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Hidden 6 days ago Post by princess
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Location: Damien Estate
Time: Evening
Mention: @Tpartywithzombi Violet @PapaOso Cassius @FunnyGuy Alexander



Calbert’s lips pressed into a thin line as the door slammed behind Cassius, his mind already a flurry of activity even before the echoes of the slamming door had fully faded. His sharp gaze remained fixed on the trail of smoke in the distance, but his thoughts were already ten steps ahead, analyzing every possible angle.

After a moment’s pause, his fingers drumming against the banister in thought, Calbert straightened and descended the stairs with haste. “Henry,” he called, his voice echoing through the grand foyer, resonating with an authority that left no room for hesitation.

Within moments, Henry appeared, his posture rigid, the body language of a man accustomed to the urgency of Calbert’s summons.

“One of the warehouses is ablaze,” Calbert began, “Have it reported immediately to the appropriate authorities. Ensure the guards are dispatched to investigate and contain it. I want updates every quarter-hour. And, Henry—” His eyes narrowed slightly, “send a small contingent of our people as well. Armed and discreet. Their primary directive is to protect Cassius.”

Henry bowed, his expression neutral. “And if there is trouble, sir?”

“Ensure Cassius remains unharmed. His safety is paramount.”

Henry nodded and took a step to leave, then paused and reached into his coat, producing an envelope.“This arrived for you earlier, sir. I thought it prudent to bring it to your attention before I depart.”

Calbert’s brow arched slightly as he took the envelope. His sharp gaze flicked back to Henry. “Go. Do as I’ve instructed.”

Henry bowed and exited swiftly, leaving Calbert alone with the letter. He turned it over thoughtfully in his hands as he took it to his study. Once inside, he opened a small drawer, he retrieved a cigar and a silver cutter. With practiced precision, he clipped the end of the cigar.
Striking a match, he held the flame to the cigar’s tip, the faint crackle of burning tobacco filling the room. He took a slow draw, exhaling a plume of smoke as he broke the seal on the envelope. As he inhaled, the warm scent of cedar filled the room.

Dear Count Calbert Damien,

I trust this letter finds you in good health and high spirits. I wish to express my deepest respect and admiration for the many accomplishments of your esteemed house. I am writing to you with a proposition concerning your talented daughter, Violet, who I understand is not only well-educated but also carries herself with the grace and intellect befitting her lineage. I have come to know of her exceptional abilities, and it is with great respect that I inquire about the possibility of employing her as my personal assistant. In my current endeavors, I seek the aid of someone who possesses both a keen mind and a noble bearing, qualities that your daughter clearly embodies. After briefly interacting with her, I quickly identified that her insights and skills would be of invaluable service to my wife and I, and I am confident that this opportunity could also offer her unique experiences, growth, and a chance to escape her bed chambers so that she does not become a stranger to the world. I, Alexander Deacon assure you that her well-being and development would be of paramount importance to me, and I would be honored to work alongside her. Should this proposal be agreeable to you, I would be most pleased to discuss the details further at your earliest convenience. Thank you for considering this request. I await your response with great anticipation and will respect whatever decision you deem most appropriate.

With the highest regard,
Alexander Deacon Vice President,
Black Rose Trading Company


“Alexander Deacon...” he murmured, his tone thoughtful. “A man clever enough to earn Marek’s trust, yet wise enough to keep his personal ambitions close to his chest.”

Alexander’s intentions, even if genuine, could shift under the right pressure.

“He works for Marek, and Marek values him,” Calbert mused aloud, his voice low. “That alone grants him a measure of trust... but not immunity to scrutiny.”

Rising from his chair, he moved to the window, pulling it open with a single sweep. The night air poured in, carrying with it the faint, acrid smell of smoke from the distant fire. Calbert lingered for a moment, letting the cool breeze tousle his long, dark hair like a halo of shadow.

His lips curled into a smile as he drew deeply from the cigar, holding the smoke in his chest. Then, with a slow, deliberate exhale, he released it into the night, the tendrils mingling with the wind. The flickering orange light of the fire in the distance painted the horizon.

“Smoke in the distance, Alexander,” he muttered under his breath, then slammed the window shut. “...If Alexander’s offer is sincere, it could provide her the structure and protection she needs,” he muttered, taking another drag. “But if it isn’t...” His lips pressed into a thin line. “Then I must ensure the damage is contained before it begins.”

“Violet must be spoken to first,” he decided, his voice firm in the quiet study. “Her thoughts on this arrangement will reveal much.”

“And as for Alexander Deacon...” Calbert’s lips curved into a faint, humorless smile. “An invitation is in order.”

He turned back to his desk and reached for a fresh sheet of paper.


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Hidden 6 days ago 6 days ago Post by princess
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Good morning! It's now 11 AM on Sola 28th, and we have a sunny, beautiful day ahead.

Here are the key updates:

- Two full days have passed since the camping event.
- Players interested in collaborating on events for Sola 26th and 27th can decide off-screen developments to deepen bonds. Writing out these interactions is optional.
Example: Greg and Bob ate lunch together and casually discussed their hobbies and upbringing.

Regarding any unfinished business for Sola 25th, please be clear that you are writing in for that night, or mark it as a flashback.









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Hidden 6 days ago 4 days ago Post by PapaOso
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You are cordially invited to an exclusive evening showcasing the remarkable works of the renowned artist Milo St. Claire. This gallery event promises to be an unforgettable experience of creativity, elegance, and mystery, all set within the captivating atmosphere of his private art studio. Join the crème de la crème of the art world for a night where beauty, emotion, and imagination collide.

đź“Ť Location:Sorian Gallery of Fine Arts
🕰️ Date & Time: The exhibition opens at 11:00 a.m.

✨ What to Expect:

🎨 Exclusive Art Exhibit:
Wander through a maze of paintings, sculptures, and installations designed to evoke wonder and contemplation. Milo’s latest collection, "Reflections of Reverie," will be revealed for the first time, featuring works that explore the duality of light and darkness, chaos and tranquility, in human emotion. Guests will have the opportunity to discuss the deeper meanings behind each piece with the artist himself throughout the night.

🍷 Open Bar & Specialty Cocktails:
Enjoy an array of premium wines, fine champagne, and signature cocktails crafted just for the evening. Let your taste buds indulge while your eyes feast on the visual splendor. Drinks will be available at the Ivory Lounge, a cozy space adjacent to the gallery with plush seating and dim lighting for intimate conversations.

🍽️ Gourmet Hors d’Oeuvres:
Sample a curated selection of fine hors d'oeuvres that complement the artistic theme. Delicacies such as truffle-infused risotto bites, smoked salmon crostini, and mini tartlets with gold leaf accents will be served by elegant waitstaff. Milo personally selected these dishes to pair perfectly with the mood and tone of his works.

🖋️ Live Calligraphy & Sketching:
As a part of the artistic experience, a live calligrapher will create personalized nameplates for each guest upon entry, while a live sketch artist will capture candid moments from the night, allowing guests to take home a piece of the evening.

🎶 Ambient Music:
Immerse yourself in the delicate sounds of renowned harpists, playing soft classical and contemporary pieces throughout the night. The music will echo through the gallery, heightening the emotional impact of Milo’s work.

🖼️ Interactive Art Installation:
Guests are encouraged to interact with the featured piece, "The Mirror of Perception," a reflective installation that distorts images based on where you stand, symbolizing the ever-changing nature of self-awareness. This eerie, haunting work invites contemplation and personal reflection, a centerpiece that encapsulates Milo's vision for the evening.

đź’Ž Limited Edition Keepsake:
Each guest will receive an exclusive commemorative print signed by Milo St. Claire himself, a memento of the night. These limited edition prints, specially designed for the gallery event, are a token of Milo's appreciation for those who come to celebrate art and its power to transform.

✨ Dress Code:

Formal or Avant-garde attire is encouraged. Let your wardrobe reflect your creative spirit and be part of the night’s artistry. (VIP Access comes with admittance into the “Clothing Optional” Areas of the exhibit.)

Don’t miss the chance to witness Milo St. Claire’s latest masterpiece collection in an atmosphere designed to captivate and inspire. Whether you are an art connoisseur or a casual admirer, this is an event not to be missed.

Exhibit Rooms:

đź“ś The Portrait Gallery:

Admire large, gold-framed portraits of notable figures, including Countess Diana Cristian, Count Calbert Damien, Duchess Francesca Lesdeman, and more. The soft glow of chandeliers creates an intimate atmosphere.

Portrait Gallery - Featured Individuals:

• Countess Ella Bernard
• Countess Ada Mäkinen
• Countess Kasia Pawonska
• Countess Diana Cristian
• Count Calbert Damien
• Duchess Francesca Anne Lesdeman
• Count Gustav Hansen
• Pasha Mona Mostafa
• Pasha Faven Zulu
• Pasha Sunni Olufemi
• Pasha Tanaka Haru
• Pasha Zhao Mei
• Pasha Jasmine Chen



🎨 "Reflections of Reverie" Exhibit:

This room is dedicated to Milo’s latest collection, "Reflections of Reverie." The works displayed here explore the duality of light and darkness, chaos and tranquility in human emotion. The paintings evoke a deep sense of contemplation, as guests have the opportunity to discuss the meanings behind each piece with the artist himself. The room is designed to be contemplative, with lighting that enhances the contrast between light and dark.

