(((OOC: I did the same toddler/child thing when I made my own version of the family earlier this week Too bad I didn't know you were planning on making a Josephine or I would have waited GhanimaAnd the family portrait is SO cute!! Was it an Easel painting or a custom object?

And PLEASE tell me I'm not alone in having a B*tch of a time finding houses that work for this era. It took me ages just to find them for the 2 families i have

Also *snicker* This should be fun knowing how......fond Marie-Elisabeth is of the English LOL)))

((ooc: Aww that pic's darn cute, and your Jo looks quite close to the look I gave her too. Cue proud dad/hubby César lol! The portrait is an easel painting, though I might turn it into a buyable one. As for houses, well, I built mine. Not only they're hard to find, but they're usually too big for me.))

Name: Isabella Devine
Title: Baroness
Age: 19
Bio: Her father's masterpiece, Isabella is the only legitimate daughter of the formidable Baron Ashton Devine. While the Devine bloodline is among the most powerful and 'pure' in all of Europe, Ashton cares little for social divides and consequently, Isabella cares little for anything but her own advancement in society.
Once minor royalty in Europe, Ashton's recent ancestors saw their titles stripped down due to extensive scandals. However, the family has recovered remarkably since, drawing upon the strengths of age old bloodties, the strongest of these being to the Italian House of Savoy. While Ashton has his minor indiscretions, he is armed which frightening business acumen, which his daughter uses for purposes extending beyond business. Beautiful and charming, she is chameleon like at times, but smooth enough not to get caught.
Her father's long business trips saw the young Isabella sent to the acclaimed Abbey Huntingdon to be educated before her entrance into society. However, Isabella took this opportunity to extend her education beyond simple poetry and novels and was soon packaged off as one of Queen Catherine's many ladies in waiting due to her rebellion and anarchy at the abbey. Returning to her native homeland after her absence, she is determined to make her place in the court.
Picture:

(((OOC: One tiny thing Alissa, the year is 1677, and Elizabeth I died in 1603. At the time, the King of England would have been Charles II )))

((OOC: Gah, my knowledge of history sucks beyond belief. Really. Okey-dokey, I'll change it to her being a lady in waiting to Catherine. Thanks for letting me know!)

Larkin's gloriously sumptuous carraige had finally borne him to the palace. Disinclined to get up from the extremely comfortable cushions he lazed for the extra moment until the drivver respectfully poked his head in to say they had arrived. Lazily Larkin got to his feet and stepped out. He directed the driver to find someone to take care of his luggage and then walked up the lawn to the palace. It seemed smaller than the last time he'd been there, but he did not mind terribly, the palace was plenty huge, and very, very opulent.

Another carraigie was sitting right on the central path by the door, and Larkin was somewhat amused. Provincial bumpkin he, it had never occured to him to drive all the way up. The door was opened by a somewhat flustered looking footman and Larkin entered into the most opulent room he'd seen in ages.

The country he had traveled to had been beautiful in its way, but not rich. Far from rich. Here... painted walls and ceiling, marble everywhere, carvings thereon. He gave an admiring swear under his breath, it was glorious.

The next thing he noticed was there were lots of people in the room, all looking a bit panicked. One of them was a tall woman with regal bearing that looked vaguely like Larkin's older brother, that would be Isabella then,and the woman next to ehr, also with noble bearing, was probably Juliet, said brother's wife. Not being completely sure, and not having all that much interest in his sister in law or neice, especially since they both looked in a state of startlement, Larkin kept looking around.

He quickly saw the source of the unrest in the room, the only other person who looked a bit unperturbed, the woman who appeared to have just gotten out of the other carraige, if her ever-so slightly rumpled outfit was anything to go by. He walked over and asked, "Whole place seems a bit perturbed, any idea why, madamesoille?"

He waited for her to answer and thought vaguely to himself, "So much for subtle."

((OOC: Hope thats aright, and he's talking to charmaine))

((So no morning announcements for this RP day? Okay, I'll probably be able to drop a post in by tonight. Sigh, start of exam week. >_<

FP! Larkin sounds fantastic, loved his bio too. Zimbabwe, my god. I didn't even know France knew of Zimbabwe back then!

Alissa, Isabella looks great. One Isabella leaves and another comes~

slytherin, same here-- I just made my own house using whatever "baroque"-ish furniture I could find, since most of the mansions were way too big for my laptop to handle. Your version of Cesar and his family is cute! That smile (and Jo's lack of it) makes me think "oblivious when it comes to the wife" ))

((OOC: Thanks Seiza! I had to do a project in world history on Africa's interaction with Europe. By that time the spice trade had been very profitable and whats-his-name (Diaz?) had rounded Africa. So Portugese colonization efforts led France, Spain and England, among others to make huge inroads on both sides of the continent. Where Zimbabwe (that being where the tribe called the Zimbabwens (sp?) lived) was then is where present day Angola and Nambia are. So decent gold resources, excellent crops, and some spices, as well as easy access. Nice place to be ambassador.

