Jump to content

fatchicken

Members
 View Profile  See their activity

  • Content Count

    25

  • Joined

  • Last visited

  • Days Won

    3

Posts posted by fatchicken

  3. Posted · Edited by fatchicken

     

    The Arcanist's Visage

     

    "Ah, Lady Certando!” Orico's smile spread so wide that it bunched his round cheeks into two ruddy cushions. He held out a set of stodgy fingers and invited Emilia to take a seat on the opposite side of his desk. She obliged. The scholar, still standing, shuffled papers to no end. “Um, yes, well…” He stammered with a coarse and nasal voice that denied him any real grace, lowering himself meanwhile. The chair groaned in protest. Emilia always wondered why he became so fitful in her presence – The way he shifted in his seat, one would think he had been stricken with a terrible case of piles. Was it her family legacy, a miasma upon the city, which troubled him? Or was it her demeanour? A meticulously composed conduct made only more imposing by her fetching, albeit ashen visage.

    Notwithstanding, she rather liked the stodgy badger before her. He was a good, simple man; he cared for his students, he studied with diligence and enjoyed a jug of port at the end of each evening. It didn’t take a keen mind to see that he had never aspired to be anything great. But he was okay with that, and so was the world. Emilia stifled a roll of the eyes as he again looked to his papers for courage.
    “Ahem. Yes, it’s just a routine check you see. Just have to – Ah – Ensure we run a clean house." He coughed into a fist. 

    Clean house? She turned the words over in her mind. Surely he couldn’t mean to check her documentation. Everyone in this academy knew to which notorious heritage she pertained. Am I in trouble? No, she concluded, she hadn’t done anything to sully the rules of the academy.Is it my family? Does he suspect me of... In that instant, the woman’s question was answered. The doorknob to her right began to rumble. The door swung inwards. 

    Standing in the blabbering Scholar’s private study was a towering sculpture of a man. His jaw – Wrapped in a colourless beard - was impossibly angled, as was his crooked nose. Unkempt hair of a dull and matte grey fell over his shoulders and half way down his back. His torso was broad and barrel chested, his arms so lean one could be mistaken for thinking they had been chiselled from marble. Emilia could see all this, for his upper-half was draped only in a series of intricate tattoos, the same colour as his mane, like wisps of gloomy sky that danced down his body in a cascade of filigree patterns. They flowed all the way to his navel before being suddenly cut off by the waistband of his kilt. Similarly drab in colour, the plain cloth flowed freely to his bare feet.

    The hair on Emilia’s neck stood to attention – And it was for none of these striking features that she stiffened. It was his eyes, or lack thereof, that perturbed her. Around the back of his head and beneath his brows travelled a fold of grey cloth. He fixed his sightless gaze upon Emilia and said nothing. Ah. She found her inward voice oddly calm. So that’s why Orico was so restless. The daunting man before Lady Certando was none other than one of the High-Arcanist’s visages. ‘His soldiers and his servants’ commonfolk spouted in dimly lit taverns from tongues wet with watered-down ale. They had been hand-picked by the Arcanist, trained and taught the ways of higher powers. It was said he bestowed upon them gifts of knowledge, of power. It was said that they can run for hours on end, that they could overpower a man twice their size, that they could best any knight with nothing more than their quarterstaff. Some even claimed that their magic enabled them to commune with the Six Divines, and that mortal chatter had become so dull in comparison that they ceased to speak.

    Emilia did not care for rumours, she cared for facts, and what she knew was that the Visages of the High-Arcanist had at least one definitive trait: The ability to see warlocks wherever they roamed. She swallowed the spit in her mouth only to find that she was barren. The Visage reached up, slipped a set of fingers beneath his veil, and lifted it.

    His gaping sockets, scarred and icy and deeper than night itself, bore into Emilia. The Lady of Certando - renowned for her charm, wit and steel - froze as if the heart of winter had swallowed her. One might say they traded gazes for some time then, but one would be wrong, for she gave nothing in return. She merely remained in supplication as those chasms lorded over her. She knew then the stories were false: There was nothing godly in these men.

    The visage grunted, secured his blindfold, and retreated into the other room. Emilia panted immediately, as only then did she realise she had failed to draw breath. She shot a burning glare at Orico, who had hoped to sink so far into his seat as to be invisible.
    “It’s j-just procedure, My lady. He cleared you, my dear, you should be ha—“ The scholar abruptly choked his words down upon seeing Emilia rise from her chair.
    “Good day, sir.” She declared thunderously, storming out the door.