🪞 Interactive Art Installation - "The Mirror of Perception":

This interactive room features Milo’s installation, "The Mirror of Perception." Guests are encouraged to interact with the mirrors, which distort images based on where they stand. The installation invites personal reflection and exploration, symbolizing the ever-changing nature of self-awareness. The haunting and eerie reflections create a surreal experience."

đź—ż The Sculpture Gallery:

Dedicated to Milo’s sculptures of women, this gallery showcases smooth marble statues that capture the beauty and elegance of the female form. The sculptures are presented on pedestals throughout the room, allowing guests to move around and admire their intricate details. The atmosphere is serene and refined, with soft lighting enhancing the gentle curves of the statues.

🍸 The Ivory Lounge:

This cozy space adjacent to the gallery is where guests can relax and enjoy premium wines, champagne, and signature cocktails. The lounge features plush seating in soft cream tones, elegant Victorian-style furniture, and dim lighting for intimate conversations. It offers a perfect retreat for guests to indulge in fine drinks while reflecting on the art they’ve seen.






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Hidden 6 days ago Post by princess
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Performances for Charity



Hosted by Princess Anastasia Danrose and Count Fritz Hendrix




Join Princess Anastasia Danrose and Count Fritz Hendrix for a heartfelt day of music, theater, and talent at their charity performance aimed at feeding the poor. Held in the prestigious Edin Theater, this daytime event will feature talented artists who have generously volunteered their time to inspire and entertain while supporting this noble cause.

Set against the backdrop of the theater, guests will enjoy captivating performances from musicians, actors, and entertainers, all volunteering to make a difference. The hosts warmly invite nobles and townsfolk alike to join in this effort to raise funds and resources to feed those most in need. Everyone is welcome to perform their talent!



Edin Theater Menu

(All proceeds go to feeding the hungry)

Snacks
Buttered Popcorn – Lightly salted and served in vintage-style paper cones.
Freshly Baked Soft Pretzels – Warm, soft pretzels served with a side of mustard or cheese dip.
Fruit Cups – Fresh, seasonal fruit served in small cups for a healthy option.

Drinks
Lemonade – Cool, refreshing lemonade served chilled.
Iced Tea – Sweet or unsweetened iced tea with lemon slices available.
Sparkling Water – Lightly carbonated water with a slice of lemon or lime.
Hot Coffee or Tea – A simple selection of hot beverages, including black coffee, herbal tea, and milk.






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Hidden 6 days ago 6 days ago Post by princess
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Time: 11am
Location: The Edin Theater
Mention: @JJ Doe Fritz
Attire:Dress, Hair, Necklace, Headpiece




The Edin Theater was alive, its golden chandeliers casting light over the gathered crowd. Crimson curtains framed the stage and gold ornate carvings danced along the walls in the light. The space hummed with chatter as guests poured in, blending seamlessly into the vibrant melody of a violin that filled the air.

Anastasia swayed in her seat, a smile playing on her lips as she enjoyed the music. She broke off a piece of her warm pretzel, savoring the soft buttery pretzel as her gaze swept across the growing crowd.

There was a magnificent turnout, much more than she would have expected. Her eyes flicked toward the grand doors as another group entered, her heart skipping slightly. She had been scanning the arrivals, hoping for a glimpse of Fritz. Where is he? she thought with playful impatience

She popped another bite of pretzel into her mouth, "Perhaps he’ll appear out of thin air, and do more magic tricks," she mused quietly to herself.

The violin’s tune shifted into a lively crescendo, drawing a ripple of applause from the audience. Anastasia clapped politely along with the others, the corners of her lips twitching upward. The music, the murmurs, and the energy in the room were so exciting. This was everything she and Fritz had hoped for.

Before she could take another bite of her pretzel, a small voice piped up beside her, startling her from her thoughts. "Princess Anastasia!"

She turned her head to find a small group of young girls standing near her, their wide eyes filled with awe. They were dressed in their finest, likely the best garments their families could provide, but what struck Anastasia most was the sheer admiration shining on their faces.

"You're even prettier in person!" one of them exclaimed, clasping her hands together as if seeing her was a dream come true.

"Thank you," Anastasia replied warmly, her cheeks tinting slightly as she set her pretzel aside.

Another girl stepped forward, bouncing slightly on her toes. "We came here to see you, Princess! We want to be just like you when we grow up!"

The others nodded fervently, their words tumbling out in a rush. "We heard that you're not scared of anything, even a train coming toward you on the tracks! You’re so brave!"

Anastasia blinked, momentarily stunned. She then visibly softened, tucking a stray strand of her hair behind her ear. "Oh, my sweet girls," she said, leaning forward to meet their eyes. "You’re far too kind. But you must know, it’s not always as glamorous as it seems. Being brave takes a lot of mistakes and… pretzels," she added with a playful grin, drawing giggles from the group.

As she spoke, the princess became more aware of the shifting atmosphere around her. Heads were turning in her direction, whispers spreading like wildfire through the room. The theater seemed to pause to acknowledge her presence. She felt their eyes all on her at once—some filled with awe, others with curiosity or judgment.

One of the little girls tugged gently at her sleeve. "Princess, do you think we could grow up to be important too?"

Anastasia stared at her for a moment, her smile almost faltering. Still, it held, even if only by a thin string. "You’re already important," she said firmly, "And one day, I have no doubt you’ll grow to be even more amazing than I could ever dream of being."

The girls’ faces lit up with joy and subsequently, they thanked her profusely before scurrying back to their families.


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Hidden 4 days ago Post by princess
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ATTENTION ALL PLAYERS

Interaction: @Helo @Tae @ReusableSword @Rodiak @JJ Doe @Conscripts @Infinite Cosmos @Potter @Tpartywithzombi @samreaper @Silverpaw @Inertia @FunnyGuy @SausagePat @Lava Alckon @CitrusArms @PapaOso @Apex Sunburn



ALL CHARACTERS WILL RECEIVE THE FOLLOWING FLIERS

AT SOME POINT DURING THE DAY

MANY HAVE ALREADY BEEN RECEIVING THE BANQUET FLIER

EVERY DAY FOR THE PAST TWO DAYS EVERY TIME THEY STEP OUTSIDE

AS WELL AS IN THE MAIL


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Hidden 4 days ago 4 days ago Post by princess
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Time: 11am
Location: Edin Theater
Mention: @Helo Callum @Silverpaw Wulfric @JJ Doe Morrigan


The herald's voice reverberated through the hall, commanding silence as he cleared his throat and belted, "Presenting their Majesties, King Edin and Queen Alibeth Danrose of Caesonia!"

The double doors swung open with dramatic slowness as heads turned. Many had wondered if the king and queen would attend, however not many believed they would. It was not often they made a showing, especially King Edin.

King Edin strode forward, his golden crown glinting intensely as always under the chandeliers. His embroidered cloak, edged in shimmering gold, swept the polished floor behind him. Queen Alibeth followed with graceful poise as her amber eyes flicked over the crowd.

Behind them marched an impressive amount of guards, spears upright as their loud steps moved in sync. The rhythmic clink of their boots resonated like a heartbeat in the hall. More guards stood at every exit, their eyes scanning the room constantly.

At the entrance, attendees were now facing much more scrutiny. Guards conducted thorough pat-downs, inspecting every cloak, purse, and pocket for concealed weapons. Even nobles were not spared from the procedure; the message was clear—no one would bypass security tonight.

The royal couple climbed the stairs to the viewing box. Heavy crimson velvet draped its edges, embroidered with golden filigree. The box was positioned high above the room, offering an unobstructed view of the stage while keeping the royal family far from potential danger. Stationed guards flanked every corner, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords.

Edin sank heavily into his seat, his crown tilting slightly as he leaned back, fingers drumming impatiently against the armrest. Barely settled, he waved over a staff member with an urgency that seemed misplaced for the occasion. He muttered something low and intense, sending the servant scurrying away, before slouching further into his chair.

Alibeth took her seat beside him. She adjusted the folds of her gown, her sharp amber eyes flicking toward the three empty chairs beside them. “Plenty of room here for Wulfric, Callum, and Morrigan,” she remarked coolly. “Though I suppose Callum’s absence should hardly surprise us.”

It was then the staff member returned, balancing a tray with a golden bowl of freshly popped corn with a heavy aroma of much too butter. Edin snatched it eagerly, his fingers immediately plunging into the bowl. He shoveled a handful into his mouth, chewing loudly and unapologetically as the hushed murmurs of the crowd below floated up toward the royal box.

Edin made no response to his wife's comments, his focus entirely on his popcorn. The steady crunching grated on her nerves, but she kept her composure, though her grip tightened on the arms of her chair. Her gaze lingered on him, searching for some semblance of acknowledgment.

With a sigh, she leaned forward and picked up the performance pamphlet laid neatly beside her. “Anastasia is listed last on page one,” she said, flipping through the pages, “I do hope she’s prepared. It would be... unfortunate if she planned to embarrass us.”