And I'm rather partial to Larkin myself
EDIT: And wow do i sound like a dull textbook))

"By the looks of it I would say it is my fault sir." Charmaine gave a small smile to the man who had just descended from his own carriage. she stop and then repeated herself, this time in French with an English accent. "By the appearance of it I would admit, it is my fault dear gentleman." Charmaine finished that sentence and shook her head, she really either needed French lessons or an interpreter.

She held her hand out to the man "Charmaine de Mollier, Lady Charmaine de Mollier." Whether he spoke English or not he, would obviously recognise a name and and title. After all France was not THAT far from civilisation. She was unsure as to where to go from here, but she did not have to wonder any longer as a Pair of women descended down the stairs, followed at a slowetr pace by a man. From the way they carried themselves, these were the Royal's. Charmaine gave a gentle bow of her head, but, they aknowledged her for the briefest of moments before surrounding the new gentleman.



"Larkin my dear, you are looking well." Juliet gave a bright smile, as long as he did not let slip that they were not as close as she intended to imply everything would be fine. He recieved a kiss on the cheek from his siter-in-law and niece and a rather distant handshake from the King before they began to move him up the steps, with Juliet talking at great length, as they moved Chamine remained stood outside the carriage looking rather lost.

One of the door men had made a quick mental note of these details, and had found it higly amusing, good luck my friend he thought as he disappeared into the castle in search of a certain Baroness who would desire this news...

((Hope that welcome is ok FurryPanda, Charmaine clearly expects you to treat her like Royalty and kiss her hand... silly woman... Oh and sorry for the Royal mobbing but Juliet is trying to take control. I say trying, yopu don't have to let her, I mean aftr today she will be disappaearing fopr a while back home.

Oh and a quick note, I am writing Charmaine to sound like a character from "'Allo 'Allo" If any character has the strength to act as a translator or tutor feel free to offer.))

Disgruntled at having been forced out of blissful sleep, and trying his darndest to undo the damage done by the blasted sun, there were few things César could think of, that he hated more than mornings. Or at the very least the things that went hand in hand with them, such as waking up from peaceful slumber, and be expected to leave the warm and soothing comfort of a place where he was perfectly happy, and would have remained perfectly happy for a few hours yet, if only given the chance. Having spent hours of the night pondering and analyzing one simple sentence that had come out of his wife's mouth, in a way rather similar to how she herself used to contemplate most anything, he still did not feel fully rested, and thus was simply not in the mood for mornings. Not that the chances were very big that he would have been even if he had gotten all the hours of sleep he desired. It was plain and simple fact that no matter how one saw it, César de la Valliére just was not a morning person. Not even the fact that the spot next to him in bed was cold and empty, the absence of Joséphine's slender form signalling to him that it was late indeed, made him admit that it might really be time to climb out of bed and get ready for a new day, before the majority of it was over. Instead, he hugged the pillow even more tightly in his arms, and once again surrendered to the loving embrace of the bed.

Just as he was about to cross that delicate border seperating reality from dream, a slight movement of the mattress intruded on his senses, and was soon follwed by a somewhat chilled but undoubtedly female and thus most welcome body pressing against him from behind.
Joséphine.
Even with his eyes closed, and his mind foggy with misty whisps of sleep, he could still tell it was her. And not just because she was the only one he could've really expected, considering this bedroom was her domain. He knew her touch, the gentle brush of her fingertips against his skin, and he knew the sweetness of her scent. He even recognized her presence, as though it itself communicated with his very senses. Among a thousand women, he would still have known her from the rest.

Still, her touch as her finger traced his jawline came as a bit of a surprise to him. He had been somewhere far off in the twilight zone between sleep and wakeful awareness, and the realness of her caress pried away the loving, beckoning arms of slumber from his mind, and began pulling him away from them. Far more gentle than that obnoxious ray of sunlight a moment ago, but also far more difficult to fight, simply because Joséphine would not be as easily ignored.
Not that it made César any more willing to comply. A stubborn man he was, and thus determined to try. Destined to fail or not.

"Good morning, mon cher".

The warmth of Joséphine's breath brushed against his ear, causing his shoulder to rise slightly as a reflex of trying to escape the tickling sensation.

"Mind you", she added, "good afternoon will seem more appropriate soon."