     

  4. Posted

    I really enjoy some of the creative risks you take with WoW, like this and the Shadowlands. Small editions and twists, really, but they make the game a little more flavorful without seeming like they stand out at all. It gives essence to the more primitive side of the Kaldorei we know exists, and adds an element of intrigue to it. 

    Big thumbs up from me.  

     

  5. Posted

    Forgive me if I say something that has already been said, but personally I most definitely think that DHs can see through the guise of Nathrezim. Your average Hunter, upon doing so, should promptly shit themselves (but emotionlessly cause you're a callous-ass DH) and try and get assistance. 

    That quote that 'Even the most powerful hunter would have trouble tracking down and slaying...' (Big paraphrasing going on here) has been used a little. Personally, I don't think is reference to spectral sight or their illusions, but rather the cunning of the Nathrezim. 

    Even if the DH can see them, the Nathrezim should be smart enough and informed enough to not only be able to make a quick escape, but is likely to be one step ahead of the hunter at all times. A DH Travelling through any normal city would gather some attention, and any self-respecting Nathrezim disguised as a powerful figure should know the hunter is coming long before they arrive. Hence the 'tracking' part. Sure they can see through, but stalking and surprising a being with immense knowledge and a knack for subtlety that can practically dissapear upon a whim and without a trace is hard as fuck. 

    Disclaimer: I did very little research on this and was just bored AF at work and wanted to contribute. Feel free to rip me to shreds. 

  6. Posted

    Ahh, good to see her return! Surely, we must have a meeting between her and your favourite Viscount  - Yours truly, 

    Good work as always - Lives up to your standard of creating varied yet fleshed out characters. 

  7. Posted

    I like this a lot! Some very nice descriptions in there, good, clear use of language and a tale that was short & sweet to keep me reading. 

    If I had any comment, it's that there are a few sections which could use a single longer sentence to break up the pacing a little, as sometimes my 'mental voice' started to sound a bit robotic. 

    But don't let that take any pride away, I enjoyed it very much. 

  8. Posted · Edited by fatchicken

    Personally I'm also a supporter of the 1 Silver ~ 1 euro, pound, dollar (Yes I know they aren't the same but they're similar enough for RP purposes) as this covers a massive range of the likely playerbase's homes, given that Euro is used in so many countries, and then it's easy to convert. I.e. that 200 gold bounty would come to £20,000.

    IMO It's quick and easy enough to employ over the server with minimal effort from players and balances things out enough. 

    Naturally there will still be some flashy fellas who decide £100 is a fair price for a mug o' mead but hey. 

  9. Posted

    36 minutes ago, Romeo said:

    Why Mithaniel get shit is beyond me, I think he does what he can to provide roleplay, and if he wants to provide roleplay, he better have a character he likes. This is the character he likes, it is that simple. Anyone who goes after someone for their grammar rather than what they try to add to roleplay is just dumb to me, it's not about grammar, it's not about purple prose, it's not about how quick you can thesaurus a word, it's about the input, the feel you contribute to the roleplay, at least to me. Mithaniel is a good roleplayer, with good grammar, and a massive creative span which just doesn't stop expanding, just look at this profile. It's fucking massive. And it's great.

    I couldn't agree more! Roleplay is for enjoyment at the end of the day, and I adore anyone who tries their best to contribute and improve. And then the people who roam the forums and provide people with encouragement, or even some actual constructive advice if need be. 

    People like you and mithaniel make RP worth having. 

    Stay golden my dears.   <3

     

  11. Posted · Edited by fatchicken

    Lady Adelaide de Certando

    iris_von_everec__witcher_3__hearts_of_stone__by_sicarius8-da4o8vs.jpg

    "A great many thought the Certando household would crumble without its Lord.
    A great many were wrong."

