gentiilhomme-a reblogged
gentiilhomme-a reblogged
She hooked the point of a dagger under the chin of her mask, tilting it upward to show her face, regardless of whatever poor taste it might have been.
“I do have three days to complete the contract,” she said, lowering the mask again once she was satisfied he recognized her. “And I would like to avoid having to gut you open like a fish if I can help it. I have so few people to be fond of in this world. It would be a shame to remove another.”
She sighed lightly, as though he were a misbehaving child. “But perhaps I can help you, if you tell me the slight you’ve delivered to her.”
“The Lady de la Roche has quarrel with my sister, not me,” he replied, finishing off the last of his wine as he wondered quickly what he was to do with a harlequin in his chambers. “Her daughter and my nephew were affianced. And my sister had the contract annulled most speciously because she had felt slighted at the opéra comique by the good Madame, and the ensuing altercations between them grew so ridiculous in measure, that I attempted to make light of the situation with an innocuous, but poorly timed joke that I hardly remember now, it was so carelessly delivered. But it’s quite like her to resort to such extremes.”
He blinked then, lowering his eyes as pink tipped his ears and he rubbed a hand at the back of his neck. “Ah, forgive me but ... you speak as though you know me,” he began, as delicately as he was able, even as his head swam with sluggish effort to recall this girl who used his nickname so freely, and who counted him dear. “I could never forget so lovely a face, mignon, believe me. Not if I could help it. My memory isn’t what it used to be. Where might we have met?”
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@gentiilhomme
The House of Virtues had left a contract for Verity, inscribed on a fan left in her chest, as was their way. She’d read it summarily and committed it to memory before folding the fan and tucking it in the belt of her uniform.
She reread it in her mind’s eye as she broke into the manor: Sister Verity has been enlisted in the removal of Ser Aristede Aurélien Caron de Beaumarchais, as per the De la Roche matriarch.
Removal was a funny phrasing, Verity decided as she silently opened the north, uppermost window of the manor. As though the subject was a stain or an unseemly piece of furniture. It was a brilliantly sunny day—only Crows and their ilk murdered in the cover of night—and the manor was not empty, which would make locating more difficult. Although not impossible.
She would have continued on her merry way through the manor, lightly tapping the flat of her dagger against her thigh, had she not passed a portrait in the upper hallway. It depicted a man she knew from her Chantry training days. The hint of Antivan features and the sunny smile were unchanged. The issue with that, of course, was that the name below it was listed as none other than Ser Aristede Aurélien Caron de Beaumarchais.
She had only known him as Rory, a kind man who found her youthful solemnity to be charming. Which did complicate things a bit. So she offered him a kindness in return, for the sake of her childhood. Instead of slinking in and stabbing him and leaving out the window, she leaned boldly against his door frame and flicked the contract fan open.
“I do wonder what you’ve done to get on Madame De la Roche’s bad side, Rory.”
It wasn’t quite noon. Aurélien could hardly be sure of the hour, but he was sure that the sun was setting, not rising. Had he been to luncheon? He couldn’t recall. Time seemed to run together without occupation to mark it, and exacerbated by his sempiternal inebration and his often-failing memory, he was never quite sure where he was, much less when.
Some days were better than others. Today was a little challenging, but whatever frustration he might have harbored dissipated as her finished off the next bottle of red of his family’s own vintage. It was the perfect accompaniment for his contemplative meditation on the bucolic idyll of his
The voice that spoke his name pleased him, but for no logical reason that he could discern. High of pitch, velvet of timbre, certain in the delivery. He did not recognize it, but it flooded his skin with a familiar warmth that made him sure he did.
The sight of the Harlequin did send a chill down his spine, and the fact that he wasn't already lying in an admixture of wine and blood was too curious not to note.