Those words had as much effect on César as they would have on a brick wall. He didn't budge, and he absolutely refused to acknowledge his reluctantly wakeful state. However, one of the reasons why he had become infatuated with Joséphine in the first place, was because she too could have an iron will, and at the same time, wield it with kid gloves. Her sharpest weapon in the battle of the wills was her masterful ability to appeal to his senses and have him surrender to her, rather than defeat him with sheer force. And when it came to her female charms, more often than not, César was a willing pushover.
This time was no exception, and so when she nuzzled into his hair and pressed her soft lips against his ear lobe, his eyes slowly opened, finally, and the look in them was that of a semi-amused glare.

"César, last night... what was it that you wished to know?”

That, in turn, was a question that made his expression change into slight confusion, as it forced his not yet ready mind to try and recall what she was referring to. Though only for a moment, and soon the glare returned to his eyes, only this time not quite as amused.
So, now she wanted to talk, did she? When she was bright and perky, and he wanted nothing more than to pull the covers over his head and go back to sleep?
Or was that her point? To get back at him for waking her up in the middle of the night, by doing the same to him. It would be just like a woman to do something like that.
Well, alright then, fine. Two could play that game.

"Ah", he said dismissively. "It was nothing. Like you said, it wasn't important."

With that, he took her hand and brought it to his lips for a swift kiss, before he gently pushed her back a little bit, just enough to allow him the room needed to sit up, and begin scooting over to the edge of the bed in order to stand.


(((ooc: 'Petulant as a child' indeed. *lol* Oh, and another Isabella. *s* Now, that's bound to cause some confusion. )))

((Got some extra time, so here be a post!

@FP: Bartholomew Diaz (Gah, why do I know that?! D8) lol, at least your project came in handy for this RP! Zimbabwe! Dimitri would be seething with jealousy if he ever talked to Larkin.

ajfl;dfla; I just realised-- omg, if Shenan was here, this would've been a PERFECT chance to catch Octavien and Isabella together. Unsuccessfully, I figure. But, oh! The frantic scrambling and hiding in closets that could ensue! (Yeah yeah, I figure Isabella would've had some qualms and stayed with Edouard on the night of his daughter's funeral... but I can dream!)))
______


When Dimitri exited the King’s Salon, he realised their talk this time had only taken a few urgent minutes. There had been much shuffling on the King’s part, and much staring on Dimitri’s; who knew all that could go by so quickly? Edouard had, by virtue of having an important guest and family member to greet at the most opportune time, unceremoniously left the Duc with the task of delivering the result of this morning’s talk to its intended recipient. Just before the steward opened the doors, the King gave his old friend something between a sheepish and grateful glance.

This would certainly be… awkward.

He hadn’t made any appointments with the Prince, but surely the King was expecting him to speak to Octavien as soon as possible. Who knew when their next guest would arrive, and how long the widower had to prepare himself?

Although, Dimitri noted dryly, he won’t be widower for much longer.

Approaching the Prince’s suite, he requested an immediate audience with His Royal Highness if he was not otherwise occupied. The guard, visibly surprised, looked uncertainly at the Duc just standing before him. “R… Right now, Duc?”

“If possible, yes,” Dimitri confirmed, finding no problem with standing in the empty royal hallway as long as he needed to so very early in the morning. He added, pleasantly, “I will wait as long as necessary.”

“Wait here…?”

“Yes.”

The guard knocked on the gleaming doors, and an old grey head appeared. Dimitri thought he recognised it as the Prince’s loyal manservant. There was some frantic whispering, and the head ducked back into the royal suite. Dimitri adjusted his cravat, the very picture of patience, while his mind frantically put together some coherently comforting speech for the young Prince.

Unbeknownst to the both of them, Octavien had started his day in a manner very similar to Joséphine's. Though perhaps it would the other way around, since Octavien had risen with the sun, and even though he had taken the time to dress first, he had still retreated to the windowsill of one of the large windows in his suite long before there was even a sign of life in the de la Valliére one. He had been sitting there for hours now, sometimes reading, sometimes stopping to watch the enourmous court yard, where carriages had kept pulling up and taking off for almost as long now. New people of various social standing were arriving, and those that that had come for the funeral were leaving. There was one carriage in particular that he had been keeping an eye on, a thorn of melancholy jabbing at his heart every time he beheld it's lavish extravagance. It was one of the royal carriages, and lined up after it were quite a few smaller ones; the cortege that was to bring Isabella from the Palace, to her parent's estate. Wherever that was. Octavien hadn't found a suitable opportunity to ask anyone, perhaps because since learning she would be leaving, he had been reluctant to talk to anyone unaware of the effect her absence would really have on him. There were many watchful eyes in court right now, and alot it them, it seemed, were looking his way. For a variety of reasons.