        Name: Adelaide Mirenza De Certando
        
        Title: Countess, Lady Certando (Official), The Lady in Black, The Widow (Monikers)
        
        Age: 64
        
        Birthplace:     Tirisfal Forest
        
        Affiliations:     The Stormwind House of Nobles, Lordaeron (Formerly), House Certando
        

    Introduction


        The Certando household was one that had long since planted the roots of their influence, and then nurtured those infantile sinews by way of duplicity, gold and blood until a sprawling labyrinth had formed a base upon which they built their family tree for centuries. Lord and Lady Certando, namely Terrowin and Adelaide, were one such branch of the prestigious family. Arguably the most important, for their great oaken reach had based itself in the very capital, not just the kingdom, of Lordaeron. It was from there that they cast their looming eyes over the city, cold and calculating, and pulled the strings of paupers to best serve their self-absorbed purposes. All the while little Lady Emilia, the newest blossom upon their tree of heritage, grew up amongst wealth and luxury and magic.
        
        But, as the cold hand of fate would have it, tragedy befell the Certando family. First their daughter, barely eighteen winters old, was caught practising forbidden arts taught to her by her father. She was drawn and quartered the following day. Then the Lord, all caution shattered by his loss, sought justice for his child through ploys that grew continually more audacious. Erelong, Lord Terrowin de Certando and little Lady Emilia de Certando were reunited in the silence of the noose: an omen to all would-be-warlocks. 
        
        Which left Lady Certando, with no magic of her own, in a house that lay in ruin and at the head of a family whose heart had been torn from its chest. Her soul bled ever since, until it could bleed no more, and all that was remained was an ice-bound imitation of a person. It was as if someone had carved and animated from a glacier her solemn mockery:  Languid, cold, yet never ceasing.

     

    Personality

     

    Before the fall of their empyrean house, the Certandos commanded no small amounts of respect from their peers. Lord Terrowin was known to be a ruthless and avaricious businessman, but also opportunistic. He was precise and never clumsy, striking only when the iron was hot. What the masses didn't always know, was that Adelaide served as the wily temper to his fury, between which the two made a terrifying yet harmonious coupling. 
        
        It would make sense then to expect that with the absence of their family's fist, the Certando dynasty would grow reserved and pussyfooted in their manoeuvres. But as time passed grief turned to rage, then rage to heartlessness until finally the terrible embers of fury had but crumbled into ashes, from which was born the hardened Lady of today. In this way she has become the perfect medium between her and her late-lover. Just as careful as she once was, but now with a bitterness that makes her merciless, she took the family treasure and influence and built upon it still. 
        
        It is endlessly fitting, however cliché, to liken her demeanour to the first frigid touches of winter. Wheresoever Adelaide de Certando walks, nobility and townsfolk drop their gaze and descend to whispers, as if a blanket of snow had absorbed their tumult. There is no comely sway to her hips, instead her legs make only the necessary movements, instilling her upper body with a wintry lifelessness. So too are her features and expressions deathly stagnant, smiling in only the most blue-mooned moments. Her voice, flat as frozen water and crisp like frostbite, offers no cheer. But then there are her eyes, deep and green, they once spoke of a mother's love. Now, in a clash of ice and fire, one can still see the smouldering ghosts from the wrongs done unto her. 

    All this said, the Lady is not immune to any and all enjoyment, and nor will she lash out if approached. It would be more accurate to say that, until prompted, she will remain in her state of quiet woe.

     

    Appearance

     

    Lady Adelaide de Certando was once a porcelain doll of the ballroom. Many a man envied the Lord Terrowin his mate, and some even sought to cajole her from him. Not because she gleamed like some gaudy stone, but because she exuded a subdued eloquence that no other could seek to match. 
        
        To look upon Adelaide was to look upon the matrimony of poise and beauty. She was almost entirely devoid of roundness, boasting a sharp visage and angled maw that tapered into a narrow chin. But then, in the softness to her porcelain cheeks and the button of her nose she had just a dash of motherly allure. Her nails, painted black, matched the shade of  her own silken locks, which arched like lunar crescents from either side of her head, curling back to level with the marble-like skin of her collar and shoulders. Her eyes were a splendid blue-green, emphasized by rings of modestly applied eye-shadow. All the sombre tones of her hair, eyes and sanguine lip gloss stood out sharply against her perfect ashen complexion. 


