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humans4vampires · 3 years

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1938 Debut

So, my Secret Santa for @teamlesbianbella turned into something way more than I anticipated! Your very frequent asks have now been answered. For your reading pleasure, I give you another short from Rosalie. And before I get the pitchforks and torches at my inbox requesting more, you should know, I am totally working on more as we speak.

I love you all and so appreciate your love for me. Enjoy the read and please do tell me what you think! Any requests of what else you’d like to see in this series would be wonderful guidance.

If you’re reading this series of mine for the very first time - or just want quick access to the first short - you can click this link right here: 1977 Homecoming

1938 Debut

“You’re a vision, darling,” Carlisle beamed, a hand extended toward me as I moved to greet him at the base of the stairs. Our hands met and he twirled me gently to admire my dress. I was glad French fashion was on the decline; the hemlines and necklines were quite a bit more conservative than that of the 20’s, and I’d only experienced that decade as a child. I had never had the chance to flatter my figure with such a silhouette. I turned to face the gilded mirror on the wall.

“It’s perfect, Carlisle,” I smiled. “Thank you.”

We both stood in front of our reflections, wide smiles gracing our perfect faces. I swayed softly, urging the delicate, aubergine satin to ripple with the movement. I admired each detail; the way the supple satin melted to my curves, how the translucent chiffon ruffled tenderly across the dramatic swoop of the sweetheart neckline and over my exquisite shoulders. My golden hair was pinned up in intricate swirls, leaving my décolletage exposed. I ran a finger over my collarbones in a swift line. I’d never seen anything more beautiful and elegant. Was it vain to think it so?

“Perhaps,” Edward was suddenly beside us in the mirror’s reflection. “Even if it is true.”

His tone, as always, was glib. But his expression seemed sincere. Carlisle turned to him, an ever-hopeful smile budding on his lips. Edward did not turn to meet his gaze. His eyes remained locked on mine. A handsome crooked smile crossed his expression as he opened a flat, velvet box.

“I thought this might suit you,” Edward shrugged lightly. We were still watching each other in the reflection. I gazed down at the exquisite string of pearls he held in his hands.

I met his amber eyes again, Your mother’s pearls?

Edward nodded, hearing my unspoken words. “A gift, if you’ll accept?”

My expression matched my disbelief and Edward laughed. The sound was warm and enticing. His eyes were gentle when he spoke.

“Something this beautiful deserves to be worn,” he said simply. “They were not created to stay shut up in a box.”

Though I would never voice it, Edward was incredibly thoughtful. Somehow, I felt it was beyond his gifts; as if he would have done this had he not been able to read my mind. Despite our often tumultuous relationship, I was grateful for my brother. Though, I’d never voice it.

He laughed again as he read back each of my thoughts. Edward handed the box to Carlisle and removed the pearls, holding them up with a questioning expression. I nodded once and turned my attention back to my own reflection. I refocused my thoughts on myself as he moved to clasp the pearls around my neck. I was distracted when our eyes met, amber to amber, in the mirror again.

“Thank you,” I said softly. I was amazed at the intensity of emotion that was evident in my voice.

Edward nodded, smiling again his beautiful, crooked smile in acknowledgement. A distant crack of thunder rolled miles away, the flash of the lightning passing through the panes of the window at the same moment, pulling our attention to the sound of the storm.

“It’s getting closer,” Carlisle noted. “Do you think it will make landfall?”

Edward shrugged, “Improbable. I’ve heard it’s curving toward the sea.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Carlisle agreed. “A storm hasn’t landed in Massachusetts in nearly the last century.”

“Though, we should consider that it has already made a strange and unexpected new course up the parallel of the Eastern Atlantic Coast,” I added.

Another crash of thunder seemed to affirm my comment. We were each calculating the distance of the storm when Esme made her entrance. Still deep in thought, Carlisle turned to greet her, as if on instinct. Their eyes met and broke Carlisle’s concentration. Esme glided down the stairs, her deep blue dress dancing around her as she moved to Carlisle’s side. I was sure Edward could feel it too; it was as if the atoms in the air were charged with a new electricity, as if some sort of strange magnetism collided between Carlisle and Esme as they reunited. They kissed tenderly. My eyes flitted to Edward and away in an instant.

I tried to stop my incessant thoughts of love, but it was difficult when the pinnacle of devotion was flaunted in front of me. Not that it bothered me. No, rather it teased me, giving me hope that there was still that kind of affection waiting for me. But it scared me, too. What if I never found it? What if I missed it somehow? What if I was destined to find it some millennia from now? If I had just this one hope for happiness in this never-ending, never-changing eternity, how was I to live not knowing if it was just a futile prayer?