A deep sigh - one of many this morning - caused the young Prince's chest and shoulders to heave, as he turned his attention back to the book in his hands, 'Metamorphoses' by Lucius Apuleius, and made yet another attempt to focus on the rather amusing and witty story it told. There was nothing more to see in the court yeard at the moment. Things around the cortege had been still for a little while now. Everything, and everyone was ready, awaiting the moment when Isabella and her mother would step out onto the grand marble steps, and it would be time.

It took him a few tries, but eventually, Octavien had finally found the last part he remembered reading, and had just gotten back into the story when there was a knock on the door. With his usual quiet steps, Gilles swiftly made his way over to the door and opened it, upon which a short exchange of whispers ensued with whoever it was outside. Then the door closed again, and Gilles turned to Octavien, who had been watching the small intermezzo from his makeshift seat.

"You Highness", Gilles said. "Duc d'Lorraine is requesting an audience, promptly. He is waiting outside."

At that announcement, one of Octavien's blonde brows drifted upward in a look of slight surprise, but was shortly disspelled by a mental shrug. It was a somewhat unconventional method to seek an audience, but as the King's confidant, he did have the privilege of enjoying a bit more respect than the others of equal rank around here. And Octavien could think of at least one good reason why he would come seeking the Prince. The display in the Blue Salon the previous night. Octavien was well aware that he had made a somewhat flawed impression, and so figured that the Duc had probably come to correct him for not behaving in a way that he had not even been taught in the first place. Isabella and he had never gotten around to such things, and apparently - and here his thoughts along with the look on his face turned slightly more acidic - far be it from the King to take an interest in his son-in-law.

"By all means", he said and snapped book shut, before rising from the windowsill.

While Gilles ducked back out to forward the Prince's agreement, Octavien himself strode over to the small table and group of armchairs that in the short time he had been Prince had seen their fair share of memorable meetings; the very first meeting between him and Duc d'Lorraine, the setup conversation with Marquess Berini, now deceased, and that fateful encounter with Baroness Flight, who, since that very meeting, he had on occasion found himself wishing to be deceased. Now it only remained to be seen if this would be another such memorable conversation as well.

"Duc d'Lorraine", he greeted the older man once he had passed through the double doors, opened by Gilles, and he made no attempt to hide the guarded stance visible in his eyes.

Further courtesies and/or pleasantries would have to wait, as when seeing the look in the Duc's own eyes, he got the distinct impression that yes, this would indeed be one memorable conversation, and most likely not because it was enjoyable.


(((ooc: Alright. Claws are sharpened, fangs ready to be bared. He's ready. Bring it on. )))

In the short span of time it had taken for the manservant to return to the door, Dimitri had shifted through multiple ways of explaining firmly yet compassionately to the Prince what had been planned on his behalf. He was no stranger to the intricacies of diplomatic exchanges, even if he himself was fonder of retiring in the privacy of two men and cognac; and, surely, he would have found some way to deliver his message while making it seem the best possible thing to happen to Octavien since buttered bread.

Then Dimitri remembered he had never been a particularly compassionate figure; that such a diplomatic side was five… oh, six years’ too old; and the doors opened.

Octavien was standing by that familiar cluster of expensive seating and delicate chinaware, but while he had been generally welcoming and slightly cautious during their first meeting—this time, he was merely cautious.

Dimitri hadn’t tried very hard to mask his expression after passing the guards. It seemed it would be easier to approach the topic if Octavien knew, from the beginning, that he was not here for a casual breakfast. Even so, the Duc could not help but note the unhidden, unrevealing curtain now lying over the younger man’s dark eyes. They were sheer enough to reveal he had not just woken up, but offered nothing more. In many ways, it was nothing extraordinarily different from the other times the Prince had appeared with that unruffled exterior. Yet something… Perhaps the lack of an invitation to sit, or the almost tangible anticipation hanging in the air between them…

Octavien was as wary as a highly strung cat. Dimitri had been but a boy when he last encountered such a miniature beast, and he never forgot the bleeding fingers made by such claws.

“Your Highness.” He bowed in return, gesturing to an empty seat silently, steadily, as if assuring a wounded animal of his peaceable intentions. He was not particularly emphatic, but he had hunted enough times to know how to carry himself around such creatures. The Prince nodded—Dimitri did not catch any other emotion, for he was looking only for panic—and they sat. Since he felt he lacked the delicate diplomacy needed for this encounter, stored with many other things in the treasure chest of the past, he dived straight in.

“As I am aware of the unseemliness of directly requesting this meeting, so I anticipate that Your Highness senses its urgency and… importance that you hear of it now.”

It might have been a suitable time for a pause, to let the weight of his words settle in. But for a man like Dimitri, it was the worst—it showed hesitation, discomfort; and he little doubted the Prince would pick up on it, wary as his eyes now were. Nonetheless, they needed to move past the giving of the news, to the dealing of it.