        Alas, as often happens with a soul perturbed, eventually her inward torment began to express itself through her countenance. Her glossy black hair, now tied back, has begun to see its first lunar streaks. The sea-green of her eyes has grown a shade darker, like looking into the bottom of two glass bottles, twisted by the rage so long kindled within her. Her skin has become thin and tight, having lost the plushness of youth and rendering the Lady somewhat cadaverous. Just like her nails, lips and hair, all onyx, so too does Adelaide prefer to dress herself in a simple midnight robe. Which, although plain, was quite clearly woven by a most artful set of hands. In the end, a stifling combination of her pallid skin, black decoration and motionless countenance has left Adelaide looking more wraith than woman. Which perhaps, given her eternal mourning, is but a manifestation of her sundered soul. 



    Traits

     

    Shrewd: All her years spent as a puppetmaster over the people of Lordaeron alongside her husband has taught Adelaide an astuteness when it comes to both managing money and judging character - Never is she impulsive.

    Callous: All the wonderful passions of life, with nothing left to feed on, have long since fled Adelaide. So little manages to evoke emotion in the woman now, save for the courtly mannerisms she forces herself to assume.

    Scheming: Unlike the other two members of her family, the Lady of house Certando has no magic nor prowess with a blade to protect her. She relies only on her intellect and resources to persist, almost always resorting to devilish deeds should the need arise.

    Wanderer: The only thing that has allowed Adelaide to cling to her last vestiges of sanity are the brief and long-awaited excursions she takes into the public world. She may not frolic, drink to get merry, or scarcely even talk to people  - But it is one of the last pleasures she holds.

    Survivor: Lady Certando has endured a great many hardships and trials throughout her life. She persists out of pure stubbornness, if nothing else, and will do so to her grave.

    Wealth: Having lost not only her own branch of the family tree, but several more to the wars, Adelaide is now the sole director of the once-great family's fortune. With no claimants to the throne, many have tried to claim a stake for their own: Be it through business plotting, assassination, or supposed affections. 

  12. Posted · Edited by fatchicken

     

    Joseph Cole Brennon

     

    Banner.png

     

    "Appearances, my dear friend, are everything"

    Name: Joseph Cole Brennon 


    Titles: The Machiavellian (Moniker), Viscount of Stormwind 


    Age: 47 (May need revision)


    Gender: Male


    Race: Human

     

    Class: Warlock


    Birthplace: A Hillsbrad farmstead


    Alignment: Stormwind, The Alliance, otherwise flexible


    Status: Alive and well


    Home: Stormwind

     

    Banner.png    Introduction Banner.png

     

     

    "Aren't they enthralling?" Joseph inquired, gesturing to the ballroom floor below with a sweeping arc from his glass of red wine, tilting it so excitedly that he threatened to pour it upon the dancers and diplomats beneath his booth. Beside him sat a man of no import to our character, and so he shall remain nameless. "These… Nobles: Present company included. Look! Look how they summon smiles so well-trained as to fake even the glisten in their eyes." Demonstrating his point, Joseph then wrapped his lips in a simper so inviting that the sun would turn green with envy. Right on cue, so too did his eyes flash with a most magnificent emerald radiance that drew the attention of his companion. "Look how meticulous they are with their greetings. Each fine detail; from the bow to the curtsies, the handshakes to the words so carefully plucked like sweet and potentially poisonous fruit, even the voices in which they speak!" Again Joseph presented his body and soul to the world as the very epitome of the theatrics about which he revelled, lacing each excited word with a fluting melody that rivalled the most elegant songbirds. "See how they wrap themselves in a veil of affability and courtesy. Almost as if they didn't despise one another…" The gentleman's voice took on a most curious, quiet sound with that last sentence. He swirled the sanguine liquid and brought it to a set of ruby lips, then sighed contently.

     

    "Oh! The things I could tell you about these people." He went on, his manner a wistful yet endearing liveliness that infected all those nearby. "I could tell you how a man, who has just proffered to his so-called-friend a wonderful gift, is now plotting to undermine his business for purely a purpose of pride, not even greed!" He drank again. "I could tell you how two newly-weds, so perfect and exemplary in their blossoming love, are together for reasons strictly financial. Or…" He paused, leaning forwards and sweeping a set of quick and intelligent eyes over the crowd, making sure they never stopped on one character for too long. "I could tell you who's sleeping with whose wife…" He turned to the other man then, and allowed his demeanour to be engulfed by a grin most devilish. "But enough of that!" Ergo, just like the pendulum's persistent swing, Joseph's expression leapt from one extreme to the next, swinging now to a burst of boundless mirth. He placed his wine down and sung out "Here, finish my drink. I have a sudden urge to dance…" 