I felt a rush of embarrassment as I thought of the fleeting wish that often crossed my mind: If only Carlisle had been right, how satisfying it would have been to have come into this new life to find my truest love. He thought me destined for Edward. Carlisle thought only of our intended happiness; two beautiful souls plucked from their bright futures like stars streaming across the night sky, only to burn too fast, too hot, meeting their untimely deaths. It would have made for a perfect love story… if only he’d been right.

Edward pretended he hadn’t heard my thoughts. I sighed, taking his arm that he had extended out to me.

“Shall we go then?” Edward raised his brows. I cleared my throat, joining Edward in his taunt to our parents. We made a show of averting our eyes.

They separated themselves then, Esme fixing her lipstick before she slid on her gloves. “Yes, thank you, Edward.” She said, sheepishly.

We left the house with inhuman speed as we rushed through the rain to the carriage house. Of course, carriages were long-gone and ours was the home of our –well, my– treasured 1937 Cadillac Fleetwood Series 75. Edward held the door for me as I slid across the leather seat of the back row. Esme joined me before Carlisle and Edward moved to sit in the front seat. As always, I was disappointed that I would not be driving. I hoped desperately that the future decades would give women more social liberties. How was it that it was uncouth for a woman to drive in the company of men? I knew more about cars and mechanics than any man.

Edward looked at me through the reflection in the rear-view. “You can drive us home.”

I smiled widely in acknowledgment.

Edward started the car and the pleasing rumble changed his expression. A smug smile bent my expression.

“I’m impressed,” he said, assessing the improvements I had made to the engine. “Tell me what you did.”

We carried on the conversation as he drove us deeper into the city. The streets were nearly flooded with the deluge of rain, yet Edward expertly drove at top-speed until we had reached The Copley Plaza. It was strange; I felt a pang of anxiousness as we pulled into the line of cars waiting for the valet. I tugged at the finger tips of my gloves, fidgeting with my growing discomfort as we came closer to the grand, red awnings of the hotel.

Esme placed a hand over both of mine and turned to face me. “Sweetheart,” she murmured. “Don’t be nervous. You have exceptional self-control.”

Carlisle turned in his seat, facing me, too. “We’ll be with you every moment,” he assured me. “But if you’re not ready, I understand. Edward can take you home—”

I shook my head quickly to reject him, “Of course not.” I stopped my nervous motions and squared my shoulders. “I’m more than ready.”

I saw my reflection in my father’s eyes. Suddenly, I saw the earnestness that was always there in his amber eyes echoed in my own. The same compassion for mortality was present in me. I was certain I would make it through my first human event without any catastrophes – or casualties. In many ways, this night felt like my debut into society.

I’d not been out for a formal event since my engagement party. My human memories of the experience were fading, which was a welcomed reprieve. It would be nice to replace those thoughts with what was to come. I was eager to get out and interact with people again. Though I’d had many chaperoned trips out of the house for practice, I’d not yet been so openly exposed to so many humans at once. This was the trial my family was eager for me to overcome. I put a determined look on my face to match my internal resolve. Carlisle turned back in his seat as the valet opened our doors.

The rush of air from the outside brought with it the strong scent of fresh, pulsating blood. The young valet extended his hand to me, too focused on the umbrella in his other hand to really see me. I was grateful for the barrier of our gloves between his skin and mine as he helped me from the car. I didn’t have the mental capacity to worry about such things; I was intoxicated by his scent. Humans smelled even more delicious in the rain. There was something about the way their blood blitzed in their bodies to keep them warm. I took a deep breath, soaking in his scent, his heat, as he pulled me closer. He looked down at me then, and his breathing halted. He stumbled back on his feet a bit and struggled to keep the umbrella above both our heads.

In an instant, I imagined pulling him even closer, gliding my hands over his crisp, white collar and guiding my lips toward his neck. He wouldn’t fight, I was sure of it. It was something he was wishing for, in fact. It would be simple and quick. Without even the chance to scream, his blood would be pooling in my mouth, his life in my hands. In the same moment, I pushed the thought away in disgust.

The boy watched me as I pondered his death, though the expression on his face was not frightened. He was… enamored. His heart fluttered frantically as he unconsciously moved closer to me. Ah, what a simple fool he was.

“There are more cars, Elliott!” Someone yelled, pulling the boy’s attention away. “Don’t stand there flirting!”