“I met with the King this morning. Throughout this ordeal with Her Highness’ illness, His Majesty has been communicating with important personages beyond our borders. You would have seen some of them here, yesterday night.” Dimitri put no extra emphasis on the Blue Salon, distracted as he was by more important matters. But there was a shift in grey shade over his eyes, indicating the memory had returned to him.

“His Majesty wishes me to inform you that he has invited Her Excellency Elena Sánchez de Suárez y Torre, daughter of the illustrious Grande of Spain, Duque Carlos Sánchez de Suárez y Torre, to... join you at the Palace.”

He could remember the name, so burningly had he stared at the letter in Edouard’s hand. It had not been the whole letter, just enough to satisfy the Duc that the signature was authentic—but those few minutes had been all he needed.

But—the Prince’s cautious gaze notwithstanding—there was very little chance that his own displeasure would shine through in this instance. Every chain attaching him to his composure had been clasped, every barricade raised to portray nothing more than the steady deliverance of news he, clearly, must surely agree with. For it was delivered from the King’s own hand, and far be it for a lord of Lorraine to openly rebuke his monarch.

Dimitri reached for a glass, wondering if the Prince had caught on.


((*puts up hurricane buffers*

So while Cesar gets felt up by a gorgeous young chica, Octavien gets another morning of bad news from an unsympathetic Duc. Just another day at the palace! ))

By gently freeing himself from Joséphine's nestling form, César had intended to gain the upper hand of the conversation that was starting to develop. Withdrawing from her as well as standing from the bed would have provided him with just that, as it put him in the power seat, and made it so that it would be he who had created the new set of terms of how it would all play out.
Unfortunately, for him at least, he never got that far, as just when he prepared to push himself up from the bed, a pair of slender arms latched themselves around his waist, and put an end to the motion before it even began. Though not by force, not by gripping him tightly to fight any attempt he might make to break free, but with such gentle, beckoning persuasion that it bound him even more firmly than any iron shackles ever could. And before he even had a chance to regroup his own forces and fend off the effect of her advances, tender arms were joined by her chin coming to rest in the nook of his neck and shoulder, and her upper body pressing against his back once more.
Damn that woman! Damn her for knowing exactly how to crack his offenses, and his defenses too, and make them crumble into dust.

"Mhmm", she purred in his ear, her voice so smooth and enticing it alone threatened to tempt him into succumbing, and yet at the same time encouraged him to keep resisting her, simply to allow her the pleasure of a somewhat more hard-earned but still inevitable victory. "I know you, César de la Vallière; there are few things that would keep you awake at night, and something of no importance isn't one of them."

That, he had to admit to himself, was true. He had fallen on his own sword on that one. Not that he would admit it to her though. Not just yet. Despite her efforts, he still had a little bit of fight in him.

"Besides, mon amour", Joséphine added, "you do not play fair. How could I possibly discern the importance of a matter from your mysterious question alone?"

Turning his head ever so slightly, just enough for him to glance at her out of the corner of his eye, a faint smirk came and went on his lips. Then he suddenly turned his head the other way, and let out a wide yawn, as if not only trying to wake himself up, but also hinting at just how disinterested he had grown in the conversation.
Once that was done, however, he shifted slightly in her arms, so that when he turned back to look at her, he could do so without breaking his neck.

"You're one to talk", he stated dryly, calling her on her own choice of method.

Though a moment later, a faint smirk appeared once again, and he cocked his head slightly in provocative defiance.

"If fair play is what you want, I suggest you, my dear, set the example," he said, and raised a challenging brow; a clear signal that he would not give in to her, unless she submitted to him first by asking nicely.


(((ooc: Gah! Won't have a chance to type something up for Octavien until tomorrow. Sorry Seiza. )))

Larkin was extremely surprised to find the calm woman answer him in English. He quickly tried to remeber if France and England were at war at the moment or just bad realtions. The reports that he had gotten in Zimbabwe had made it perfectly clear that it was always one or the other, but he decided that if the woman was standing there so calmly, and no one seemed to be inclined to do anything but gossip about her presence- and no one was doing anything much else it looked like- then there was probably no war. Bad relations then.

Not that Larkin had anything agaisnt the English, in Africa they were all over the place with their own trade routes, and an ambassador from England, who had asked to be taught French in exchange for English and letting Larkin have first choice of the spice markets. After several years of this Larkin thought himself passable at the language, and the poor englishwoman was quite obviously not perfectly fluent in French. She held out her hand and introduced herself as "Lady Charmaine de Mollier." Larkin waited a full second, wondering what was expected. He really hd forgotten all of his manners in Africa it seemed. So he shook Lady Charmaine's hand, and answered, in English, "Pleasure to meet you." smiling winningly. He wondered if the English had gotten so barbarous as to teach their women to shake hands with men. Or worse, if he had forgotten some very obvious courtesy to the lady.