Still, no answer came. She cast him a sidelong glance, her expression hardening as his hand dived into the bowl again. The butter on his fingers glistened in the light, and he seemed entirely absorbed in the snack, pausing only to mutter under his breath about the need for salt.

Finally, with an audible crunch, he swallowed and leaned back in his seat. His eyes drifted lazily toward Alibeth. “Anastasia’s performing?” he asked, feigning surprise, “Well, that’ll certainly be... something.”

Alibeth’s gaze sharpened, but before she could speak Prince Auguste arrived. Her expression softened as their son greeted them respectfully and sat down, and she took his hand affectionately.

Edin merely shrugged, tossing another handful of popcorn into his mouth.



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Hidden 4 days ago 4 days ago Post by PapaOso
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Time: 10:00 AM
Location:Sorian Gallery of Fine Arts
Mention:N/A
Attire:A Suit Fit For A True Artist




The Sorian Gallery of Fine Arts shimmered under the morning glow, its marble facade illuminated by scarce golden sconces and lanterns, casting a warm halo against the intended dimly lit interior. Guests filtered into the grand foyer, an eclectic mix of noble elegance and avant-garde flair, their laughter and chatter creating a symphony of anticipation. The first hour of the gallery’s grand opening was reserved for the donors and other luminaries of the Sorian art community. Inside, the atmosphere pulsed with energy...a mingling of muted harp strings, the scent of truffle hors d’oeuvres, and the vibrant hues of Milo St. Claire’s latest masterpieces adorning the walls.

Milo himself was the centerpiece of the room, a vision of composed radiance. Draped in a tailored charcoal suit with golden accents that mirrored the gallery’s decor, he greeted every attendee with warmth and genuine interest. His blonde hair was immaculately swept back, and his hazel eyes glimmered with an almost otherworldly light. Each handshake lingered just enough to feel sincere, and his laughter resonated...deep, rich, and effortlessly charming.

“Ms. Vanderhall, you’ve outdone yourself,” he said, his voice smooth as velvet as he accepted a compliment on the gallery’s floral arrangements. “The lilies are poetry themselves, perfectly framing the elegance of my work.” He gestured toward a sprawling canvas titled Tempest’s Embrace, a cacophony of swirling blues and golds that seemed to undulate under the gallery’s soft lighting.

But Milo’s practiced composure faltered for a fraction of a second whenever he glanced at the centerpiece of the exhibit: The Mirror of Perception. The reflective installation occupied an entire alcove, its shifting surface distorting every onlooker’s image. It was mesmerizing, almost alive, drawing guests in with its haunting allure. Milo’s smile tightened every time someone praised its brilliance, though no one else seemed to notice the flicker of something darker in his eyes.

As the gallery’s pre-show hour unfolded, Milo moved through the crowd like a conductor orchestrating his symphony. At the Ivory Lounge, he leaned against the sleek bar, holding court with a group of critics and patrons. With a champagne flute in hand, he regaled them with a story about his travels in the far east, punctuating his tale with humorous asides that sent ripples of laughter through the group.

“But truly,” he said, lowering his voice to a more intimate tone, “I owe everything to you, my cherished guests. You’ve given my art a place to flourish, to truly be seen on such a grand scale. This morning belongs to each and every one of you as much as it does to me. Your presence breathes life into my chaos, transforming these pieces into something transcendent.” His words lingered, drawing the crowd closer, spellbound by his charm.

When the harpists transitioned to a delicate rendition of a familiar waltz, Milo excused himself, gliding toward the Portrait Gallery. This room was quieter, its subdued lighting casting a reverent glow over the gilded frames. He paused before a particularly striking portrait of Countess Diana Cristian, the strokes of his brush capturing both her regal poise and the vulnerability in her eyes.

“She’s stunning, isn’t she?” a voice interrupted, and Milo turned to face a young woman whose curiosity shone even brighter than her jewels.

“She is,” Milo replied with a soft smile. “A masterpiece in her own right. All I did was follow where her one of a kind essence led my hand.”

The interaction was brief but magnetic, leaving the woman lingering as Milo continued his journey through the gallery. Alone for the first time that morning, he found himself back at The Mirror of Perception. He stared into its warped surface, his reflection splitting and shifting with every subtle movement. His smile faded, replaced by an intensity that bordered on reverence. For a moment, the world around him seemed to quiet, the vibrant gallery dimming until only the mirror and his fractured image remained. His jaw tightened, and his hand clenched into a fist at his side.

Then, as if on cue, a voice from behind broke the spell. “Milo, darling! Everyone’s dying to hear about Reflections of Reverie.”

The mask slipped back into place, his golden smile returning as he turned to greet the guest. “Ah, but what’s art without a little mystery?” he teased, gesturing for them to lead the way. “Come, let us unravel it together.”

As he moved back into the crowd, the air of the gallery seemed lighter, the whispers and laughter of his guests filling the space once more. Yet the mirror remained, silently distorting the images of those who dared to look too closely.

Once the clock neared eleven, Milo was urged back to the entrance of his Portrait Gallery by the event’s esteemed organizers. Seeing as any moment now those doors would open and the rest of Sorian would flood into these halls, and the people of Caesonia would get the honored pleasure of laying their eyes on the blessings of his brilliance. Some would be awestruck by his works, others would critique them without the slightest idea of the actual majesties before them…But all would bear witness to what “Mr. Sunshine” was truly capable of.




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Hidden 3 days ago Post by JJ Doe
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Fritz "Ryn" Hendrix
Time: Sola 28 1739; Daytime Hours
Location: Edin Theater
Interaction(s)/Mention(s): @princess @Silverpaw


The organized chaos of final preparations echoed through the theater. Ryn darted between velvet curtains and gilded doorways, checking and double-checking arrangements that would ensure every guest—whether they arrived in silk finery or worn woolens—felt equally welcome within its grand walls.

Movement in the royal viewing booth caught his eye. Ryn’s smile at seeing both monarchs, and the princes, in attendance withered as he watched King Edin settle into his seat with all the enthusiasm of a man attending his own tax audit. Beside him, Lady Morrigan maintained a steady stream of cheerful conversation, her hand occasionally touching his leg when his gaze drifted toward the exit. Clearly, it had taken more than Ryn’s personal invitation to get him here.

He found Princess Anastasia tucked away in the wings, her fingers tracing invisible patterns on her dress. “Are you ready, Miss Annie?” he asked, tapping her elbow. He then gestured in the direction of the royal box. “Look who's here to see you!”

Right on cue, Lady Morrigan caught sight of them and waved enthusiastically. The king, meanwhile, had apparently discovered a heretofore unknown passion for architectural lighting fixtures. His studied ignorance of his daughter was so pointed it might as well have been a stranger sitting in the box.

Why did King Edin go to such lengths to ignore what was right in front of him?

Ryn watched Princess Anastasia’s face, noting the minute shifts in her expression and her hands. He leaned closer, pitching his voice low enough that only she could hear. “As much as I’m looking forward to your performance... you don’t have to force yourself to be here. If you need more time for yourself, that’s perfectly fine. I can fill in.” The train incident hung unspoken between them. Even without Wayra’s birds keeping watch over the city, word of her railway stunt had raced through the capital faster than the train itself.

“If you do choose to take the stage. Whatever’s been eating at you—” his eyes flickered meaningfully toward the royal box, “this is your chance to let them hear it.” He indicated her cello, knowing that music could be just as powerful as words.

“These acoustics?” Ryn pointed above them. “They’re perfect for reaching even the most determinedly distracted audiences.” And with considerably less risk than making her point standing on the tracks in front of a moving train.

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Time: 11 a.m.
Location: Edin Theater
Interaction: Fritz and Anastasia
Mention: Caseo, Bolivia, Umbrella

One might imagine Lorenzo shaking with nervousness as he was meant to prepare poetry to perform in front of so many esteemed guests, including the royal family, yet Lorenzo maintained an odd level of coolness. Perhaps it was because he was in his element. Maybe he was drunk off his “medicine” or had finally gone mad from his own antics. However, the reason for his tempered disposition this late morning was more obvious once one looked his way. It wasn’t medicine and Lorenzo was definitely not a professional performer.

It was upon his shoulder, that the black-coated ferret made his perch. Kier had finally gotten a chance to get out to support his lord on this stage. Nathaniel had advised against it but Lorenzo refused to perform without his closest friend by his side.

“I think we’re going to blow the whole capital out of the water.” Lorenzo said quietly as he petted Kier who nuzzled against his neck. And though he treasured his friendship with Kier more than anyone else, Lorenzo still had room for others. In recent days, Lorenzo had spent his time gardening alongside Ariella Edwards and had made the likes of Cassius Damien a fun drinking pal. Not only that, but Lorenzo had managed to employ Olivia to help around the estate with the gang of animals he now had on his property. He didn’t mind taking care of Kier but the garden guard of a chicken was especially fierce from time to time and he couldn’t look Champion in the face without trying to follow the lameness in his eyes. If Kier’s presence hadn’t skyrocketed his confidence, his accomplishments over a couple of days surely put him in a great mental space.

