amyselia

"I heard the children are at it again." Said Claude to her sister ( @Alexi_) as they spoke between puffs from their cigars, the Viscountess intoning a debilitated sigh in the accompaniment of such. "I know my daughters will never seized by these silly notions of gossip and defamation, as they know better than to act against their maman's advice." Her smoking pipe was elevated to her mouth, smoke billowing into the quiet air of the palace of Susa. One inhale was partaken of, followed by a silent release into the air.

She continues: "I've begun to burn all the previous 'Potins' that I had accumulated in my time as a young writer, for each mention reminds me of my irksome pestilence back then... How young we were, Laure."

From lands far as 3 months by sea, a young girl awaited her birth patiently, never to know the father that created her.

The Viscountess Provins' head hangs lower today, her thoughts filled with the great friendship she held with the Duke and Duchess of Furnestock, preparing to begin the etchings of a new letter to send to Anastasia in light of their childrens' arrival, and her husband's demise.

"Oh, how I miss them." She whispered in reflection, lips kindling with a somber smile.

Lady Provins wipes a bead of sweat from her forehead, having trekked the entire hillside from Dobrov to Provins with the aid of the cartographical genius of Proudfoot & Kovachev.

A letter reaches the Lady Mayor of Providence and additional aldermen, signed with the seal of Pruvia: A white dragon before a checkered pattern of purple and gold.

"Alderman Claude votes aye on the appointments of HIH Anne Caroline & TH Joseph Francis d'Arkent.

She additionally requests a background & portfolio of the nominated City Architect, his time willing.

- The Estate of Preussens, 1843."

A separate letter arrives at the door of Joseph Francis d'Arkent via courier. @Karrse

"Alderman Claude requests a background & portfolio of the nominated City Architect, his time willing.

The Alderman congratulates Lord d'Arkent on his nomination.

- The Estate of Preussens, 1843."

Claude, who had known Leopoldine as 'Poline' since her infantile innocence, refuses to accept that this 'Leopoldine' was the same which she had know since little. Who would murder Madame Poline? It was simply not sensical. She was not a woman that any man would dare strike their hand upon.

Thus, she resumed her duties in denial, her heart squeezed ever so gently with anxiety.

10 hours ago, Shmeepicus said:

Ivan sighs as he receives the invite, praying he doesn't have to hear grown people talk of their hatred of lizards for another long hour. He prepares himself to attend regardless.

Claude is thankful it isn't being hosted at Provins again. 

"Horses!? Sign me up!" Says Claude, excitedly conjuring the sounds of a bell into the air, specifically for the beckoning of her stableboy.

Lady Provins begins preparing the huntsmen to harvest the oncoming feast!

The Viscountess Provins sends a letter out to her mother-in-law after having heard of the attempt against her life, a lock of mule's hair kept within. It would read simply:

Chère maman,

Enclosed is the cumulative intelligence of this season's assassins for your highness' pleasure. I'm quite anxious for the next!

À plus!

- Claude.

@Fie

Claude hears her daughters gasp beside her as the courier reads aloud the pamphlet, her eyes immediately rolling back into her head. "You will not. You will not! This is not the sort of upbringing I dreamt of for my daughters."

She'd then hear that this was a requirement of the noblesse... 

"Then I guess we'd better win, filles de moi..."

@VeganWalmart @clonky

The Viscountess Provins murmurs down to her petite heiress, aiding her in sounding out the syllables strewn about the treaty notice; in doing this, the young mother exhibited little patience, until Deedee voiced out a ring of the word 'Azdrazi'. Claude's fingers careered towards shutting that notice posthaste, peering down to Deedee with the thought of the youth's grandfather broiling in her mind... What would she tell her? She could not tell her that her grandfather was being hunted by his own people, could she?

She opted simply to sigh, and reached for another rendition of the story of Julia and Horen.