He was not able to give it much thought, or even get a good look at her reaction, because the two women he had noticed earlier converged on him, with a man, who was by bearing and reputation obviously King Edouard. That would make his initial impression of who was Juliet and Isabella correct. The two women proceeded to both kiss him on the cheek and Juliet smiling away, said, "Larkin my dear, you are looking well."

He very nearly let his mild expression slip at that; he found it amusing. He was indeed doing well, but Juliet had never met him, he having left well before she and his brother had gotten married. A pleasantry then.

The royal family proceeded to chivvy him upstairs, and Larkin was sorely tempted to follow- he did want to meet his neice- but even after more than a decade's seperation from the court he knew that if he wanted any autonomy he couldn't immediately follow the king and queen, much though he'd like to. Carefully he extricated himself by saying, "Indeed sister-in-law, neice, and it is wondeful to be back. I suppose I ought to reacquaint myself with the palace, reconcile boyhood memories if you would. If you would excuse me..."

Dextrously he slipped out of the tiny press of royalty and traveled down the staircase, mayhaps a bit faster than was dignified or polite. He paused dramatically at the bottom to readjust his coat, and then walked off slowly towards a hallway, going leisurely to admire the wall decorations. He strongly hoped that the whole thing hadn't been damningly impolite, and that he hadn't laid it on too thick.

((OOC: Approachable))

(OOC: Could my character please be known as Bella from here on due to any confusion that might arise (or has already arisen)? Thanks! :D)

((I see no problem with that Alissa, go ahead!))

(OOC: Assuming Larkin wasn't talking about Bella when he said 'Isabella'. Hope I dothis right!)
The morning light pried its way into the carriage as it came to a slow, prolonged stop on the gravel. Bella lay back on the leather backrest of the seat, waiting patiently while the men outside clambered to get themselves in order. The door of the carriage finally open, barely disturbing her from her state of relaxation.
It was time.
She slid gracefully over to the door, placing one foot cautiously on the step before balancing her weight on it. The rest was practiced perfection as she glided down the stairs. The cool air mixed with the essence of the court members wandered over to her. Welcoming, enticing and threatening all the same.
Bella began to walk slowly over into the crowds of courtiers, the gravel under her shoes crunching slightly with every light step. Her footsteps were slow and controlled as her eyes drank in the movements of the courtyard.
She stopped briskly as an older woman dropped her fan at Bella's feet. Bella's eyes wandered up to the older woman. Her clothes were regal, grand and flattering, but the years had done no favours for her youth. She held remenants of beauty still, however. Better still, she looked rich and well connected.
Bella oozed out her best innocent smile before picking the fan from the ground and dusting it down before handing it to the older woman.
"Why thank you, dear," she said with an air of superiority. "I am the Duchesse Juliet de Margoles."
Bella knew full well who that name belonged to and bowed her head slightly, curtseying with grace.
"Tell me, do you have a name?" the Duchesse Juliet snapped.
"Isabella Devine, Duchesse," Bella smiled. "Bella."
"Ah, Devine," the Juliet tasted the name for rememberance. A flicker of recognition flashed through her eyes. "Ashton's little girl?"
"My father speaks highly of you," Bella volunteered.
"I'm sure he does," Juliet almost scoffed as she began to continue her path.

For as long as Octavien could remember, there were certain things that had always been a part of his life. Things of a less tangible kind than family, wealth, good education and some of the finest horses in the country, in the known and civilized world even. One such less tangible thing, was intuition. Already as a child Octavien had learned to trust his instincts, his gut feeling, sometimes witnessing how as a direct result he would escape trouble, or manage to manuever himself in the best way possible to obtain or accomplish what he wanted in the company of others, and sometimes never really finding out just what possibly omnious occurence he had avoided or averted. Still he trusted them, as even lately they had succeeded in guiding him and had even been the cause of one of the biggest changes in his life so far. The encounter with Isabella in the forest. For while it was boldness that had made him approach her and push the boundaries of what was appropriate for someone such as him in a situation like that, it was instinct that had guided his actions and his words, and brought about the relationship that had formed between them.

Now seated opposite Duc d'Lorraine, and listening to his words as he prepared to share something of great importance, according to himself, Octavien felt that familiar stir in his gut. Though this time, it was a feeling of forewarning, and not a guiding hand. It was like a thousand bugs scurrying about in the pit of his stomach, telling him to brace himself for what was to come within the next few seconds. Even with the rather neutral expression on the Duc's face, he sensed it in the air, and the further the Duc got, the stronger it grew. Each word from his lips added to the tension.

"I met with the King this morning", the older man said. "Throughout this ordeal with Her Highness’ illness, His Majesty has been communicating with important personages beyond our borders. You would have seen some of them here, yesterday night."