     

    Banner.png   Personality Banner.png

     

    Perhaps you are wondering then why we have just relived a seemingly nondescript page from the shadow-bound grimoire of Joseph's life. I could have told you instead about the reason he moved from home to study magic, or how the needy fledgling mage found his way into the academy of Lordaeron. Maybe I should have bewitched you with the tale of his first love, Lady Emilia de Certando, and how she shaped so much of the man Joseph would become. I might have regaled you, in great detail, the scheme with which Joseph claimed his first human soul, thus marking the beginning of his morally grey descent into deceit and warlockery. Or I could have recited to you the happenings of the following year, which he spent travelling with a group of troubadours, performers and aspiring actors. But to do so would take time: too much time. 
     
    The truth in the matter is that so much of what Joseph lives and breathes is contained in that brief, one-sided exchange. It was Emilia that bestowed upon him a love of theatre and all things lavishly excessive. From such a seed Joseph branched into a man enshrouded by jovial mystery. Every expression that comes to surface on his animated visage, every smile ventured and every word ushered is one of purpose; a tool with which he might garner favour for his own gain.
     
    Before long the warlock had flourished into a self-proclaimed virtuoso in all things Machiavellian. Joseph used his adoration of theatre to feign nobility and from it bloomed, like the first buds of spring, one of his many profits to come. Thereon, with the time and the wherewithal to do so, Joseph spent many an evening attending marvellous masquerades and many more days pouring over tomes of eschewed knowledge. Day after day he watered the roots of his soul with a concoction of wine, gold and fel. Through years of these social performances Joseph weaved a web of lies that would fracture his soul into the likes of a thousand schizophrenic sprites, each one tailored to a specific mood or emotion; sprites that he could summon at will should the need arise. Alas, as often happens when a man wears a mask - or in this case masks - for too long, the character he'd created for himself began to take hold, devouring the once innocent youth and perverting him into an amalgamation of his own trickery. 

     

    Which, after so long, begs the question: where does the lie end and the man begin? 

     

    In spite of his ghoulish studies, Joseph is an unlikely lover of life. He delights in mortal pleasures, from fine wine to finer company. He pities those of his ilk who have fallen prey to the sullen, brooding archetype that in his mind plagues warlock kind everywhere. For, in his vehement opinion, one must appreciate all the fleeting wonders of mortal living in order to best practice his foul craft. After all, how can someone long since dead to the world see the true magnitude of a deed such as stealing a person's soul, or draining vitality from prey to predator? They cannot, he concludes, and so it is with great captivation that Joseph often finds himself gazing into the endless kaleidoscope of his gems, listening to the near silent wailing of the essence within. 

     

    The end result is a warlock just as potent with his vile arcane as he is with his silvered tongue. Should you spy Joseph out and about, you would see only a well-to-do magus who takes no small pride in his professionalism and warm courtesy. Ever loquacious and always eager to form alliances, Joseph much prefers any subtle solution, be it diplomatic or transactional, over violence and force - But to think this implies meekness would be a mortal error.  
     

    Banner.png    Appearance Banner.png

     

     

    In his maturity the warlock has been gifted with a vulpine grace afforded to him by a set of harsh, elegant lines. His bearded maw became slim and sharp with cheekbones that rose definitively before giving way to his deep set sockets. It is as if every contour of the man's countenance sought to direct you towards his eyes: Two shining emeralds, whose splendour served only to distract any onlookers from the true thoughts lurking behind them. All of this is draped in a rich brown mane of shoulder-length hair. It hung wild and loose, but not unsightly so. His physique is best described as wiry and his skin olive, acting as a relic of his humble beginnings. All in all he is handsome, in a way more cunning than the anvil-jawed, warrior-born masculinity some might prefer. 

     

    Aside from physical features, there are certain quirks of character that help define Joseph as a man after his own. Let us begin with his gait: Tall, proud and disciplined, Joseph is always sure to move with the sublimity one would expect from his rank. Each of his heels strikes the floor first, before the rest of his foot rolls neatly into place, and so the motion repeats with a flawlessness as to bestow him with the illusion of gliding. Then there is his gaze, those two dancing fireflies that are not only illustrious, but obscured by a hazing gloss that makes it near impossible to see through the windows of his soul proper. Instead, one is faced with the undeniable impression of depth: the telltale sign of a mind running a thousand labyrinthine channels at once. Finally there is his voice, that rolls forth from the tongue in swells of honey-lacquered elegance. He so rarely speaks flatly, choosing to thread every word with delicious inflections that help him hold the attention of privy ears.  
     