The boy, Elliott, turned from me to hide his blush. I could taste the heat of it on my tongue. Elliott led me to the safety of the awning, bringing me in clear view of the other men waiting there. I basked in their envious glances at Edward as he moved to take my arm. They watched me with awestruck eyes. Carlisle and Esme took the lead ahead of us into the bright and glittering lobby.

The room was opulent, rich with marble and stately chandeliers and by all accounts, imposing. But all eyes were on me; it was as if the world had stopped as we walked on. Every woman was full of envy, every man overwhelmed by my beauty. I assessed their glances, doubting that I had the power to draw everyone’s attention on my own. Because of course, my family was beautiful, too. But as if by some divine right, I knew their eyes were on me. I knew in that instant that my vanity would keep these humans alive. I far favored their adoration over their blood. After all, they couldn’t look at me this way when they were dead.

Edward sighed loudly.

I pouted, my high being clouded by his judgment.

“Stay out of my head,” I said too quickly for human ears.

“I wish I could,” he retorted.

Carlisle sighed then. “Behave,” he scolded.

“There our children are,” Esme chided. “I wondered how long it would last.”

Edward and I chuckled as we continued across the lobby.

“Carlisle,” a man called. “Carlisle, come meet Dr. Williams!”

We followed Carlisle as he approached a small group of older, balding men and their richly dressed wives.

“George, you must meet Carlisle,” the man said. “Dr. Cullen is extraordinary for such a young surgeon.”

“John,” Carlisle smiled, shaking his hand. “I hope you’re not boasting.”

I tuned out then, letting my eyes wander the room. I met a few pairs of glaring eyes, which pleased me, but I was more focused on the weather. Despite the heavy magnitude of the structure around us, I could easily hear the storm raging outside. The rain pelted the windows so loudly that I was surprised that the humans seemed unaware. Thunder droned on and on, the occasional bolt of lightning bursting its brightness across the marble floor. I turned to the grandfather clock I heard strumming across the room and counted the thrums; one, two, three o’clock.

“My wife Esme,” Carlisle’s voice caught my attention again. “And her brother,” he added.

“Edward Masen,” Edward introduced himself. “A pleasure.”

“And is this your lovely bride?” John questioned, still shaking Edward’s hand, his eyes on me.

“Rosalie Cullen, sir,” I said gently, extending my hand, removing the glove. “Edward kindly agreed to be my escort for the evening.”

John took my hand, kissing it lightly as Carlisle continued the charade. “My niece, from New York.”

John reacted to my cold touch, but passed the thought quickly. He nodded politely, his heart stuttering. “A pleasure,” he blushed.

“Edward, make your way into the ballroom,” Carlisle said, reaching into the pocket of his suit jacket. “We won’t be far behind.”

Edward nodded, accepting the paper invitation from Carlisle’s hands. He handed it to me as he turned to the group and greeted them. “Gentlemen,” Edward said, pulling me away.

Finally, I thought.

Edward hummed in agreement. I looked down at the invitation in my hand as Edward walked with me. The paper was thick, expensive. The Great Depression was only a myth to those in this room. The invitation read:

The pleasure of your company is requested at the

3rd Annual Gala

to benefit

St. Peter’s Hospital

Wednesday, the twenty-first of September

Nineteen hundred and thirty-eight

at half past three o’clock

The Oval Room

The Copley Plaza

138 St. James Avenue

Boston, Massachusetts

Edward and I made our way through the large ballroom, passing a waiter on our way in. We each took a glass of champagne to stand on the perimeter of the room near the large, arched windows. We stood idly, making effort to take sips from our crystal flutes, sway, brush a stray hair away; we were playing human. Though it was so obvious we were anything but. I found myself raptured by my reflection again in the rain-soaked window beside me. In that same moment, the crushing blow of water on glass turned both my head and Edward’s.

It seemed to catch us both off-guard, the sound of rushing water on pavement. It was clear that we had been wrong about the storm; the hurricane from the south was quickly flooding the city. Our perfect ears heard every swirl of water as it charged toward us; it was less than a mile out. Windows were bursting, cars were shifting like ships out at sea, the sound of metal and glass playing like wind chimes. I could hear the screaming now.

But the humans here were completely unaware.

Danger was rushing toward them as they sipped their champagne and chattered mindlessly, naïve to the outside world. The metaphor was beautiful, and cruel.

Edward and I locked eyes. What do we do?

“Carlisle?” Edward said, his harsh tone almost a growl.

He and Esme were frozen in the doorway across the room, caught in the sounds of the chaos outside as Edward and I were. We all struggled to keep ourselves composed. Only a few seconds had passed.