It was none other than the sound of Fritz’s gentle voice that pulled Lorenzo’s attention away from Kier, finding the Varian count conversing with Princess Anastasia. His eyebrows raised in surprise, discovering Fritz was revealing himself to be quite the pep talker. However, his surprise was quickly replaced by excitement, as the opportunity to spread his peacock feathers was right here in front of him. Impressing none other than the princess of Sorian would be quite a feat and a good warm-up for flexing his confidence.

“Of course the acoustics are perfect, Count Fritz.” Lorenzo piped up as he approached the two. “Everyone is expecting me to deliver after all… and I intend to deliver. Oh!” He pretended that he had just noticed Anastasia. “And if it isn’t the one and only, Princess Anastasia! You’re going to perform today? How splendid! If I had known, I-I would have placed myself in the front row! What a treasure that would be.”


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Time: Night of Sola 26th
Location: Summoning Chamber
Attire: None.
Interaction:
Mention:
Marek

Within a dimly candlelit chamber Alexander paced before his wheelchair-bound wife, his body free from any garments. The warm glow of the fire exposed dark symbols painted against his surprisingly toned physique. The echoes of the slow and soft patter of his bare footsteps defined the night emptiness of the location.

“My love, are you…” Lianna initiated in breaking the long silence between them but still found herself reluctant in questioning Alexander. His intentions in this moment were not what she desired. Lianna had wanted Alexander to have little interaction with magic, especially after the day she saved him from an early death. She was proof enough of the heavy consequences one could suffer from practicing the arcane. What worried Lianna just as much was the way it clung to you. One spell was never enough. Your first spell was never your last while you still drew breath.

“I am ready, my love. Just… nervous is all. Such a rare feeling.” Alexander admitted as he admired his seated wife with a smile. “But I can manage this.” He assured her and himself. Lianna bit her lower lip.

“You should remove it. The ring.” Her eyebrows furrowed with concern. She preferred he kept it worn as the small artifact kept Alexander as the same man he was before his change. The man he became without it, was a perfect agent for Marek. Cold and ruthless, lacking any semblance of a conscience. Lianna could barely tolerate him without the ring but she knew it made him uncannily strong if one could describe a lack of warmth in such a way.

Alexander knelt at her side, placing her hands in his.

“I don't have to remove it if I’m with you. I should-”

“You should!” She grasped his hand firmly as she pleaded. “If you face something without a heart, it will only seek to manipulate yours. Alexander, you need to be… You need to be what you are without the ring to commune with darkness. It's… it's the same as with the Black Rose. A good man cannot thrive amongst monsters.”

Silence followed Lianna’s words, making her unsure of how her husband received them. Her grip loosened as Alexander raised her hand to plant a tender kiss upon it.

“Keep it safe, my love. I won’t be long,” Alexander said before he removed the ring from his left hand and placed it in her grasp. And as if to say farewell for only a brief time, Alexander planted a second kiss upon her lips.

“Do what you must, my love.”

“For us, always… Always.” Alexander rose to his feet, his expression stoic with no trace of doubt. “Now…” Alexander stepped away from Lianna, walking until he was standing dead center in a white circle drawn on the chamber floor. Besides it lay a ceremonial knife decorated with an assortment of topaz crystals. Further ahead, perhaps only three paces at most, was another yet much larger circle on the floor. Unlike the one he now stood in, the circle had many drawn symbols and lit candles lining its perimeter. Mentally prepared, Alexander smirked.

“Let’s begin.” He whispered, his tone expressing his conviction. Shutting his eyes and clasping his hands with interlocked fingers before taking a seat on the ground cross-legged. He tensed slightly, feeling the cold floor against his bare skin causing goosebumps to creep across it. Taking a controlled breath, Alexander relaxed once more. Just as he practiced with Lianna, he spoke the incantation.

“Spiritus, adiuva me… veni in pactum… Tenebras te arcesso… familiarem te facio,” Alexander said softly and took his time to ensure his pronunciation was nothing but perfect.

“Spiritus, adiuva me, veni in pactum! Tenebras te arcesso, familiarem te facio!” Lianna's voice repeated loudly from behind him. Her husband’s green magicae aura determined his lack of compatibility with summoning and evocation spells, so she would offer any assistance she could manage.

“Spiritus, adiuva me, veni in pactum. Tenebras te arcesso, familiarem te facio.” Alexander repeated with more fervor. The fire of the candles surrounding the large circle began to lightly flicker and dance to his words. Still, it was not enough.

“Spiritus, adiuva me, veni in pactum! Tenebras te arcesso, familiarem te facio!”

“Spiritus, adiuva me, veni in pactum! Tenebras te arcesso, familiarem te facio!”

“Spiritus, adiuva me, veni in pactum! Tenebras te arcesso, familiarem te facio!”

“Spiritus, adiuva me, veni in pactum! Tenebras te arcesso, familiarem te facio!” The flames flickered and whipped wildly now. It was no longer every word but every syllable of the incantation uttered that forced the fire to squirm.

“Spiritus, adiuva me, veni in pactum! Tenebras te arcesso, familiarem te facio!”

“Spiritus, adiuva me, veni in pactum! Tenebras te arcesso, familiarem te facio!”

“Spiritus, adiuva me, veni in pactu-!” The room became so frigid so suddenly, Alexander stopped and opened his eyes from the instance. His shivering that had started to set in instantly ceased as his eyes caught sight of what was before him.

The candles that were once lit around the perimeter of the circle now had thin lines of smoke rising aimlessly. The other candles that remained with flame in the room barely made out the shapes of what now occupied the inside of the large circle. The small billows of smoke served to only blur the appearance of whatever Alexander had called.

Its form shifted and swayed with an unnatural flexibility in the darkness as it acclimated to the physical world. Alexander was unable to perceive the being’s face, yet he felt the moment it's eyes locked on to him. Alexander could feel a slight pressure weighing on body accompanied by the chilling cold of the room.

Just what had he brought into this world?



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PapaOso

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Flashback, Sola 26th
Ari & Milo


Dearest Lady Ariella Edwards,

I trust this letter finds you recovering well after your evening in that wretched place. It is with no small amount of amusement that I recall your charming declaration that my artistic eye is, shall we say, “rather awful.” How boldly you cut me down, and yet, with such exquisitely untamed grace...how could I possibly be offended?

But, my dear, I wonder... Have you truly glimpsed the depth of what I create? A single glance at a lone painting is akin to tasting the first drop of wine before it’s had time to bloom upon your tongue. And though I will concede that the grotesque and immature subject of my recent portrait might have left much to be desired, I must ask...did I not capture every ounce of his delusion with uncanny precision? Was it not a masterpiece in its own right, for no other reason than the audacity it required?

I would be remiss if I didn’t offer you the opportunity to see more. The gallery holds so many secrets...each piece a layer, each layer a revelation. There’s a reason art is meant to be experienced in full, under the soft glow of candlelight, with shadows shifting like whispers on the canvas. You may find that something stirs in you yet...something deeper, more visceral...if only you let yourself be drawn into my world. After all, the greatest works of art are those that provoke, that linger long after you’ve turned away.

Of course, should your opinion remain unchanged, I’ll bear the brunt of your critique once more. However, call it a hunch…or perhaps even arrogance, but I am certain that won’t be the case. Furthermore, the punishment that has been cast upon you will be far more pleasurable for us both, should we take the time to truly get to know one another.

There’s so much I could show you, far beyond the confines of any portrait. I trust you’ll follow your curiosity and let it lead you to my door. After all, the only way to know the truth of my art...and of me...is to immerse yourself in all that I have to offer.

Yours, awaiting with great anticipation,
Mr. Sunshine
Milo St. Claire


Ari set the letter down on her lap, her fingers idly tracing the edges as she mulled over her predicament. Was it worse to endure the dungeons again or sit through the agonizing stillness of being painted? She wasn’t sure, but the answer was becoming clear—this was far worse. Sitting for hours, under the scrutinizing gaze of an artist —it was almost unbearable.

The thought of the king’s portrait made her bristle. It was arrogant of anyone to think she might like what he painted. But the king's face stirred something deep within her, an unsettling mix of emotions. Still, she felt a pang of guilt for having defaced the work. Whatever her feelings about the king, it had probably taken the artist ages to complete.

Standing up, Ari’s bare toes curled into the dirt of her sanctuary, grounding her in a place that felt far more real than the painted halls of the palace. It had been too long since she had returned here. After the disaster of Drake's birthday party, especially with her mother’s sharp tongue, home was the last place she wanted to be. She needed to be in *her* home—the sanctuary she had built among the ruins.

The once-empty space was now a haven of intentional clutter. Flowers and leaves adorned the walls with delicate care, some hanging to dry, others placed purely for the joy of seeing them there. Tiny skulls and bones, remnants of animals, had been fashioned into charms that hung like talismans of protection. Her books were scattered everywhere, pages half-turned, notes and sketches drawn hurriedly in the margins—evidence of her restless mind.