    As you might have guessed from his deep passions and pockets, Joseph dresses with display taking precedence over function. He adorns himself in fine cloth and embroidery of regal colours: Blacks, blues, reds, purples and the likes. Each time he expands his wardrobe, which is fairly often, he is sure to buy matching tomes, jewellery and trinkets to boot. As a demonstration of his dedication to presentation, you might even catch him, from time to time, wielding a sword! Mayhap not so unusual in itself, but you should know Joseph's skills with a blade can be likened to a kobold swinging a stalk of wheat. What's more, never would one catch the warlock wearing the same outfit one day after the other, as was his wont. All this said, Joseph is sure to dance a narrow line, looking ever opulent but never garish. 
     
    But the item that best discerns Joseph is his hat - an heirloom of his past and a constant in all his appearances. An unlikely tifter for a viscount indeed, it allows him to be easily spotted, and casts a shadow over his smaragdine gaze, which only makes it all the more resplendent in contrast. 

     

    Shitty picture cos no artwork looks like Joseph (Comissioners PM me baby)

    WoWScrnShot_082117_185951.jpg

  22. Posted

    If this is the same Finny I think it is, which I know after reading the character list - Then it's a pleasure to see you again on another server. 

    As for the writing, I really enjoyed it. You really managed to summarise a good story whilst keeping a good quality of writing. Easy to read, and enjoyable all the way. 

  23. Posted · Edited by fatchicken

    Hey guys, like so many of us I enjoy writing from time to time and wanted to get some opinions! I'll start off with a short 'prologue' so to speak. Criticism welcome :)

    Tirisfal.jpg

    Prologue: An Evening in the Glades

    If anyone could see the self-proclaimed Machiavellian now they could be forgiven for thinking he was a different man entirely. It was not that his clothes, his voice or even his visage had changed. Rather, it was the miasmic  silence that hung around him. No smile decorated those weathered ruby lips. No embers burned in those eyes. No flattery rolled off that silvered tongue. Instead he sat, legs crossed, at the crest of the grass mound he had claimed, with both hands holding a large green bottle. He turned the vintage red as he mused.

    Phantoms of a time long passed crept through the perpetual din of the warlock’s mind whilst he meditated. Memories and scenes, none of them all too extraordinary, of a girl with deep red hair and eyes like bottomless ice. Her skin was pale and porcelain, as if someone had shaped her portrait from marble. Like an untamed ocean those moments churned; some rising to the front of his mind like great waves, only to later crash down and be overtaken by another. Some, like the tide, creeping in and fading out just as slowly as they had come.

    Joseph, plagued by recollections that failed to heed continuity and instead fought to claim a pedestal over his thousand other thoughts, remained expressionless. It was a stern truth that over his many years the warlock’s heart, though not stone, had lost its stature amongst the other parts of Joseph’s being. Fondness, laughter, longing and loss all stirred within the man: But not a single emotion surged high enough to reach his eyes or mouth. Indeed, years of foul magic and deceit had caused the warlock to become something more of a puppet than a soul. Though no master pulled his strings, Joseph had trained his character to become an extension of his will – A tool for very specific purposes.

    But that still did not completely shield him from the pang of tragedy. Thirty years had passed since he first met that fateful woman – And though they had known each other only for five – Each year he found himself drawn to this spot, pulled along by the rising echoes of a time when he was a different man entirely.  A pop filled the empty - but far from lifeless - forest as Joseph uncorked the wine and poured two glasses. He set down the first one in front of his legs, and cradled the other in a coil of artful fingers. He did not drink yet, closing his eyes from the world instead. Bats screeched, Plaguehounds snarled and the dead shambled restlessly all about him: The twisted, ethereal ricochets of a once proud kingdom that had eons ago been claimed by the unholy. Though he heard them all, not a single noise disturbed the warlock’s mournful meditation. He called a memory to the front of his mind then: The evening he had chosen to remember above any other, year after year…

     