“Can I help you, mademoiselle?” he asked amiably, giving her his most winsome smile and gesturing with his wineglass. “Perhaps a glass of my family’s red? Or white, if it please you. May I interest you in the hors d'oeuvres? The charcuterie platter in particular is lovely. I favor the camembert with the Treviso sopressata, myself.”
As if he weren’t talking to an assassin in the middle of his drawing room. “Is that who sent you? I should hardly be surprised that she’d want me dead, but even more surprised that she didn’t hire the very best to stab me in the spleen on sight. Not that you aren’t capable, mademoiselle, I’m quite sure you are. But your hesitation gives me pause, you see. Harlequins are not known for their mercy.”
“Ma petite, you must tell me what exactly put you in mind to hate all Orlesians. Who has wronged you? Who has hurt you so? Would you like me to send them a strongly worded missive? I’m joking, I wouldn’t. But I would like to know.”
gentiilhomme-a reblogged
I think my dad heard me crying cause he just cracked open my door and slid a piece of cake on the floor into my room
gentiilhomme-a reblogged
Quick shitty doodle. Meow~ :3
"I am very fond of Orlesians. Especially their style of kissing."
“How fortuitous for me, then! I was once quite familiar with Antivan kissing, though I wonder that I’m rusty with disuse. Che peccato.”
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manukahunny-deactivated20170919
gentiilhomme-a reblogged
Athena - Greek goddess of wisdom, strategic warfare, and the arts
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thedas aesthetics: orlais
Orlais presents a veneer of opulence, but the aristocracy are committed to a system of social one-upmanship they call the game. Sprawling receptions delight friend and foe, while bards strike from shadow with insinuation, larceny, and assassination, often to the strange delight of their targets.
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550-558: Versailles on a rainy Spring day. (part 1)
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gentiilhomme-a reblogged
falondinan-deactivated20181216
falondinan
O Falon'Din Lethanavir — Friend to the Dead Guide my feet, calm my soul, Lead me to my rest.
— Elven Prayer for the Dead
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eromai
⚜ dragonborn
“Well,” Dite demurred as she made a show of avoiding his gaze under the pretense of straightening the singed bow around Zazi’s neck. “In a way.”
Zazi seemed to be taking to Aurélien with a fervor similar to the way he bonded with Cullen, so at least she didn’t have to worry about a tantrum just yet. “It’s short for Zazikel,” she added, almost as an aside, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. “You know, the Old God. Cullen wasn’t too fond of the name, but then again he wasn’t terribly fond of the idea of keeping a baby dragon around either. Isn’t that right, Zazi?” she said, the baby-talking tone back in the last sentence. “Cullen didn’t know what to say about it, did he? No, he didn’t.”
“I believe I told you he wasn’t allowed to be in the wedding, and then you wouldn’t speak to me for four days,” Cullen said airily, trudging up the steps with heavy footfalls, though he wore an indulgent smile as he set eyes upon his little family.
“My love,” he greeted Dite, bending to kiss her chastely on the cheek, for Rory’s sake.
He turned to Rory, expression brightening at the sight of the little scaly thing in his arms. “I see you’ve met the baby,” he said, his tone sacharine-sweet and dripping with honey as he tickled the dragonling under the chin, this time for the dragon’s benefit. Zazi turned his nose up haughtily, asking for more, which his father was only happy to oblige him. “Isn’t he a darling? Very sweet-tempered for a dragon. He must get that from his mother.”
Cullen looked over his shoulder back at Dite, throwing her a wink. “Maker knows not from me. Isn’t that right?”
〖⚜ — 〗 Aurélien looked on with abject horror as Cullen lifted the dragon out of his arms with an exaggerated groan, blowing trumpeting raspberries on his soft, creamy belly before applying a smattering of smacking kisses on his snout and the meaty rolls that was evidently his neck. “Andraste preserve me, is this real?” he asked, eyes wide with disbelief as he looked over at Dite searchingly. “This is almost too much for even me. My lady, what have you done to this poor sod? What is your secret? Or is it deliciously clandestine? Tell me anyways.”
