Henry Frederick Helvets, an individual who left our previous nation in utter ruin & neglect: something his own brother sought to resolve by demanding his resignation as Governor-General. To decide to re-install him to leadership, is to completely alienate your most leal subjects from their own newfound home.

Yours truly, 

Victoria Hildegarde de Sarkozy.

Jeanne's Entourage, 1793.

An oncoming coach splashed mud out from under its rimmed wheels. The heavy cab was hauled by four gleaming white stallions decorated in red leather reins, which were tugged nearly every second. Two coachmen, drowned in thick layers of red silk and blanketed in gabardine drill, sat miserably up on the driver’s box in the downpour of the Kaedreni rain. The entourage was an odd one, the elaborately painted carriage was certainly a display of opulence and excess, but the passengers inside were certainly dissidents. 

Madame Jeanne O’Rourke, and her latest product of illegitimacy, Adalene, sat across from each other in the silk lined interior, each garbed in rich purple cloaks, each staying to themselves. 

The painted Madame O’Rourke gleamed as she looked beyond the dripping window out into the rolling hills of the countryside. It was unknown what her thoughts were. But the solemn look expressed on her face told it all. 

It was up on Mont Catherine that the immense game of trickery was about to begin. Passing by the dilapidated O’Rourke House, Jeanne only stared at what was her epicenter of happiness. She raised her children there; she had her grand wedding reception in its great hall. The crumbling brownstone walls only expressed scorn at its wavering owner fleeting by. However, as the rickety coach began to swoon itself up on the muddy slopes of the mountain, a cardboard luggage case would abruptly snap from the leather straps and burst open on the ground. 

The rain suddenly stopped. 

Expressing herself in a nonchalant way, Jeanne motioned to a tassel hanging from the coach ceiling, pulling it. The wheels of the carriage seemed to freeze instantaneously. Adalene sat, hands clasped together in her lap, her pale gray eyes which lay on her pale face only darted forwards towards her mother’s Manhattan boots. The whiplash only made the poor girl shunt herself back against the wall of the cab. 

Jeanne plopped open the door with a drag of her finger against it, and thrust herself into the misty air. She jumped right into the mud, shoes soiled. 

“Zis. Is. Disgusting…” She’d say, in her thick Auverginian accent. Inside, Adalene suppressed a laugh with her white gloved hand. 

“Mother- it is only a few stockings in that trunk, we can merely leave it for some peasants!” Adalene squealed. 

Jeanne’s face darted back to her bastard. “Oui… but there is a small token I need from this.” 

Confused, Adalene averted her eyes to some other direction. 

The painted lady picked up her feet towards the open suitcase, the weight of the sticky mud assimilating with cinder blocks. Sifting through the dirtied silken remains, she found what she was looking for, a small turquoise leather box that contained a picture of a gray man with a sunken face. Quickly, she stuffed the box into a swag of her skirt and re-entered the coach. 

The sky turned darker. The fog rolled over the hills. The carriage was encompassed. 

Reins were yanked again, and the coach sped up the mountain once again. 

“Help! Help!” Somebody cried from up the road. It was a man, a very lanky pale man, dressed in burlap. 

The carriage sloshed on, until it got to the man, where it stopped suddenly with no motion from Jeanne. “Hello! Hel-” He was cut off. The mud splashing out from under the carriage consumed the man. 

“Lo..”  He tried to continue under the thick brown mask. 

Jeanne merely poked her painted face out from the drapery of her hood, a scowl formed when she saw a person of extreme filth. 

“What- are you?” She’d observe.

“I need aid, please, do you have a mark or two to-” He’d begin to speak such, being cut off by Jeanne.

“Non merci, monsieur. We are not in the mood for giving welfare.” She’d state, blankly, throwing a piece of slimy, half eaten chicken out at the man from her picnic basket. 

“Auverginians…” The lanky man began with a wave of his skeletal hand. “Little chien.” 

“Oh!” Jeanne responded, bending her hand, resting her two digits on her left hand over her exposed chest. “At least I am not covered in mud.” She motioned her other hand, now clasping a fan, and smacked it against the ceiling of the coach. “Move on!” 

A snap of the red reins could be heard, and the coach slid out of sight into the fog, engulfed.

“Mother..” Adalene muttered. “You can’t just be mea-.” 