    Opera_real.jpg

    Chapter 1: A Sight for Sore Eyes

    "Joseph in a tuxedo… My, I thought I’d never live to see the day.” A woman’s words reached up and above the busy din of the theatre, until the silken tones of that pleasing drawl nestled in the young man’s ears. He whirled then, driven towards her general direction. Two black coattails caught the wind, affording Joseph a more graceful appearance than his character could ever hope to summon. His chestnut hair had been slicked back behind his hears, becoming looser at the neck. Meanwhile he was dressed - as his partner had pointed out - in a pitch-black tuxedo embellished with a set of exaggerated cuffs, lapels and coattails wrapped around a frilled white shirt that opened just below the neck to expose a portion of his olive-brushed collarbones. It was, as Emilia had insisted, up-to scratch with all the nobility of Lordaeron that Joseph was trying so hard to imitate. He certainly looked the part, sweeping a set of smaragdine eyes over the crowd of well-to-dos in search of his partner.

    Which was not hard at all. For in a sea of black, brown and blonde Emilia boasted a scarlet-tinted mane and cool blue eyes that flashed whenever they caught the light. Joseph became suddenly aware then how even a tropical sunset could not hold a candle to her splendour. Her well-curled tresses spoke of a warmth more inviting than the glow of the evening sun. Her dress and elbow-length gloves, silken and cobalt, framed a young and slender form in graceful waves that would make the ocean green with envy. At last, beneath it all, her unblemished skin contrasted all the vibrant colours with a milky softness: finer than any exotic sands. Joseph felt his blood turn warm and his throat dry up. He must have been gawking too.

    “Were all those lessons for naught?” She teased, taking a set of slender fingers and gently tilting his chin up. “All it takes is a pretty woman and you’re standing in a stupor.” Joseph regretfully noted the sudden heat in his cheeks, which had turned crimson in their best imitation of her painted nails. He mustered what composure he could.
    “Pretty would be an understatement.” He smiled then, taking one hand across his chest whilst he bowed low and with convincing fluidity. Emilia always kept him on his toes: He loved that about her.
    “Prit-tee.” She scolded, pointing out the softness to his t’s. She even added a roll of the eyes for good measure. One might have taken offense, were it not for the gentle smile she wore. “Your bow has come along nicely though.” Joseph fought to suppress a grin. Small as it might have been, he always cherished any praise.
    “Pri-tee.” He repeated.
    “Good.” Emilia’s lips opened for a moment, though she bit her tongue as she saw the tanned boy offer a bent arm for her to take.
    “Lady Fairwell.” He announced expectantly, suddenly aware of the lump still in his throat.
    “So you aren’t a complete boor…” More playful jabs from his partner– Not that he minded – For the sweet cadence of her voice removed any and all sting from her words. Where Joseph was a man of simple beginnings, Emilia had been born with several silver spoons in her mouth. As a result, each word crept from her tongue with a learned eloquence that could make even the purest of words drip with lascivious undertones. It was this difference in their worlds that made the two compliment one another perfectly. Her pale skin gleamed alongside his, and the sharp knowing in her eyes clashed with Joseph’s own innocence-softened orbs. They moved then up a set of grand stairs made of dark, varnished wood and crowned with sanguine carpet.


    “What did your parents think about me?” He inquired a little too quickly, evidently invested in the answer.
    “Clearly…” She began, keeping her eyes forwards and head lifted as any elegant woman should. “They fell for it. My dad wouldn’t have spent all his coin on these tickets if I’d told him I was bringing a Hillsbrad farmer.” Emilia must have noticed the lack of tact in her words for she added a quiet apology, finally looking his way. But Joseph only smiled, as he so often did.
    “No need. I’m not exactly top-shelf material.” This time he was the one gazing ahead, watching their step.
    “Don’t say that!” She batted at his arm playfully. “You have the makings of a great gentleman – If you do as I say. Which reminds me, you’d do well not to drown yourself in cologne. It is something that should be discovered not necessarily noticed.”
    “I—“ Joseph found himself awash with embarrassment for the second time this evening. Emilia always could disarm him, he simply hadn’t her wealth of experience in the art of all things fine. “Will do.” Was all he could muster,  for the cotton in his throat had returned without warning. Though certainly her words had humbled him, in truth his hesitation was born from the sudden realisation that he could     feel Emilia’s form wonderfully close to his own. The soft, warm touch of her fingers and the gentle sensation of her weight slightly placed against him consumed the better part of his attention.
    “Left.” She commanded, tugging him once they’d reached the top of the stairs.
    “Yes mistress.” Joseph jested, flashing two rows of pearlescent teeth. Had you caught the man but a month ago, his smile wouldn’t have been quite so magnificently white. Alas, it was all part of Emilia’s intricate transformation.
    “Quite right.” The noblewoman lofted her head, proud as a peacock, indulging Joseph and joining the once-farmhand in his mischievous glee. Arm in arm she lead the boy through the maze of finery and to an opening in the wall. The entrance was barred by two heavy, blood-red curtains made from the likeness of velvet. Joseph pulled apart the drapery and allowed his partner to walk through first.