So, was this to be about what had happened in the Blue Salon after all? For some reason, the look in the Duc's eyes upon entering into the Prince's suite, had had Octavien dismissing it. Perhaps because of the urgency in the Duc's request to meet with him. Correcting him on his behaviour, while important, would not have been such a remarkably pressing matter that the Duc would submit himself to waiting outside the Prince's suite and risk recieving a rejection, rather than send a formal and proper note. But, judging by his words just now, there might be a little more to it than just correcting Octavien's behaviour. The mention of how some of these 'important personages' had been present the previous evening... Had Octavien's unaccustomedness to carrying himself in similar situations somehow reflected so badly on the King, and caused problems in whatever relationship he had with these prominent figures?
A silly notion perhaps, had he not known that it would hardly be the first time a political rift had been caused by such subtle and seemingly irrelevant errors.

But, no sooner had he prepared for a discussion regarding the events of last night, than he was made to realize that it was indeed not what was on Duc d'Lorraine's mind at all.

"His Majesty wishes me to inform you that he has invited Her Excellency Elena Sánchez de Suárez y Torre, daughter of the illustrious Grande of Spain, Duque Carlos Sánchez de Suárez y Torre, to... join you at the Palace."

At first, Octavien simply looked at Dimitri, trying to take in what he had just said, and make the pieces fit somewhere in the puzzle. A massive jumble of foreign words, spoken so fast that it was only towards the end of the long string names that he realized the Duc was talking about one of the most prominent people in Spain. Or rather, his daughter.
Invited by the King to join Octavien? Not 'us', not 'the court', but 'you', as in just Octavien. And that pause he had made before finishing the sentence... That pause, that tiny, most intentional hesitation, the kind often used when one was trying to express something unpleasant, as delicately and carefully as humanly possible.
Surely he didn't mean...?

Within moments, the realization dawned on the young Prince, and it was as if someone had sucked all the air out of his lungs, and stabbed him in the heart with a dagger made of pure ice. The King, a stranger with whom he had not yet even had his first proper conversation, had out of the blue decided what was to be his future, and not even bothered to discuss it with Octavien himself first, but simply sent his henchman to 'inform' him that his future was not for him to decide, or even effect? Like he was nothing more than a possession, like a dog on a leash, with no say whatsoever.

It was only through sheer will power and self-restraint that he managed to remain seated, and keep little more of his reaction to show, than the tightening of his jaw, when every fibre of his being wanted to simply explode. Though his voice, trembling just ever so slightly when finally he spoke, was somewhat more revealing to the fact that there was a hurricane of emotions raging through him, anger being perhaps the one most easy to identify. It was so subtle, however, that it would indeed take a man of the Duc's perceptive capacity to pick up on it;

"And if I ask you to in turn inform His Majesty that I am quite content with the company I keep already?" the young Prince said, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on Dimitri.

((Alissa Yes that is a good start, Only a brief word, that in this thread, the level of Godmodding (controlling other people's characters) is generally limited to bows and nods rather than speech. This doesn't apply to Juliet as she is not officially a character of anyone's, but that is just a note for interaction with other characters here at the baroque Court - Don't worry I'm not criticising


And listen to Octavien go! 'm sure the henchman will have something equally pointed to say :P))

As he awaited the Prince’s reaction, revelation or confusion—the last seeming the least likely as each second ticked by—Dimitri held his wine glass gingerly, its smooth surface feeling unacceptably cold. The wafting scent was of a brand he only vaguely recognised. His hand tried to support it while making as little contact as possible; the rough pads of his fingertips barely grazing the glass, while the rest of his palm struggled to crawl away under his coat. The bulbous top swished lazily about, carefully balanced but always threatening to tip over in a flood of golden-white liquid.

He had the discomforting idea that he was holding the Prince’s—anger, emotion, something—in his hand. He wished to cast it away even more. He forced himself to hold it closely.

Dimitri made it no secret that he was watching Octavien, for to pretend otherwise was surely ridiculous. Men did not deliver potentially explosive news without staying on guard every step of the way. He did not rationally think the Prince would actually attack him—and over such news!—but Dimitri was the sort who considered all scenarios, and often picked the worst to prepare for.

A spurt of verbal defiance had been on the lower end of the list, but so Octavien delivered.

“And if I ask you to in turn inform His Majesty that I am quite content with the company I keep already?” the Prince suggested, as coolly and eloquently as his age and experience could afford—if not far more than one might expect. The Duc thought, not without grim appreciation, that they served a respectable restraint on what must be outrageous anger brewing inside. But it would be, ultimately, temporary.

Men were men, Princes or not; and the young were the most righteous of the lot.