With a sigh, Ari left her cove, feeling the weight of what was to come. She moved with purpose, but inside, all she could think was how desperately she wished she didn’t have to face this.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Ariella has spent most of the morning attempting to Locate his gallery. She didn’t even bother going home to clean up her appearance. Her dirty feet, grass-stained, mud-stained dress, and messy hair with random strands of grass stuck within two braids that hung down her shoulders. By all accounts, she looked poorly but for Ari, she was by far her at her happiest.

She reached the gallery door “ Milo St.Claire” gold plated on the door. She let out a sigh before pushing open the door.

Stepping inside she looked around, unable to see a single soul.

Hello? she called out.

As Ariella pushed open the door to the Sorian Gallery of Fine Arts, the quiet sound of her entrance echoed through the vast, elegant space. The gallery was an embodiment of opulence... marble floors polished to a mirror shine, soft lighting illuminating the intricate details of paintings lining the walls, and sculptures artfully placed to draw the eye. Each piece seemed carefully curated to create an atmosphere of refinement and prestige; this was a place where the finest art could truly be appreciated. The air smelled faintly of polished wood and lavender, a subtle but unmistakable mark of sophistication.

A few patrons wandered through the main hall, their hushed voices melding into the sound of footsteps against the floor. Despite the serenity, there was an undercurrent of business and formality, where even the faintest out-of-place detail could disrupt the gallery’s carefully maintained aesthetic.

To say that Ariella’s presence disrupted that very aesthetic would be the understatement of the century.

She looked nothing like the other patrons... dressed in mud-stained clothes, her feet bare and dirtied, with strands of grass clinging to her wild hair. Her braids swung loosely as she stood there in the entryway.

From the other side of the room, a sharply dressed woman in her late thirties noticed Ari immediately. Ms. Ingrid Hollis, the gallery’s lead receptionist, was an embodiment of order and propriety. Dressed in a crisp gray blazer with a matching skirt, her expression instantly soured as she took in Ari’s disheveled appearance.

Her heels clicked sharply against the marble as she made her way toward Ariella, an air of passive aggression practically radiating off of her. She forced a tight-lipped smile as she approached, her tone dripping with condescension. Excuse me, miss, but I believe you may have taken a wrong turn. This is The Sorian Gallery of Fine Arts, not the local market. She looked pointedly at Ari's bare feet. We do have certain... standards here.

Ingrid folded her arms and let her eyes drift over Ari, making no attempt to hide her distaste. Perhaps you’d like directions to a place more suited to your, ah, current condition?

Ariella's eyes looked down at her feet then back up, ready to snap back at the rather rude woman. But before Ari could respond, a smooth voice cut through the tension.

Ms. Hollis, I believe there’s been a misunderstanding, said Mr. Duval, a tall man with slicked-back, curly hair and a carefully maintained beard. He appeared behind Ingrid, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit with an air of effortless charm. Mr. Duval was Milo’s personal assistant and public relations representative...a man known for his ability to manage crises and navigate delicate social situations.

Ingrid stepped back, visibly confused by his intervention. “Mr. Duval, I...”

He held up a hand, silencing her with a firm smile. “This young woman is a special guest of Mr. St. Claire himself. There will be no further issue.” His eyes flicked to Ari with a warmth and understanding absent in Ingrid’s judgmental gaze.

Ingrid’s face blanched, and she instantly backtracked, her tone suddenly much softer. “I-I wasn’t aware. My apologies, miss.”

Mr. Duval dismissed Ingrid with a nod, turning his full attention to Ari. His voice dropped into a more conversational tone as if he were addressing a friend. “Miss Edwards, I presume? Mr. St. Claire has been expecting you.” He extended an arm toward the gallery’s inner halls. “Allow me to escort you to his lounge.”

Offering a large smile to Mr Hollis she took Mr Duval's arm with pleasure. “ Thank you, “ she said nodding to Mr Duval as they began walking through the Gallery. For added effect, Ari slapped her feet against the Marble floors as the sound echoed through the room. Leaving a muddied trail across the clean floors.

“ I didn’t expect the gallery to be so … expensive.” she added looking around at all its finery. Her mother would die knowing that she showed up to a place like this looking as she did.

Mr. Duval chuckled softly as Ariella took his arm, her enthusiasm brightening the air around them. He felt the weight of her playful mischief as she slapped her feet against the polished marble, the sound echoing like a heartbeat through the gallery. The muddied trail she left behind seemed to almost rebel against the pristine decor, a bold statement of individuality that was both charming and audacious.

“Ah, well, it seems we have a little avant-garde art of our own in the making,” he quipped, casting a sidelong glance at the trail. “Perhaps we’ll need to commission a piece entitled The Footprints of Disobedience for the gallery's next exhibit.” His tone remained light, a clear attempt to match her energy. Ariella held back a chuckle, biting her lip instead she smiled.

As they walked further into the gallery, Mr. Duval gestured to the various pieces displayed around them, each one a testament to the caliber of Milo's work. “I can assure you, Miss Edwards, that the gallery's charm isn’t merely in the price tag of its art. It’s the stories behind each piece that truly captivates. Mr. St. Claire has an unrivaled talent for capturing the essence of the human experience...much like your own journey here today.”

He paused for a moment, allowing her to take in the vibrant colors and intricate details of the paintings lining the walls, but continued after that brief moment.

As they approached a set of opulently intricate double doors, Mr. Duval’s demeanor shifted slightly, a hint of seriousness entering his tone. “If you’re ready…Mr. St. Claire has been looking forward to your arrival.”

With a graceful gesture, he pushed the doors open, revealing a comfortable lounge bathed in golden light, and adorned with plush furnishings and paintings stacked against the walls. Sunlight streamed in through tall windows, casting a warm glow that danced across the walls. At the center of it all, lounging comfortably with a glass of brandy on the rocks in hand, sat Milo St. Claire himself, a smile already spreading across his lips as he saw her enter.

"Lady Ariella Edwards," Milo greeted smoothly, rising from his seat. "I knew you'd come."

"An order from the king would encourage that," she muttered under her breath, her voice carrying just enough edge to cut through the silence. She stepped further into the room, her feet leaving a trail of dirt across the polished floor, each footprint a subtle act of defiance. Her gaze swept the room, taking in the richly upholstered chairs, the intricate details in the tapestries, and the quiet opulence that seemed to press in from every angle.

But then her attention drifted to the windows, where the world outside called to her with a pull that no amount of luxury could match. The sprawling countryside beyond the glass seemed to breathe with life, the distant fields and whispering trees alive in a way the enclosed grandeur of the room could never be. A small, wistful smile tugged at her lips. No beauty within four walls could ever compete with the freedom and raw allure of the open air.

"I'm here because of… a painting, was it? Something I'm supposed to sit for?" she asked, her voice laced with playful curiosity. Her hands swung back, fingers clasping around her arms as she rocked gently on her heels, adding a touch of endearing awkwardness to her otherwise poised stance. Her eyes sparkled with a mix of intrigue and amusement, her brow slightly furrowed as if the idea of sitting still for a portrait was entirely foreign.

Milo’s smile widened at Ariella's cutting remark, clearly relishing her defiance. He watched with keen interest as she glanced longingly at the world outside, her small smile not lost on him. There was a wildness to her, something unrestrained, that was as captivating as it was refreshing amidst the gallery’s orderly grandeur.

He took a leisurely sip of his brandy, his eyes never leaving her. "Oh, indeed," he said, his voice rich with amusement. "The king can be quite… persuasive when he wishes. But I assure you, my dear Ariella, this is no mere task assigned to you out of obligation… It is meant to be penitence, after all."

Rolling her eyes and letting out a sigh, Ariella gave him a smug smile. Setting his glass down with a soft clink, he moved forward, his steps measured and smooth, closing the distance between them with a casual ease. Milo’s presence seemed to fill the room; he had a way of making even the largest of spaces feel intimate, as if there were no one else in the world but the two of them. Giving her a once-over now that they stood so close, Milo smiled as he spoke.

"My name isn’t dear, it’s Ari," she quipped back. "Do you think I’d be here had you demanded anything? The king required me to be here. I would be much happier elsewhere, but I’d rather not spend another evening in the dungeon."

Her mood seemed to have shifted from the carefree demeanor she had earlier in the day. Something about Milo St. Claire seemed to bring that out of her. Crossing her arms, she added, "Do we have to do it in here?" she asked defiantly, watching as he continued to eye her. "Artists love the outdoors, no? Perhaps we could just find a nice field, and you can just paint while I…" She looked around the room. "Not be in here," she said, offering him another smile.

The artist’s smile softened, a hint of amusement flickering across his face as he studied her, taking in the shift in her demeanor with clear intrigue. His gaze lingered, dark and assessing, as he leaned back slightly. The intensity in his eyes shone through, though his perfected congeniality never faltered.

“Ari,” he repeated, the name slipping off his tongue like a promise. “So quick to forget we’re well past formalities. You did, in fact, vandalize a piece of art that would be worth millions on the market. A night in the dungeon and a free portrait are hardly severe punishments. Perhaps you just enjoy showing me you’re difficult to please.”