    Due to this act of chivalry, it wasn’t until he followed Emilia that the room unfurled before him. The two stood on a wide, arching balcony three stories up. The terrace itself had three levels, each one with a quadruplet of seats. Not only that, but their particular booth happened to be positioned just near enough to the stage to see clearly, without being at too much of an angle. Joseph’s eyes moved quickly from the grand stage and around the room. Red and gold covered the theatre in an empyrean display of shameless wealth. All along the walls and balconies were carved gold embellishments that depicted various godly scenes. Chandeliers of the same golden cast lorded over those below, decorated with just enough rhinestone to gleam like stars. Behind them the ceiling itself had been masterfully painted to depict a clouded night sky, from which the astral lights shone. For the second time tonight, Joseph found his attention stolen not by the opulence of the evening, but rather the appealing sight of his company. She stood now at the end of the balcony, just ahead of the outermost seats, with both hands upon the barrier. As a result her spine was arched and waist pushed backwards with a pair of slender hips outlined beautifully by the deep blue waves of her dress. He swallowed the knot in his throat. 

    “Oh gods, don’t start gawking again.” She called out, still gazing down over the floor below. Joseph smiled sheepishly and made his way over to the ledge.
    “I don’t think that’s possible.” He replied, eyes wandering with hers.
    “You’re supposed to be nobility. You should be used to rooms like this.” She turned towards him then, offering a sweet ruby smile to dull the edge of her chiding. Joseph was silently glad she hadn’t deciphered the true subject of his awe.
    “I should, aye –.” He began
    “I should, yes. Or indeed if you’re feeling adventurous.” She interjected. Joseph coughed into a balled fist and continued.
    “I should, yes. But whilst there’s no one else on this terrace… I thought I could let it slip for a moment. I’ve never seen anything like this, it’s…” His voice trailed off then, unable to put to words the grandeur that seeped from every corner of the room. “Thank you.” He settled on instead. Until now, Joseph hadn’t leant much thought to just how well-off Emilia might be. Certainly, he knew she was nobility, but to have the front row of a booth reserved for just the two of them must have cost an arm and a leg – Even amongst the well-off. As he contemplated, it took him a moment to notice the smile radiating at his side.  He turned to face Emilia then, who blessed the young gentleman with a genuine expression that was seldom seen by her disciplined demeanour. He made sure to cherish it.
    “You’re welcome.” She finally responded, turning back to the chairs and claiming her seat. Joseph followed.
    “What’s this about, then?” He asked, sweeping his coattails beneath him as he joined Emilia.
    “Romulo and Juilianne.” The red-haired woman announced, looking down at the crowds below.
    “Which is…?” Joseph continued. Emilia turned to him then, her visage a mixture of stupefaction and disdain. One curled brow bored into Joseph – He flinched.

    “A classic known in near every corner of the Human Kingdoms.” Her eyes ran up and down the boy then, as if reconsidering her opinion of him entirely. Eventually her stern scowl cracked, giving way to a delightfully sweet yet short laugh. Joseph found himself wishing it had lasted a little longer; Emilia shook her head and looked away. “We have a lot to teach you yet. Some literature would help your speech too – Iron out those last few Hillsbrad quirks.” A dimming of the lights, no doubt through some magic influence, beckoned the two into silence. Joseph’s attention lingered on Emilia for a moment, before turning to the highlighted stage. A figure stepped into the limelight, draped in black.
    “Ladies and gentleman!” His voice projected over the hushed crowds, reaching even the furthest of corners. “Allow me to introduce you to this evening’s presentation…”

     

×