And then realization struck him like lightning out of the clear, blue sky. “Zazikel? Are you saying you named your child after an archdemon?” he asked, nothing less than scandalized. His eyes fell to his adopted son, currently bouncing the dragon in his arms and encouraging the noisy, wriggling thing with overly-doting cooing and kisses. “Cullen?”
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eromai
⚜ dragonborn
“Subject him?” Dite scoffed as Zazi found a perch on her shoulder and busied himself with trying to nip at her earrings. “Clearly you haven’t heard him talking to the baby. He refuses to let him touch the ground if he has any say in it and will have his men digging latrines for hours if they disturb his napping.”
Her tone changed from dry to doting as she gently disentangled the scales and claws from her hair before she offered him to Rory, all clumsy kicks and indignant, growling chirps. “Zazi is such a big clever boy and he’s been dying to meet his grandpapa.”
Without waiting for a yay or nay from Aurélien, she transferred the soft, meaty weight of the baby into his arms and stepped back before he could claw his way onto her again. “He does bite,” she warned, moving around to push the baby’s head away from a particularly alluring bit of gold gilding. “And he does these shockingly dangerous little fire burps that have already decimated a portion of Cullen’s paperwork so mind your beard if he’s trying to kiss you.”
〖⚜ — 〗 Aurélien laughed, trying to imagine Cullen — terminally severe and joyless Cullen — puttering about and ordering troops with a fire-burping dragon baby hefted onto his hip. “Maker, I cannot believe it. I have never even considered Cullen anywhere near likely to be a father. Then gain, I have never thought him to be the sort to fall in love, and now here he is, engaged to girl so far above his station she might as well be a goddess herself. Ma fille, you have cast a spell on him, to be sure.”
He pulled a grimace so comical it was almost a caricature, though he accepted the writhing thing gladly and warily. The creature was warm, its scales smooth and surprisingly soft. It yawned a few times, casually displaying rows of even, knife-sharp teeth, little puffs of smoke emanating from his minuscule nostrils that might have been adorable had Aurélien not known that they were the half-formed intentions of evidently-destructive fire burps. “There, now, Zazi,” he cooed, then caught himself, looking over at Dite with an inquisitive quirk of his brow.
“Zazi?” he asked, caressing his beautiful scaly head and earning a soft nip on his chin from the baby. “What sort of name is that? Tevinter?”
gentiilhomme-a reblogged
There’s a freedom in just not caring.
Gillian Anderson | Harper’s Bazaar | Oct 2016 (x)
⚜ dragonborn
〖⚜ — 〗 “Lady Cygnus, if I may!” Aurélien called jovially, jogging easily up the steps to her chambers. The two were already on quite familiar terms, but he enjoyed the exploitation of her title, if only to playfully illuminate the difference between her and her low-born soon-to-be husband. “Are these your rooms? C'est vraiment magnifique! So warm and inviting. I would have expected something more austere and dreary from a Tevinter, but perhaps it’s best not to scare poor Ferelden farmboys, yes?”
Dite turned to greet him with her signature resplendent smile, still so dazzlingly potent that he stopped to wonder — not for the first time — how it was Cullen had procured such a beauty for himself, and had almost looked over the hefty little dragonling cradled in her arms.
“Dear Maker, when they said you had a beast for a child, I did not think that they meant that quite literally,” Aurélien laughed, stepping forward and inclining his head to the fat little thing in her arms. A sunny-colored saffron, with just hints of the darker ochre markings that would deepen as it matured, a pale paunch. Its eyes were bright and sentient, curious and clement and almost ... cute. It searched Aurélien’s face for only a moment, discerning, before chubby legs kicked in the air and he squirmed to twist himself around and crawl higher up her chest.
“Il est bel et bon, mademoiselle,” he praised, reaching out to touch the tip of his fat, rounded tail. “And you subject Cullen to this little terror?”