Carlisle turned to Esme, but he spoke to us all. “Can we save them?”

Edward was curt, “How can we without exposing ourselves?”

“We can’t watch them all drown,” Esme whispered, breathlessly.

“If we barricaded the windows –“ Carlisle said.

Edward grabbed my arm, pulling me closer to him, “There’s no way. We can’t stay here.”

“Edward,” Esme’s tone was pleading. “Can’t we do anything?”

We moved toward Carlisle and Esme at a hurried, mortal pace, Edward tugging my arm in haste. When we reached Carlisle and Esme, we all froze.

There was this strange silence; I thought I had lost my hearing for a moment. The roar outside stopped for less than one second and the audio of the world seemed to pause.

And then the great, arched windows of the Oval Room quivered, bowed, and fractured.

____

To read more of my Rosalie series, click this link right here: 1977 Homecoming

To read some other things I’ve written for my Twilight babes, check out these links:

Cold Heart

Inebriated

My inbox is open for requests and love notes - which I always love.

#bookofthels #twilightsaga #twilight saga #twilight #twilight fanfiction #twilight fan fiction #twilight renaissance #twilight resurgance #twilight revival #Rosalie Hale #Rosalie x eleanor #edward cullen #edwardcullen #edward x bella #edward and bella #carlisle x esme #carlisle cullen #esme cullen

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amphtaminedreams · 5 years

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Paris Haute Couture Week 2019: Favourites at First Glance

Hi to anyone reading,

And before we start...let me clarify.

Listen, I’m not Luke Meagher. I didn’t go to fashion school. I did history, philosophy and ethics, and psychology at A-level. Not a trace of even textiles experience in sight (I mean, I did it until we picked our GCSE options but I don’t feel that counts, lol). The only “fashion” knowledge I have is from coffee table books, youtube videos and twitter. AND I LIKED MARIA GRAZIA’S 2019 DIOR HAUTE COUTURE COLLECTION.

I think Haute Couture week is probably one of my favourites of the year because I’ve always been good at spotting a pretty dress I’ll never be able to afford and to be honest, not much else. And to me, the Dior collection is everything. Sure, it might not be the most groundbreaking or technically advanced thing ever, and yes, some of the shapes might not be the most flattering, but the best pieces (picked out above) are classic Dior. See, I’m not sure what my idea of “classic Dior” is actually based on other than a vague cultural knowledge but I feel this year’s haute couture collection fits in with that schema a lot more seamlessly than Grazia’s 2018 or 2017 collections, as much as I enjoyed them too. The colour scheme, the lace, the netted veils, the heavy eye makeup; these are dresses for turning up to the funeral of the rich husband you just secretly poisoned in/Eva Green would’ve worn in Penny Dreadful and I’m here for it. The spiked feather detailing that crops up a lot gives me Natalie Portman as the Black Swan and regardless of how flattering they may or may not be (because I'm kind of tired of fashion being thought of as a way to showcase a woman’s figure), I like the Edwardian inspired two pieces. I may be a bit biased, chokers, berets and some kind of netting are 3 of my favourite additions to an outfit, but I do think that as a collection, it all comes together beautifully and I commend Maria Grazia for that. I think now that she seems to have found her footing in terms of producing looks that are recognisably Dior, we only have increasingly creative efforts to look forward to.

Similarly, I adored the styling at the Schiaparelli show. As weird and wonderful as ever, you can see the influence of nature and possibly the visuals of flowers in bloom on Daniel Roseberry’s designs and styling. My favourite thing about this collection was its presentation: for his debut show, Roseberry took a seat in the middle of the runway and sketched out his designs as they appeared on the models in real time. I can’t think of a better way to introduce the fashion world to your vision and creative process.

Moving on from the Schiaparelli collection, it only feels right to talk about Guo Pei next, whose collection also has that characteristic organic feel, almost like the designs could’ve grown right out of the ground of a Tim Burton film. My favourite is definitely the second from the right on the top row, which wouldn’t have been out of place at the 2018 Met Gala. Heavenly Bodies: Fashion and the Catholic Imagination is without a doubt my favourite theme of the last few years. Ornate as ever, each look displays a renaissance painting level of intricacy and craftsmanship; not that a plunge that deep would ever be remotely flattering on me, like there’s a reason I feel a certain type of way about belly button piercings and low rise jeans, but I am obsessed with the detailing of the dress on the far left of the bottom row. That being said, I don’t love this collection quite as much as Guo Pei’s 2018 haute couture offering, however, I think that’s just down to the colour scheme and structures of the latter.