@clonky

TO PASS A TORCH,

AND LET IT BURN

The Burning of Provins c. 1839

A storm was upon the hills, rain soon to fall upon the primed lands of the Empire, for they had been without such a storm in years. A drought plagued the northern district of Oren, the swathes of acerola cherries that once enveloped the stretch of the north pruned of their scarlet hues in turn of a grey ocean. Looming above that grey sea was its own evaporation- a smoke, a plume of smoldering black kissed by rays of the tender sun that cracked through the coming clouds like a reflection upon a broken mirror. That smoke rose to no end, reaching upwards towards the dark clouds that sat within the sky like an audience filling in to watch the theatre of an inferno. 

From where the smoke rose was easily spotted the bright red spectacle that was the viscomital seat of House Pruvia, the Estate amidst a blaze, roaring with a great fire. In the span of an instant, the windows of the left branch were blasted out by the force of the infernal destruction, the right blissfully untouched - calmness ready to be disrupted.

Entering that estate in a peace most contrary to the tempest of the moment were the Viscount and Viscountess Provins, Philip and Claude, joined in-hand via the clutch of an iron pike and flint rock, resembling death itself in the dusky trance of their married promenade. Whispers were between them, incoherent beyond air in the crackle of flame and thunder that resound at their left. Their eyes were turned upon each other barely a moment before a bone-chilling crescendo of screams echoed throughout the central complex of the estate: the infantile chorus of the daughters of Provins, with innocence to wake the saints above. The Viscount and Viscountess were spurred by stupefaction, glimpsing ere the other as if grasping for a dual answer: « Elles sont-ici? » 

« Elles sont-ici?! »

Pandemonium spread like ripples through a lake as the cries of the Provins girls reverberated over the marble walls, the family’s extensive retinue of servants being roused from their sleep even below the sever of the ground. It was a commotion to rival the thunder of mother nature’s impending encroachment, the entire manor becoming alight with activity in the span of an instant, flames rapidly spreading onto the right whilst servants scrambled up from the underground, salvaging nothing but their very lives. Their lord and lady’s shouts were drowned by the roar of the evacuation, servants fleeing like rats from a sinking ship, forging impenitence by leaving the nobles’ screams of aid suspended in the increasingly ashen air. Claude’s breaths could no longer be caught in her chest as the nightmare of their daughters raw in soot consumed her. She went like a banshee of maternity, racing towards the girls’ rooms with Philip at her trail.

« Maman Maman ! » screeched the petite heir of just 3 years old, Amadie Marléne, collapsing into her parents’ arms at the stair’s landing, having abscond in violent footfalls from the tortuous flame that writhed ever closer. The Viscountess seized Amadie in her embrace as if she could disappear at any moment, frisking her avariciously to ensure that she was, in fact, solid and real.

« Stasie, maman ! Stasie ! » Amadie unrelented.

The jejune cries of the second daughter- too innocent to tote from the cage of her bassinet -racketeered against the snap of erupting flames devouring wood and walls all around them.  Philip and Claude’s eyes met once, sharing a common understanding through the veil of hysterics over their pupils. Philip swept without a word towards the door that imprisoned those cries. Thus, Claude began to maneuver the heiress back down the stairs.

The Viscount went to grasp at the copper knob of Anastasie Thérèse’s door and was met with amaranthine burning, his tortured scream contesting the babe’s ceaseless wailing within. With a grunt his shoulder plunged at the door, the physical pain being little against the panic suffered in the mental. Thrice it did not budge, until finally he dispensed his body as a commodity for his daughter’s survival, slamming against the wood and onto the floor as they both came plummeting down. There inside the crib was the tear-streaked cherub of Pruvia, her paunch little arms outstretched towards her papa as he appeared: « Papa ! »

The young lord rose to his feet, suffering immeasurable pain throughout each joint and tendon. His tailored red coat was doused in a liquid of its own color now, yet heedless he apprehended his beautiful girl of flaxen hair into his arms, nostrils flaring with the acquisition of an aroma of charred rat in the walls. In turning to exit, he was met with the sight of the flame having grown to canvas the entrance of the room and awn the adjacent ceiling - the Pruvias barricaded in a room progressively colonised by spired red tendrils of orange.