“Oh hush up!” The painted one exclaimed, smacking her daughter dead across the cheek.

Sitting back down, Jeanne would snap open the fan, and gracefully fanned herself while overlooking the sea. 

Adalene, clearly used to this treatment, simply hushed herself and reverted to her silent composure.

The coach rocked on over the mountain to the docks. The air began to sink, the sky turning to a thick black atmosphere. 

Victoria Hildegarde de Sarkozy nee Pruvia-Albaorsa glided down the staircase of her Basrid Boulevard townhouse. She picked out a large crimson hooped evening gown from her armoire to wear for the occasion. Putting the gown on over her drawers and corset, she'd float over to her haberdashery floor mirror, smiling at the sight of her exposed shoulders. 

Full Name of Man - Franz Nikolai de Sarkozy

Date of Birth of Man - 1741

Name of Woman - Victoria Hildegarde Pruvia-Albarosa

Date of Birth of Woman - 1767

Location of Ceremony - Laurentius Cathedral

Date of Ceremony (Year) - 1792

Name of Clergyman who performed ceremony - Cardinal Laurence August Pruvia-Albarosa

ON THE YEAR OF OUR LORD, 1792

The bells had rung in Owynsburg as the carriages lined up along Mount Catherine. A nondescript morning became enriched by a celebration of affectionate splendor. Wigged men of great stature, dames of seductive allure & various citizens seated themselves along the rows of the Laurentius Cathedral. 

Franz Nikolai de Sarkozy before the ceremony, Varoche Palace. 

Victoria Hildegarde Pruvia-Albarosa, flanked by her Cardinal uncle and the young Viscount Alexander, approached the elevated podium: looking down on the convened Kaedreni. The dapper Helvetii eyed back at her from the first row, behind them a mosaic of Rhoswenii and other lineages. 

After her came Franz Nikolai de Sarkozy, Vice-Chancellor of our beloved Empire. Flanked by his bureaucrat friends and dark elf bandana-wearing bodyguards, he too walked up the small stairs of the plateau. The two stood before His Holiness James II, their entourages standing alongside the walls opposite to each other. 

Rites would be spoken, rings would be gently shoved over each other’s fingers: a kiss would happen between the two newlyweds. What started as a joke by Adrian Othodoric Helvets, became a marriage of geopolitical relevance. 

Champagne would be chugged, cards would be played: Rochefort cigarettes tapped into various ashtrays. The atmosphere of joy reigned supreme across the room, but the couple silently sat beside each other: they understood that this was only the beginning of a story to come. 

- Steepled’s Skin Auction Pt. 2 -

Hi everyone! This is the second auction I’ll be doing, if you’d like any of the skins im selling please follow the bid format below!

Format:

Discord name and tag number:

Skin(s) and amount.

Note:

Bids are in USD, since it is the end of the map change.

All skins start at $8 USD and all bids must go up in minimum increments of $2 USD.

Rules:

- If you bid on a skin, you must be able to pay if you win.

- If someone outbids you, you must make a new comment.

- Edited comments will not be counted.

Auction ends TUESDAY NOVEMBER 3, 2020 12 PM EST.

Good luck y’all!

Skins:

Blue 1890s:

Yellow and Black Lace:

Princess Diana Wedding:

Cinderella:

Purple Regency Train:

“Thank GOD.”

Victoria Pruvia-Albarosa sat on her canopied bed. A servant would bring in a silver tray of food consisting of some lemon pastries. This servant, tall and lanky, strode to the armoire. ”Which dress shall you be wearing, Victoria?” Victoria’s eyes rolled up, setting on the open arms of the cabinet. She pointed towards a tall, unopened, cardboard box. The servant opened up the package, revealing a white and green sprig off-shoulder muslin gown. ”No miss- you can’t wear that.” A scowl formed on Victoria’s face. She snatched the hooped gown with a swing of a hand, trying it on, glancing towards a floor mirror. ”It’s perfect.”

Victoria Pruvia-Albarosa walked pigeon-toed toward the art works, her hoops swaying. She stood at each piece of work, smiling. 

Victoria Pruvia-Albarosa glances over to her cousin’s invitation, frowning upon such, grumbling some unknown words under her breath.

Victoria Pruvia-Albarosa flips the ‘Open/Closed’ sign to ‘Open’ in the storefront window, smiling as such.