Next is Chanel’s haute couture show, which right off the bat I’ll say I was a big fan of. Surprisingly, I’ve seen a lot of people say they don’t like it but I think it’s a welcome departure from the past few collections which (in my very design naive opinion) were beginning to get a bit monotonous. There’s only so much unnecessarily prissy detailing I can take before it gets a bit like...did they run out of ideas? I think for Virginie Viard’s debut show this is a return to the fresh, clean, functional and even slightly androgynous looks that I think we forget Chanel was originally known for. We still had a couple of the classic elegant dresses too, as seen in the two middle shots I chose, which pays homage to the haute couture collections of the past couple of years. Again, as with the Dior collection, I love the Edwardian/early 20th century influence and the library setting is a fucking perfect backdrop to the collection.

It probably feels a bit contradictory, me going on to praise this year’s Armani Prive collection considering I just criticised the past Chanel collections for being unnecessarily decorative but I see a clear direction with these looks. And yes, I generated a meme to describe how I probably sound right now:

Alternatively, I could’ve just put “how I sound right now”, semi colon, and then insert a photo of a clown underneath, but I’m clearly into 2018 memes, okay?

I’m not going to lie, the basic bitch in me loves these looks because I just know how good they are on the red carpet. Very Disney princess and I’m into it. I’m easily pleased: pastels, faux fur (I hope it’s faux though to be honest, I’m not quite sure), sequins and satin and I’m calling it a masterpiece. So it’s probably best to move on before I expose myself for just how much of a high fashion novice I am, if I didn’t already do that in the first paragraph by praising Maria Grazia. For the same reason, I was obviously a big fan of these looks from the Georges Hobeika haute couture 2019 collection:

And of course, all of these beautiful Ralph and Russo designs:

The dress on the right end, second row from the bottom is honestly probably my favourite of all the 2019 haute couture looks. Like frills!? PASTEL frills!? TIERED, PASTEL FRILLS? Fucking sold. Giambattista Valli is obviously the king of this:

Though I think I’m right in saying that the slightly more unconventional, exaggerated nature of Valli’s dresses elevate them in the eyes of the fashion community that little bit more. Personally, I love the touch of the black bows and the Elizabethan style neck collar of the look second from the right on the top row. Next is Zuhair Murad:

If I'm being brutal, I was a bit disappointed with this collection. I always love Zuhair Murad and love his dresses regardless but I found myself getting a bit bored with a lot of the looks this year considering how excited I was to see them. Though these are my favourites and they are still stunningly elaborate (clearly a lot of work went into the embroidery and stoning), I don’t feel as if any of them, apart from the green and silver jumpsuits, are really anything I haven't seen before. I thought the tribal/nomadic elements of some of the looks could’ve been slightly more conceptual. Like, I get that Zuhair Murad’s dresses, at face value, aren’t really about telling stories but I think if you’re going to go down the mildly culturally appropriative route, you should do it in new way. I read that he was inspired by a trip to Marrakech and I do see that, but it more seemed like an afterthought of throwing these details onto his usual style of dresses rather than the observations influencing the very basis of the collection. Elie Saab’s 2019 haute couture collection is, in my opinion, a good example of how to do this right:

Everything about the construction of these dresses from the padded shoulders to the Mandarin collars draws on the dreamiest possible incarnations of the wardrobes of Chinese royalty, and to watch that translated onto the runway in such a stunning way I hope is a pleasure to see for those who do consider their culture’s past to be a part of their identity today. The jewell tones, the baroque-like patterns, the defined silhouettes, the hair and makeup, I am in awe of EVERYTHING about this collection. I’m glad that Saab had so many East Asian models showcase his designs too; I don’t think it would’ve been right any other way.

Talking of structure, next is Iris Van Herpen:

Like, I need to know the SCIENCE behind these dresses, because I know there was a shitload (lol jk, I really don't want to know anymore science unless I have to). I mean, aside from a few more unconventional, bubble-like shapes that I wasn’t necessarily such a fan of, I can’t fault this collection at all. It really speaks for itself; every part of each design is as mesmerising and as hypnotic as the next, from shape and structure to the colours chosen. Even the more “simple” numbers such as the golden dress second from the left on the bottom row looks like it’s permanently caught in the wind, and I can imagine it on the statue of some Greek goddess whose name I cannot in this moment be bothered to check I’m not pulling out of my arse. You know, Aphrodite, Athena...one of that lot, lol. Finally, let’s talk about Valentino, Givenchy and Fendi, starting with my least favourite of the three, Valentino:

It’s not that there weren’t some wonderful looks. Of my favourites above, the white kimono style dress on the left of the bottom row, the blue dress with the cape and the green floral coat with the matching mesh dress underneath are the stand outs. It’s just that this collection isn’t particularly my style as I’m not much of a fan of block or primary colours; it’s personal preference and that’s not to say it’s a bad collection by any means. I can still appreciate that more thought and work and general energy than I’ve probably ever exerted in my life went into it.