Philip’s eyes could not travel elsewhere than towards Anastasie against his chest, those grey hues embellished with a stain of tears. Wet, lacquered like a waterfall. And suddenly, water fell the door, authoring a hiss and severance of the flame. Claude, rod and irons traded for a bucket now empty, materialized at the door. Philip’s bust rose and fell, exhaustion exhibited by a brittle sigh. Together, the viscomital pair fled from the room and ushered their precious bairn from the tragedy that was the Provins Estate. The two were echoed by the waves of fire behind that doomed the manor to infernal destruction at their very hands. 

Just as they committed to mount the beckoned carriage of their escape, the Viscountess whirled. The ethereal wail of a disembodied child had caressed her ear, juvenile and lighthearted, mocking her with a laugh in the face of torment. Her stare sought immediately to place itself on Anastasie and Amadie, and she was astonished to discover the both of them sitting tremorous inside the carriage, awaiting their mother’s embarking in utter silence.

« Claude, are you alright ?

- I thought I had heard something . » She’d answer, continuing to gawk over the blazing terracotta just a moment longer... 

« Nevermind . »

Cleanse that which has been tainted by the wicked; 

the heresy abolished in GOD’s light.

RP NAME: Claude Pruvia

MC Name: amyselia

Voted: Yes

The doors to that Pruvia's room rumbled in an echo as pearly knuckles landed against them in a rhythm of dread, Claude's head depressed to showcase the woman's frayed nervousness. "Deedee?" She purred, her voice muffled by the residual fright of the evening's events. "Your grandpère will return, Deedee. Please, let me speak to you."

She waited a moment, then two... When the first sniffle echoed back from inside the locked chamber, Claude's wrists began to ache, as if her entire body had been branded in a transgression against her most beloved kin, her perfect little daughter, weeping with meaning for the first time before her. Not risking her own tears, Claude resolved to amble away, but not before her breaths began to kiss her lips with the vibration of a coming downpour.

Lady Provins peruses the missive, a daring tear streaking her cheek, joining the only other two moments Claude had ever wept in her adult life, "Our hard work, Madame Elizabeth. It is here, before you."

Claude bears a smile in support of unity and decisiveness!

Claude donns a smile at the news of the ministry's reformation, happy to see a fresher, more concise system!

Claude Élisabeth received the invitation whilst having her servant wash her of the smut of a fire, the woman's eyes devoid of life in the present. It was only that of her sister's wedding that appeased her, even if to a miniscule degree.

Claude readies her blades for another hunting excursion, her eyes directed towards a map of a rare white-fur grizzly... White, for a wedding gift!

Claude Élisabeth lit a candle for the pair and set it to billow in the open wind of a nearest window, a symbol for the slow and whickered death of the memory of the greatest among the friends she'd known for so long. In their absence was a dream to cherish, love to foster, and hopes to carry on in the wake of a new fear.

Claude Elisabeth asks the incoming courier to pause as they enter the door, her fingers busied with a honing steel with which to perfect the curvature of her many daggers.

[reserved]

Claude is eager to see this on-stage, setting her handmaiden to prepare a visit to the theatre.

Claude Élisabeth removed her white gloves finger-by-finger in the overlook of her fur-lined brick vanity, a copy of the column accommodated afore her, readied to be scrutinized by the commandeering mademoiselle of Potins past. Coming to the cessation of the unfastening, she'd halfheartedly go to flip unto the first page, being immediately delighted in the lengthy descriptions of each lady, as was deserved of their equal radiance in this among many coming days of the season.

However, it was on that 'POTINS' page that her gaze did linger; the emboldening of her name was among many worries, and the accusation of her pre-marital infidelity with a dear friend's betrothed, no less, was an even greater one. Seeing no need to continue further, Claude slipped the column with demure into the confines of a drawer, repurposed now for mere documentation and review.

In the following days, not a word was heard from Claude regarding the children's postings except an utterance of insipid regret.

Claude Élisabeth begins a promenade about the palace gardens, black lace oscillating over the pathetic red hues of her face, which had become bleached by the stupor of a great friend and guardian's death.