Unfortunately, Dimitri balanced wine glasses better than he did men’s sensitivities.

“I am afraid your company is not yours to decide, Your Highness.” The golden liquid rippled in his glass, tilting to one side. “’The King speaks’…”

He wondered, idly, in that pocket of his mind disconnected from such encounters—if Octavien was finally realising the true gravity behind Edouard’s morning command. It was more, so much more, than mere words said for their sake. It would be so like the young to dismiss such ceremonies, ignorant of the power undergirding old traditions, only to be revolted when they learned the truth.

“…and, so he informs me, preparations have been made. It is only a matter of time before Her Excellency arrives. You shall not do her or our King dishonour by turning her away now.”

_____

(('Henchman'! :laugh: Dude, it's onnnn.

Nice, Alissa! Whoa, Bella sounds like she's ready to climb those ranks! But yep, as Fay said, just be careful about controlling others' characters when it comes to things like dialogue, though I reckon small things like the fan dropping is fine. ))

(((ooc: *lol* Well, he's royally pissed (no pun intended, I swear!), and so it's nothing personal. He's young, hot-tempered and feeling pretty darned miserable, so... 'henchman' is probably one of the ¨nicer labels he could use to mentally refer to Dimitri! )))


The answer had been known to him. Long before the question had even made it past his lips, Octavien had known the rough outlines of the answer he could expect. But it had mattered little to him, as he had not expected it to change the outcome of the matter discussed. It had not been the point. The point, regardless of how useless it may seem to others, was that he was not a puppet, and would make it perfectly clear that he did not appreciate being treated as one, no matter who had final say in his destiny. To be treated as being not even a factor in the course of his own life, and by his own father-in-law no less... How humiliating. How absolutely, utterly humiliating. Especially to a temperamental and proud young man, who had always valued his freedom.

At the same, however, he was also a rational and educated young man, well aware of how monarchs would often arrange marriages between their children and cousins and whatnot, in order to ensure a peaceful future, an alliance. And so, despite his anger, and the flames of rebellion running high within him, he did understand - at least he thought he did - the reasons why the company of this Spanish whatshername might be so very desirable and important to the King.
Though it did little to quench the indignity he felt was being forced down his throat, by having the right to choose his own future stripped away from him. Was it truly too much to ask that he be made at least a participant in the making of his own fate?

"I am afraid your company is not yours to decide, Your Highness", Duc d'Lorraine said, casually sloshing the wine about in the glass he held so gingerly in his hand, and by doing so, by showing such detachment, only succeeded in adding fuel to the fire raging within the eyes of the young Prince. "’The King speaks’... and, so he informs me, preparations have been made. It is only a matter of time before Her Excellency arrives. You shall not do her or our King dishonour by turning her away now."

Had the Prince been any less of a gentleman, raised to control his temper even in the most provoking of situations, he would have thrown the Duc out, head first, and sent that glass of wine in which he found so much amusement flying right after him. The popularity of the saying 'don't shoot the messenger' had sometimes been questioned by Octavien, as it had always been quite clear to him that one was not at fault simply for being unfortunate enough to be the bearer of bad news. Now, however, he could all of a sudden understand just why one might want to shoot the messenger. There were good ways to deliver bad news, and there were bad ways to deliver bad news. And then, and this would be very much applicable to the present, there were ways of making bad news even worse when delivering them.
Sometimes, it was remarkable what a little sympathy could do. The lack thereof? Not so much.

Still, Octavien fought hard to control his temper, and after his nails had dug into the armrests of the chair for a few seconds, the most overpowering tension seeped out of him, though far from all of it, and he slowly stood.

"So then I am to understand that my personal opinion on the matter is to be regarded as irrelevant?", he said, venomously stating rather than asking a question. "That I, in less than two days, have turned from husband of His Majesty's beloved daughter, to a mere pawn his game of politics? And that rather than give me the chance to agree with him, he wishes to not only anger me by taking away what I have already given willingly once, but also add insult to the injury, by not telling me face to face?"

At this point, he cared little that his words held a hint to something that, if he picked up on it, might cause quite a bit of confusion in the Duc, but instead turned his back to him, just long enough to reach the nearby window. There he turned again, and looked at Dimitri, with eyes that were now merely smoldering, the fire previously in them having died down, and left only traces of anger, and of something that had been too well hidden to be spotted, until now, and hardly even that; tiny, faint fragments of bewildered hurt, as if he was struggling to understand why the King felt it was necessary to command, when simply suggesting might have been enough.

"Does he truly resent me so?"


(((*edit* ooc: Oh my. Just got to see what an unedited post of mine really looks like. Wasn't pretty. *lol* Should be somewhat ok now though.)))

((Ouch.... Maybe Dimitri and Mercy should both be grateful Octavien IS a gentleman....))