Next is Givenchy:

LOOK at that dress on the right on the row second from the bottom. LOOK AT IT! The pastel pink cape! The layered houndstooth dress! The feathers! The neckline of that top on the right, second row from the bottom! The MENSWEAR! I want it all. It’s modern and it’s cool and it’s wearable but it also looks like me or you could never bloody afford it and that’s how you know it’s Givenchy, lmao. It’s not hard to see why this collection was so popular within the fashion community; it really is a masterclass in less is more which takes a lot to admit because I’m usually a more person.

However, overall, my favourite collection of the three has to be Fendi:

The 70s are my favourite decade for fashion and so this collection is absolutely delicious. I love the warm tones contrasted with a splash of almost metallic cools or pastels every so often and throw some faux fur (again, I don’t know if it is faux?) over anything and it immediately looks 10x more glamorous in my opinion. Half the looks are giving me groupie to a rock band and the other half are giving me bored Hollywood movie star in her Beverly Hills mansion, walking round with rollers in her hair and a pornstar martini. As you can probably tell if you’re still reading, outfits that give me a story are the ones that I love the most, lmao. The perfect balance between opulent and effortless, in an ideal word I would absolutely own and wear every single one of these outfits, regardless of where fashion critics stand on them, and feel like a badass bitch.

And to kind of round off the post, isn’t that what’s most important? That an outfit makes you feel empowered and like you could dramatically slap the shit out of anyone who disrespects you (FEEL being the keyword here, I’m really not recommending anyone goes round slapping every person who disrespects them)? I definitely do want to be more educated on fashion and its history, after all, I’ve always been a history student, but at the same time, I don’t want to suck the fun out of it for myself. Most of the time I don’t want to look at a dress and compare it to every single collection of years past or scrutinise who did what better, I just want to marvel at it. I think one thing that bothers me is that within something as relatively harmful as fashion, it seems kind of elitist and hierarchical to categorise opinions as good and bad based on how much education a person might have on the topic. Let’s be real, fashion isn’t really a realistic career path for most of us. The average person hasn’t always got time to research the history of a fashion house before they make a statement about one of its pieces. They’re working, lmao. If your career is in fashion, lucky you. But in a lot of cases, as within a lot of creative industries, luck is really just privilege, connections, money, leisure time and choice and only a select few people have those things, and I don’t think we should let those people dictate who has style and who doesn’t. These things are subjective. Let people like what they like without equating that love of something to a lack of taste, you know?

In a broader sense (and I really don’t know how I got off on this tangent) something makes you feel beautiful and YOU think you look hot af, WEAR IT!

It’s a bit of a cliche as a closing statement but if anyone read until the end, I hope you enjoyed the post. I am always totally open to hearing other opinions and points of view so feel free to send an...ask? Message? I’m not sure what it’s called in 2019, lol. Anyways, feel free to do whatever that function is called nowadays and rant away.

Lauren x

#eliesaab #kaia gerber #dior #paris fashion week #fashion #fendi #Zuhair Murad #givenchy #valentino #giambatista valli #chanel #iris van herpen #guo pei #schiaparelli

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cathcacen · 7 years

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This is like, supposed to be a drabble, but turned into a behemoth of a ficlet. Oops.

Lars is on a journey to find her brother, but gets sidetracked by a side quest.

What have I done? She’s seeing red, but self preservation takes hold, and they keep coming, one after the other, screaming for blood and murder. She breaks into a frenzy, not knowing, not caring, and eventually, they’re all laying on the floor around her. She lets out a sob and shuts her eyes, feeling the cold earth against the skin of her cheek where she’s collapsed. I should’ve said goodbye properly.

It’s been weeks since Skartara, and she’s been travelling from city to city, town to town in Khanduras, chasing rumours and news of a nomadic apothecary. She’s running low on funds by the time she gets to Duncraig, so when she’s offered a commission to retrieve the town lord’s daughter, she decides to take it up. She doesn’t know how she got caught up with the team of bounty hunters, opportunists, and so-called-heroes in the process, but she already wants out.

They’re somewhere on the road to Duncraig, and she’s since lost count of the smaller villages and holds they’ve passed since leaving Kingsport behind. She’d made it a point to stop at each, but none of the villagers have good news for her.