Crossing her arms, Ari squinted at him. “I am not hard to please. I’m rather easy to please.” She looked at him through the corner of her eye. “I just don’t like formalities, but if you're more comfortable with them, you may call me Lady Edwards. I also don’t agree that a canvas with some paint on it is worth more than my freedom, but I suppose that is where we disagree.”

He tilted his head, the dim, warm light casting shadows across his face as he seemed to consider her proposal. “The king may have brought you here, but don’t fool yourself,” he continued, his voice a deep murmur that somehow still held command. “You came to me. Your presence here… your stubborn, defiant presence… is no one’s decision but your own.” Her eyes drifted back to the large windows, counting the moments until she could leave.

A smirk touched his lips, and he stepped closer, closing that small distance again. “You want to be outside?” he mused, his voice calm, almost teasing. He let the suggestion hang there, a subtle challenge in his tone, before leaning just a bit closer, his gaze unwavering. “Besides, a field would be too… ordinary for you, wouldn’t it?” His eyes flickered with curiosity, as though seeing something intriguing in her just beneath the surface. Ari glanced back at him as she noted his intense look at her.

“How about this, Lady Edwards… Pick your most beloved place in all of Sorian, in town or out in the wilds, it matters not. Wherever you decide, I’ll paint you there.”

She couldn’t invite him to her secret spot—that was her favorite place—but there was a close second. “Lovers Lake,” she said without hesitation. “It’s one of my favorite places—the lake, the colors, the smell… everything. It’s beautiful.” She smiled at him. “Thank you…” she said softly, appearing to relax.

“So… does that mean you’ll be painting it today? I don’t know the artistic process, if I’m honest.”
Milo's gaze lingered on her as she described the lake, her voice softening with the memory of it, a spark of genuine fondness breaking through her defiant edge. He allowed a small smile, amused by the unexpected glimpse into her softer side. But, as her question lingered in the air, he tilted his head, letting the moment stretch a bit before answering.

“Unfortunately, Lady Edwards,” he began, his voice low, a trace of regret woven in, “the gallery’s launch in a couple of days leaves me with little freedom at the moment. My time, it seems, is bound to too many demands. But…” he let his words hang, leaning in a bit closer, “I’m sure we can arrange a way to meet again. After all, how else am I to capture the essence of the elusive Ariella Edwards if I’m not to exist in her aura for a time?”

Ari perked up “A launch? Oh! I’m sorry when I got your letter I assumed … I’m sorry.” she paused looking down at her feet “Oh…That explains that lady in the lobby.” she laughed nervously. “What about sketches though? I figured this painting would have been an afternoon thing.”

He brushed off her comment about sketches with an amused, almost dismissive wave. “Sketches? I’m flattered by your concern, but I’m afraid I’ve moved far beyond such basics. When the time comes, I won’t need sketches to see you...just the brilliance of my eye and the mastery of my hands. You’ll simply have to trust my expertise.” A soft challenge entered his eyes. “And if trust doesn’t come easily, well…Perhaps I can find ways of earning it.”

He held her gaze, his expression playful yet intense, letting the words settle before adding, “Until we can escape to the lake, perhaps we can take advantage of a few moments here and there, getting to know each other. I imagine, in that time, you may find me far less a tyrant than you think.” His smile returned, a touch wicked. “Or perhaps more of one.”

Ari hummed thoughtfully, rocking back and forth on her heels with a mischievous glint in her eye. She cast a sideways glance at him, feigning casualness before fully turning her attention his way. "If you consider yourself a tyrant," she teased, her lips curling into a playful grin, “you clearly haven’t met my mother. She's a whole different league."

Her smile softened, warm and inviting. "You know," she continued, "I imagine sitting for a portrait wouldn’t feel half as daunting if I were acquainted with the artist.” She let her gaze wander around the room, admiring the paintings on the walls with genuine curiosity. “One of the gentlemen gave me a little tour on my way here," she mused, before leaning forward with an almost conspiratorial smile. "But maybe you could give me a private one?"

She paused, giving him a look of mock defeat. "Of course, if you're too busy with the grand opening, I wouldn’t dream of imposing." Her voice carried a hint of wistfulness as if her request were just a whisper of a wish. "I could always return another time."

“Today,” he began, his voice softening with amusement as he studied her expression, “I may be the busiest man in the entire world.” He paused, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly with intrigue. “But don’t think for a moment I’d be too busy for you.”

With that, he extended his hand toward her, the invitation clear in his gaze. “Come along then, Lady Edwards.” His tone was teasing, but his offer carried a hint of intimacy, a thread of sincerity woven beneath the playful charm. “After all, it’s only fair you get to know the man behind the work if you’re to trust his talent. Consider this…a little prelude to the lake. Plus, given your thoughts on my kingly portrait…I simply can’t wait to hear your critique of the rest of my work.”

“Oh, the busiest man in the entire world?” she echoed, her tone rich with mock surprise. “Well, I’d hate to be the one to distract you from such important duties.” Her voice was teasing, but there was a glint of curiosity in her eyes.

Finally, she unfolded her arms and placed her hand in his, her fingers warm and light in his grasp. “But who am I to turn down an invitation from such a busy man?” Her smile softened, a hint of sincerity slipping through her playful tone.

“And don’t worry—I’ll be sure to give my critique, fair and honest as always. Just know that I’ll hold you to that promise of the lake. I may be a lot of things, but I’m certainly not one to forget a promise.” With that, she inclined her head, a mischievous twinkle in her eye as she allowed him to lead the way.

Milo’s fingers closed lightly over hers, his grip confident yet unhurried, as though there was all the time in the world despite the mountains of preparation yet to be done over the next few days before the launch. With a faint curve to his lips, he led her toward a specific section of the space, where the soft hum of conversation and footsteps between the workers and those who had found their way with early passes faded into the background.

He paused before a smaller doorway, stepping aside to let her enter first. “Prepare yourself, Lady Edwards,” he said, his voice low with a hint of playful warning, “for here lies the true heart of my work. I suspect it may surprise you.”

He glanced back at her, his smirk unmistakable, before removing the cover from a painting next to them. It was rather large, so much so that shadows seemed to crawl out from its very edges, wrapping around the figure barely visible at the center. “The Whisper,” he said, his voice quieter now, his hand resting lightly on the frame. “A personal favorite of mine. It’s not meant to be comfortable. Art, after all, isn’t always kind. Sometimes, it reminds us of what we’d rather not see.”

“What do you think, Little Miss Chaos? Too much darkness? Or perhaps…” His lips curled into a teasing smile. “…just enough?” Milo stepped back, studying the piece for a moment before glancing at her again.

Ariella tilted her head, her eyes narrowing slightly as she took in the painting. “Chaos suits me, doesn’t it?” she teased, her voice laced with playful defiance. “But this… it’s not just dark. It’s something else. Like it’s alive.” Her voice softened, a flicker of genuine admiration creeping in as her gaze lingered on the piece.

Milo moved suddenly, with purpose, toward another painting. With a fluid motion, he pulled the cover away, revealing a piece of art that seemed to pulsate with its own raw energy. It was a vast, sprawling canvas, dominated by shades of deep crimson and bruised purples. The scene was fragmented yet cohesive: a faceless figure emerging from a churning sea of hands, some grasping, others reaching, as though in desperation or prayer. The edges of the painting dissolved into shadow, giving the impression of something endless and consuming.

“I call this one The Weight of Wanting,” Milo murmured, stepping back so she could take it in. “Desire, hunger, need... It devours as much as it sustains. It’s beautiful in its tragedy, don’t you think?”

Ariella's breath hitched as she absorbed the painting's intensity. “It’s… haunting,” she admitted, her tone softer now, almost reverent. “But there’s something… painfully human about it. Like it’s holding up a mirror no one wants to look into.”

He didn’t wait for her response, instead moving to the next canvas. With a sharp tug, he unveiled a smaller but no less striking piece. This one was painted in stark black and bone white, depicting a skeletal tree growing out of a pile of crumbling masks. From its branches hung fragments of broken mirrors, each reflecting distorted, mournful faces.

“Truth’s Bloom,” he explained, his tone quieter now. “It grows from the lies we tell ourselves, feeding on what we try to bury. But the truth always finds a way to emerge. Sometimes it’s ugly. Sometimes it’s... unforgiving.” His eyes lingered on the piece for a long moment before flicking back to her.

Ariella’s gaze was fixed on the painting, her expression unreadable. “The masks… they’re us, aren’t they?” she said softly, almost as if to herself. “We wear them, thinking they’ll protect us. But in the end, they just crumble.” She turned to him, her eyes meeting his. “It’s raw. Honest. And, yes, unforgiving.”

Milo moved to the next painting, his hand brushing the fabric of its cover as he paused. “This one…” His voice dropped, carrying a weight that hadn’t been there before. “This one is closer to me than most.” He pulled the cover away with slow precision, revealing a hauntingly intimate work.

A single figure sat alone in a cavernous, empty room. The walls loomed with shadows that seemed to shift and crawl, swallowing the light that trickled through a cracked window. The figure’s face was turned away, but their posture spoke of crushing grief, of a burden too heavy to bear. Around their feet lay scattered items... a broken violin, a wilted rose, a small, tattered book... each rendered with exquisite, painful detail.