Eventually, the others raise the issue of her wasting time, and she snipes back that it had been part of the agreement, raised to, and sanctioned by their current benefactor lord, even. Personally, she’s not sure she knows why it’s necessary to send a band of eight to fetch a feisty sixteen-year-old, but then she remembers; a father’s over protectiveness rarely has boundaries.

Still, her constant stops put her and most of the others at odds, and they ride ahead in search of better towns and watering holes for ale and wine. Occasionally, she finds Naix, a bowman from Scosglen waiting for her to catch up, and they ride together for a distance before he heads off to scout the road ahead again. She doesn’t mind in the least.

The girl, Cecilie, is well-mannered enough, short for her age, but in possession of a flattering figure and a charming smile. She almost reminds her of Theone, with her self-assuredness and commanding tone of voice. Already, the young girl’s settled a dispute between two of her current company, a lesser noble from Kurast and one of the two hulking, muscle-bound mercenaries from Lut Gholein.

Lars has to admit it – she kind of likes the little lady.

“Okay, tell me about these people. How did you get caught up with them?”

She glances back at the young lady from the driver’s seat of the carriage. The others’ mounts were too small, too angry, or too unpredictable, so the task of drawing the carriage came to her sweet-tempered mare. Siggy whinnies softly, and she makes a soft, hushing sound, wishing she could pet the mare’s soft forehead. “Just a little bit more, girl. I know you’re not used to this.”

“Well?” Evidently impatient, Cecilie climbs over the front of her carriage, and settles with a loud thump on the seat beside her. “Come on, I know you hate them. You can barely look at them; hells, we’re so far away from them right now we might as well be travelling separately.”

“I don’t hate them,” Lars insists, but Cecilie is grinning knowingly at her. “You’re sharp for your age, aren’t you?”

“I have to take over my father’s estates someday, so I’ve a feeling I’m going to need my wits about me.” Cecilie leans back, folding her arms over her chest. “That’s if he doesn’t marry me off to some oaf wanting to take over my inheritance, anyway.”

“I’m sure he’ll have trouble trying.”

Cecilie laughs aloud at that, and Lars manages a wry smile. “You’re... Laori, right?”

“Mmhmm,” She jerks her head towards the path before them. “You remember any of the others?”

“Naix strikes me as the only other sane person in the group. The others seem like a bubbling pot of insanity, self-serving greed, and violence. Honestly, you’d think my father would’ve sent actual soldiers.” Cecilie glances aside at her. “No disrespect meant to you, I’m certain you’re a fair combatant.”

“What gave it away?” Lars arches a brow.

“You’re from Virkove, and you’re a Cethlion. There’s no way the famed General Cethlion would’ve let his daughter out in the world alone without making sure she could keep herself safe.” Cecilie pauses, then turns fully to look her straight in the eyes. “I’m sorry, by the by. We heard about his passing.”

She stares at the young girl. It hadn’t occurred to her that her father’s name would be commonplace so far from home. Then again, this girl had proven to be well-learnt. She made a mental note to use her mother’s name from now on – for an easier time in anonymity, she thinks. “Don’t worry about it,” She says. She doesn’t want to think about her father’s bones and ashes in the ground, so she opts to backtrack. “Your father couldn’t spare the men. Things are a little strange in the world right now, and we’re hearing rumours of demonic activity spurring a little. Your king recalled most of your father’s men to Westmarch, and the rest are needed to guard the city, in case anything happens.”

“Yes, I know.” Cecilie says. “You can’t favour your family’s needs above the needs of your people.”

She lets out a tired chuckle. “That sounds like something dad would’ve said.”

“Yours, and mine both.”

They continue northwards for a short while, content to maintain the comfortable silence. She can see Naix’s silhouette up ahead, and before him, she’s certain, is the mage from Ureh. So many names, and so many people I’ll be glad to never see again once this is over and done with.

“You didn’t answer my question, though. How did you get caught up with these people?” Cecilie’s voice pulls her from her reverie. “Does it have anything to do with this person you’re looking for?”

“My idiot brother, you mean?” She glances aside at the girl. “Yeah, I’m trying to find him. He’s not making it easy.”

“Where’ve you looked so far?”

“I started with Skartara,” She bites her lip. It wasn’t exactly fair – Skartara had been more of a holiday, and by the looks of it, Cecilie is well aware of that too. “Okay, I started by visiting Skartara to clear my mind.”

“I want to go to Skartara one day,” Cecilie sighs. “Where else?”