“Elegy for the Living,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s about those we lose, yes, but also the parts of ourselves that die along with them.” He glanced at her, his stormy hazel eyes searching hers. “Do you see it, Lady Edwards? The beauty in the breaking? The truth in the ache?”

The room felt heavier now, as if the paintings themselves had filled it with their collective sorrow, longing, and fragile hope. Milo stepped closer to her, his expression unreadable. “Each of these,” he said, his voice low, “is a piece of my soul. The side of me that doesn’t bow to kings, smile to the masses, or entertain salons. It’s raw, and it’s uncomfortable, and it’s real. But isn’t that what art is meant to be?”

Ariella tilted her head, her vibrant red hair catching the light as she studied The Whisper, her green eyes narrowing with a mixture of curiosity and something softer. She stepped closer, standing on her tiptoes to get a better look, as though the height might offer her some secret insight. Her fingers twitched at her sides, wanting to trace the shadows on the canvas but knowing better than to touch.

“Darkness isn’t always a bad thing,” she murmured, her voice unusually quiet. “Sometimes it just… feels honest. Like this.” She glanced at Milo out of the corner of her eye, trying to suppress the hint of awe tugging at her expression. “It’s… different. Portraits show faces, sure, but this shows something. Something I can’t quite name.”

When he unveiled The Weight of Wanting, Milo watched her closely, a faint smirk playing on his lips as her breath hitched and she leaned in again, her arms crossing loosely over her chest.

“It’s a lot,” she admitted after a pause, her tone laced with reluctant admiration. “Not too much, though. It makes you feel, and that’s… unexpected.” She wrinkled her nose, trying to mask her intrigue with indifference. “It’s not like those grand, dull paintings of kings that just sit there looking smug.”

As Milo moved to the next piece, Truth’s Bloom, he noted her reaction with quiet satisfaction. She tilted her head again, her hair brushing against her cheek, and frowned—not with displeasure but with thoughtfulness—as her eyes flitted over the skeletal tree and the shattered reflections.

“It’s haunting,” she said softly, standing back on her heels for a moment before rising again onto her toes, as if trying to see more of the hidden faces in the broken mirrors. “Like it knows something we don’t.” She hesitated, glancing at him. “Why do you hide these?” she asked, her voice betraying her genuine curiosity.

“They’re not like anything else I’ve seen, Milo. They… make you look twice. Portraits don’t do that.”
When the last cover was removed, revealing Elegy for the Living, Ariella stilled completely. She didn’t step forward this time, instead hugging her elbows as she gazed at the figure in the painting. Her throat tightened, and she pressed her lips together, determined not to let the ache it stirred show on her face.

“It’s lonely,” she finally said, her voice barely above a whisper. “And heavy. Like the kind of sadness you carry because you don’t know how to put it down.” She paused, her gaze flickering to the broken violin. “It’s beautiful, though. In a way that hurts.”

She looked at him then, really looked, her eyes searching his face for answers. “Why would you want to hide these parts of yourself?” she asked, her tone soft but insistent. “You say they’re uncomfortable, but they’re… alive. These aren’t just paintings—they feel something. They make you feel something.” Her cheeks flushed as she realized how earnest she sounded, and she quickly added, “Not that I’m saying I like them, of course. Just… that they’re not what I expected.”

Ariella stepped back, her arms still crossed, though her expression softened as she glanced at the paintings again. “You’re right, though,” she said quietly. “Art isn’t supposed to bow or smile. It’s supposed to leave something behind. And this…” She gestured to the room, her voice trailing off. “…it does that.”

Milo tilted his head slightly, as though considering her words. His hazel eyes gleamed with a flicker of something unreadable…mischief, perhaps, or maybe satisfaction. He took a measured step closer, the soft rustle of his silk shirt filling the pause between them.
“Hiding them?” he echoed, his tone low, carrying the weight of his amusement. “Oh, Lady Edwards, far from it. These”...he gestured to the haunting collection around them... “are about to be laid bare for the world to see. Every shadow, every fractured reflection, every ache I’ve poured onto these canvases will be spread before Sorian’s prying, judgmental eyes.”

His hand grazed the edge of Elegy for the Living, his touch deliberate but reverent. “But now that you’ve seen them first,” he murmured, his voice softening, “I can’t help but feel as though this moment belongs to us alone. A secret, just for you and me, before the masses try to make sense of it all...or worse, twist it into something it’s not.”

Milo’s eyes lingered on her, sharp and searching, as though he was committing her expression to memory. Then, his lips curved again, this time into something warmer, less guarded. “Let Sorian see them,” he continued, his voice more than resolute. “Let them try to wrap their minds around the weight and the shadows. But whatever they take from these pieces, it won’t compare to this...to witnessing you standing here, raw and unfiltered, letting them truly and wholly wash over you.”

Ari's gaze admired the paintings, her eyes tracing the intricate details as though unable to tear herself away. The intensity of her focus was palpable, as if each brushstroke held some unspoken truth. A soft chuckle escaped her lips, a fleeting sound that danced through the quiet room, followed by a smile that curved playfully across her face. But then, something shifted—like a cloud passing over the sun. The smile faltered, fading into a quiet sorrow as a thought seemed to settle in her mind. Her eyes, bright and full of life only moments before, clouded with realization.

"Sorian doesn’t like the strange and unusual," she murmured, her voice tinged with a mix of resignation and quiet bitterness. "They much rather you wear shoes and curtsy to every demand." Her shoulders, once poised with an air of casual confidence, sagged in defeat, as if the weight of her words had taken their toll. "It’s a shame that these will likely be scrutinized…."

Her eyes shifted from the paintings to their creator, a flicker of something unspoken passing between them before she spoke again, her tone softer now. "I like the strange and unusual though," she added, a spark of warmth returning to her gaze as it once again found its way to the artwork before her. The smile that bloomed on her lips this time was genuine, albeit tinged with a bittersweet fondness. "You paint portraits and landscapes, but I think these are the most honest I’ve seen."

A soft sigh escaped her, as though she had been holding her breath for far too long. Slowly, she took a step back, her body relaxing as she clasped her hands in front of her, the motion almost meditative. "At first, I thought you might paint me like you did the portrait of the king," she said, her voice trailing off with a touch of uncertainty. "But now… I hope you do something like this."


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Hidden 1 day ago 1 day ago Post by Tpartywithzombi
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Tpartywithzombi “Strong women are absolutely unpredictable.”

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Flashback, Sola 27th
Ariella Edwards

Darkness. Unease. Whispers.

Ariella paced barefoot through the woods, the cool earth clinging to her feet and leaving a faint trail of disturbed dirt behind her. Her usual carefree glow, the lighthearted energy that often radiated from her, had faded into something distant and strained. Worry etched itself deeply into her features, her furrowed brow and the way she bit her lip betraying the weight of her thoughts.

The early part of the afternoon had been a pleasant distraction. She had spent it with Lorenzo, learning the subtleties of gardening and the intricate language of plants. His knowledge was vast, and his patient explanations had given her a new appreciation for the natural world. Together, they had shared techniques, ideas, and quiet moments of camaraderie, and Ariella found herself savoring his company as much as the knowledge he imparted.

For a few days, the simplicity of working the soil and tending to plants had offered her a welcome reprieve from the heaviness she carried. But as the sun began its descent and the forest around her darkened with the golden hues of late afternoon, that weight returned with a vengeance. It was an invisible, unrelenting pressure pressing down on her chest a feeling she couldn’t quite name but couldn’t ignore.

Her pacing quickened as her thoughts swirled, tangled and unresolved. Despite the warmth of the memories she had made with Lorenzo, something deeper loomed in her mind, a shadow that refused to be shaken.
Something had changed.

The day Callum spoke about, finding the shadowed figure and something else. She could feel it. Her toes dug deeper into the dirt as she crouched down, holding onto her legs as her arms wrapped around them holding onto herself tightly. Her eyes shut as she relaxed her body listening closely.

"Arielllllla..."

"Ariella..."

The voice was faint, but it sliced through the din of her thoughts with an eerie clarity. Her eyes flew open, her pulse quickening as she instinctively braced herself against the ground. One hand caught on the thick dirt, grounding her as she scanned the woods with a frantic gaze. But there was nothing no movement, no figure in the shadows. Only the whispering trees and the soft rustle of leaves carried by the wind.

The sound had felt so real, so close, as if her name had been plucked from her soul and spoken aloud. Yet, she was alone.
Swallowing hard, Ariella shifted, lowering herself onto her knees. Her palms pressed firmly into the earth, as if anchoring herself to something solid might steady the sudden storm of unease inside her. The cool soil grounded her, its rough texture pressing into her skin a reminder of where she was—here, in the woods, surrounded by the hum of nature.

She drew in a slow, deliberate breath, her chest rising and holding the air until it almost burned. Shutting her eyes, she let her other senses sharpen. Her ears strained to pick up even the faintest sound, her body attuned to every vibration around her.
The forest seemed to still in response, its usual symphony of life fading into a quiet that was almost unnatural. All she could do now was listen—listen for the voice that had spoken her name, listen for the wind to carry its secrets once more.