“Kingsport, Tristram, Bramwell... not in that order, of course.” She wonders how far she’s going to have to look, and makes a mental note to give Iliev a good shaking for her troubles. “I’ve established some connections in each town I visit, of course, so they’ll send ravens to my best friend’s home in Sharval if they have news. And if it comes to that, I’ll head east.”

Cecilie is quiet for a long moment, but her voice is thoughtful when she speaks. “You must really love your brother.”

She quirks a smile. That, and I really needed some time to myself.

The next few days pass in a similar fashion. She learns about Cecilie and her father, and hears the story of how her mother had died of infection some years ago. She’s told that Cecilie is an only child, and that she’s spent most of her childhood learning the politics of Khanduras, despite her father’s iron-clad rule that she never visit Westmarch as a courtier. She learns that the girl likes to sew, and that she has a soft spot for foxes and the little old woman who sells sweet buns in the market at Duncraig.

Lars tells her about the time her father had found two of Virkove’s most competent combatants arguing over Captain Haile’s purple pants, and they’re laughing about it when the first flare of gold and red brightens the twilight sky. It’s one of the mage’s, a sign they’d agreed upon for emergencies, so Lars knows something is wrong.

Her suspicions are immediately confirmed as Naix rides back towards them, dagger in hand and eyes widened in panic. “We’ve got company,” He says quickly as he cuts Siggy free of the carriage. “You two get on and ride; I’ll cover you.”

Cecilie climbs calmly onto Siggy, and she hops on behind the girl, gripping the mare’s reins. “The others?” She glances towards Naix.

“Holding them off. Go.”

She nudges Siggy, and the mare takes off through the brambles and bushes. Cecilie lets out a soft, panicked cry. “If they’re smart, they’ll have organised a blockade on the road,” She explains, as calmly as she can over the stomping of hooves. Thank you for everything you’ve taught me, Uncle Lear.

They’re tearing through a narrow hidden path when the first of Naix’s arrows whizz past them, and she lets out a faint yelp as the corpse crashes from the trees, causing Siggy to rear onto her hind legs. “Whoa, girl!” She glances up as the second arrow finds its target, and another drops. “Come on, go!”

More arrows are raining around them now, and she realises, horrified, that they’re aimed at her. She jams the reins into Cecilie’s hands and focuses her mental energies on the projectiles, but there are so many, and she has trouble slowing them all. She’s only just reaching out to divert an arrow from Siggy’s side when one pierces her own thigh. She doesn’t know how it happens, but by the time her mind stops reeling from the pain, she’s on the ground, and both horse and girl are gone.

There are figures all around her, and she’s struggling to find her bearings when the crude wood axe comes for her. In her state of panic, she dodges inelegantly, and the blade catches her on the shoulder, slicing through her cloak and shirt to draw blood. Her assailant lets out a triumphant cry, and that short opening allows her to barrel forward, knocking him to the ground. Before he has a chance to react, she’s wrested the axe from his hands and sliced through his throat.

Then her vision clears, and she realises he’s human.

The last thing she remembers is Naix’s boots in her line of vision, and the feel of warm hands lifting her up onto a horse.

It’s sunny when she wakes, and her entire body aches. Cecilie is seated beside her bed, and quickly assures her that they’re safe, and that Siggy is happy in the stables with good feed and equally good equine company.

“The others?”

Cecilie smiles wryly. “All safe. As it turns out, they’re quite reliable in battle.”

She’s fighting back a wave of nausea, but she has to know. “How many?”

Cecilie tenses a little, and her eyes take on a pitying cast. “Just the one. Turns out you knew enough even in the heat of it to, y’know... aim well. They’re going to be spending the rest of their lives in prison.”

The surge of vomit wins. She spends the next ten minutes heaving into a wooden bucket, Cecilie patting her back lightly.

“What happens to me?” She asks, the bile burning her throat.

Cecilie eyes her oddly. “Nothing. We don’t jail people for self preservation, and you’ve got a fairly good witness as proof of your innocence.” She puffs her chest out with pride. “My father’s grateful for your help in bringing his daughter home safely.”

She doesn’t want to talk about the guilt that eats at her, so she simply nods. I have blood on my hands. Gods, what have I done?

“One more thing,” Cecilie’s voice softens as she stands, evidently understanding her silent plea to be left alone.

She lifts her head a little, blinking back tears. “What is it?” Her voice comes out in an odd, strained croak. She hardly recognises it.

“You’ve got a visitor.”

She finally breaks down into a sob when she sees her visitor.

It’s Iliev.

#emmbot writes #laori cethlion #rp #raindrop pendants

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