Ariella…..

Ariellaaaaaaaaa….

The voice continued to call to her, speaking her name in only whispers on the wind. The voice continued to call out to her, its voice dark and melodic. What was calling her? She had felt a shift, she knew something had changed. Her connection to the earth tilting on its balance. Something was coming and it wanted her.

Ari’s eyes opened slowly as she felt the chill in the air tickle her skin with anticipation. She pulled the Starcatcher book in front of her. She looked down at the book with bated breath as her fingers fiddles nervously on her lap. The protection spell on Callum had worked, the effigy she had made was burned and dusted in soot. She found it when she first came to her little hideaway. Thankfully it hadn’t caught fire or many of her books would have gone in flame. She picked it up in her hand as it laid idly beside her, parts of Twiggs falling and crumbling in her hand. What kind of magic had he unleashed that caused the spell to trigger? She looked down at the idle inquisitively before setting it back down.

Opening Star Catcher, she landed on a page she had been attempting to try for what felt like years. Nervous, something holding her back from knowing, Ari stared down at the page with apprehension.

Interpreting Your Magicae

“Be aware that magicae can change as your ambitions and life circumstances evolve. Regular self-reflection and personal growth can influence your magicae over time.” Ari read out loud as her finger trailed across the page of the book.

Ariella’s gaze remained fixed on the book as if the answers might leap from the pages into her mind. She took the tome in her hands, the weathered leather binding cool against her fingertips, and rose to her feet. Crossing the short distance to the creek that bisected her secluded camp, she knelt beside the water, her skirts brushing against the soft earth.

The creek was narrow but deep, its crystalline surface reflecting the flicker of sunlight filtering through the dense canopy above. At around four feet deep, it was just enough to immerse herself while keeping her head comfortably above the surface. She ran her fingers over the text again, mentally checking off the necessary details.

The book had advised bringing a second person to assist in the ritual, but Ariella dismissed the idea with a quiet sigh. Trust was a rare commodity in her life, and while Cal would have been her first choice, he had been unusually preoccupied. He’d spent time with her recently, reminiscing about the chaos of her brother’s party and laughing over her mother’s antics. Yet even those moments of levity had been tinged with the weight of his responsibilities. His mention of a looming meeting with the Queen and warnings about the growing fear of magic had left her unsettled.

The threat of hunts returning made this endeavor all the more risky, but the idea of joining a coven was too alluring to resist. If she were to find a place among them, she needed to be prepared. Ariella glanced at the shimmering water, her reflection rippling back at her, and set her jaw with quiet determination. This was a risk she would have to face alone.

Ariellaaaaa...

There it was again—that inexplicable sensation tugging at the edges of her consciousness, pulling her out of her spiraling thoughts. The air grew heavier, prickling her skin with a chill that ran deeper than the crisp breeze. Something was calling her, faint but insistent, stirring a mix of unease and intrigue.

Ariella inhaled deeply, steadying herself as she took a tentative step into the cold, moving stream. The water swirled around her ankles, biting at her skin like icy tendrils. Her gaze dropped to the uneven creek bed, her steps slow and deliberate to avoid slipping on the moss-slick stones. With each step deeper into the stream, the chill climbed higher, sending shivers coursing through her body.
Finally, she knelt, flinching as the freezing water splashed against her thighs, seeping through the fabric of her clothes and sending another shudder up her spine. Carefully, she placed the book on the grassy edge of the creek, its leather cover glinting faintly in the sunlight. Her knees pressed into the creek’s rocky floor, and she slowly lowered herself, the cold water rising over her chest, stealing her breath for a moment.

Her crimson hair spilled out around her as the current caught it, twisting and twirling in fluid spirals. The fiery strands danced against the stream’s gentle push, a stark contrast to the crystalline water. Fully submerged now, Ariella felt the weight of the water press against her, a strange stillness settling over her as if the creek were holding its breath along with her.

Ariella drew in a deep, steadying breath, her eyes falling shut as she fought to silence the persistent voices echoing in her mind. Their call was relentless, but she focused on pushing them away, forcing her thoughts to still. “Magicis facultatem,” she murmured, the phrase rolling softly off her tongue. She repeated it, her voice a whisper carried away by the current as she grew more comfortable with the incantation.

With each repetition, her body began to relax, tension melting away as she sank into a tranquil state. The icy chill of the water dissipated, replaced by an unexpected warmth that radiated outward from her core. Slowly, she opened her eyes, startled but entranced by the sight that greeted her. A vibrant yellow light shimmered in the water, glowing softly as it swirled and pooled around her submerged form, moving with an almost sentient grace.

“Magicis facultatem,” she repeated, her voice steadier now. The golden light began to pulse, rhythmic and hypnotic, perfectly synchronized with the steady thrum of her heartbeat. Ariella watched in wonder as the color grew brighter, its energy palpable, filling the stream with a vibrant glow.

But as the golden light danced, a creeping darkness began to stir at the edges. Black tendrils of ink slithered into the yellow glow, curling and twisting like serpents. They encircled the light, creating a sharp contrast that was both mesmerizing and ominous. The blackness seemed to devour the edges of the yellow hue, inching closer with each heartbeat.

Ari’s brow furrowed, a flicker of unease breaking through her focus as she felt the energy shift. Her aura darkened, transforming into a shadowy blend of the two opposing forces. The pulsing energy around her shifted, releasing a strange, almost sentient glow a shadowed aura of yellow and black, pulsing in unison like a living heartbeat. The water itself seemed to hold its breath, the once-calm stream now alive with the chaotic interplay of light and shadow.

“…Dark magic,” she whispered, the words escaping her lips like a secret she wasn’t sure she should remember. The phrase felt foreign yet familiar as if echoing from a place buried deep within her memory—a place she hadn’t dared to explore.

Her heart quickened as the words lingered in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. She couldn’t recall ever casting dark magic. Could she? The thought stirred unease, her mind racing to piece together fragments of something distant and elusive. Shadows of memory tugged at the edges of her consciousness, tantalizingly close yet maddeningly out of reach.

She stared into the water, her reflection distorted by the rippling current. The face staring back at her felt like a stranger’s, familiar yet shadowed by something unseen.

She needed answers.


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Hidden 11 hrs ago Post by SilverPaw
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SilverPaw

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Attire: Theater fit
Date and Time: Sola 28th, Late morning
Location: Theater
Mention(s): @princess Anastasia, @JJ Doe Fritz, @FunnyGuy Lorenzo
Interaction(s):
Wulfric arrived at the theater shortly after Auguste. For all the grandeur of the venue, food and drinks were abound. People feasted with the fervour of ravenous beasts, kernels of popcorns and crumbs of bread littering the floors before the event had even begun.

A travesty to the arts.

He understood it was for charity, but in the name of the Gods, there were other ways to make a profit. However, seeing how popular the convenience of snacks paired with entertainment was, he could hardly argue with the strategy’s success.

As for himself, he refrained from purchasing any of the refreshments, and instead had a servant deposit a moderate sum into one of the donation boxes. He ascended up to the VIP box with measured steps, and greeted each occupant upon his arrival. “I thought you would be down there with Anastasia,” he commented to Auguste as he sat next to him.

His brother chuckled in that lightly sheepish way of his. “I couldn’t embarrass our sister on her big day too much, could I?” More quietly, he added, “She will be alright.” The hand that wasn’t being held hostage by his mother tightened on his seat rest.

The brothers shared a meaningful look. They had both spoken to Anastasia after the train incident, though Wulfric had been too furious and worried at once to say much to her other than to admonish her for being so reckless. He had heard from Auguste what he had learned her reasons, though, and frankly, was not certain he yet understood. Why in the blazes would she feel compelled to stand in front of a train as an expression of her freedom? Though his brother assured him that didn’t seem to be the case, Wulfric developed the fear that Anastasia might be suicidal. He had ordered his spies and select servants to be even more mindful of her.

Speaking of, his sister had been joined by Count Hendrix, and the two were looking towards them. Morrigan was waving energetically, while Auguste gave a less spastic, friendly wave. Wulfric nodded towards Anastasia, sharply studying the count’s closeness to her. He simply appeared to be matching her affectionate, casual manner, however. The first prince could trust the charity was in good hands if the count was the one handling the founds. Of course, there would be some perfunctory inspection and oversight of the proceeds, but unlike Deacon’s planned future event, he wasn’t worried about this one.

Naturally, it was just as he thought as much that Fate, mischievous as she was, proved him wrong. Lorenzo Vikena sidled up to his sister. “Vikena,” he hissed under his breath, and had to grab onto his seat to stop himself from bolting up. To have that unstable man in Anastasia’s vicinity when she was in such a strange state…

The duke had told him of his desire to die. What if his affliction somehow infected Anastasia?! Damn it, that blasted man better not give her any worse ideas. A spiteful part of him hoped that silly ferret of his would get snapped up by the Shahzade’s falcon.

She will be alright, he tried to convince himself. Even if she wasn’t, he was right there, keeping watch. He couldn’t always be there, but he was today. That would have to be enough.
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