Lady Alexandrie d'Asgard (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
coquettish_trees) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
faderift2018-12-22 12:19 am
coquettish_trees) wrote in faderift2018-12-22 12:19 am
open | well i've lost it all
WHO: Lexie and the brave people who feel like maybe getting things thrown at them/being yelled at/cried on/some other flavor of ridiculousness.
WHAT: Breakup Drama ♫
WHEN: nowish (end of Haring)
WHERE: De La Fontaine apartments in Hightown
NOTES: if you're a melodramatic noblewoman with a sudden case of regency constitution clap your hands
[ if you want a certain flavor of ridiculousness, put it in your title or hmu on plurk (@shaestorms) or discord (shae#7274) ♥ ]
It has been three days since she returned to the apartments the Comte keeps for her and her sister in the middle of the night, and Alexandrie de la Fontaine has not emerged from her room. In fact, Alexandrie de la Fontaine has not emerged from her bed. The only mark of her continued residence is the persistent heartbroken sobbing from behind the door. It is largely quiet, muffled, a background sound to be filtered out like the ocean waves. It does on occasion become more energetic as some thought—new or revisited for the hundredth time—sets her off, or disappear entirely when the expenditure of it all sends her to sleep.
Meal after meal is brought, left, and found again untouched; the tea over-steeped, the coffee stale, and both quickly rendered cold, for she will not stand for a fire being lit in the hearth. (The first maid to find it silly and begin to kindle one in any case for her lady's own good received a thin bruise the shape of the side of an expertly aimed hairbrush and a tongue-lashing for her trouble. There have since been no other attempts.) Instead, she has wrapped herself in the covers of her bed, her attire unchanged since her return save to become rumpled, her hair slowly coming free over time as the pins vex her and are yanked out and thrown to disappear in the rug.
She is missing entirely. Silent on the network when she would usually be flip, absent from both duties and regularly kept company. Crystal messages go unanswered, and callers are turned away with the vague explanation that Lady Alexandrie has taken ill and is not receiving visitors; that they may leave a card, or a message, and she shall respond once recovered.
Some callers are, of course, slightly more insistent.
[ Here you still are! If you're not Evie and you're coming in the normal person way, Marceau is chasing after you right now in that sort of eminently austere way fourth generation lifelong butlers have. If you're a scalawag or something, she has a window. There's probably a trellis. We'll figure something out. Prose or brackets are fine! ]
WHAT: Breakup Drama ♫
WHEN: nowish (end of Haring)
WHERE: De La Fontaine apartments in Hightown
NOTES: if you're a melodramatic noblewoman with a sudden case of regency constitution clap your hands
[ if you want a certain flavor of ridiculousness, put it in your title or hmu on plurk (@shaestorms) or discord (shae#7274) ♥ ]
It has been three days since she returned to the apartments the Comte keeps for her and her sister in the middle of the night, and Alexandrie de la Fontaine has not emerged from her room. In fact, Alexandrie de la Fontaine has not emerged from her bed. The only mark of her continued residence is the persistent heartbroken sobbing from behind the door. It is largely quiet, muffled, a background sound to be filtered out like the ocean waves. It does on occasion become more energetic as some thought—new or revisited for the hundredth time—sets her off, or disappear entirely when the expenditure of it all sends her to sleep.
Meal after meal is brought, left, and found again untouched; the tea over-steeped, the coffee stale, and both quickly rendered cold, for she will not stand for a fire being lit in the hearth. (The first maid to find it silly and begin to kindle one in any case for her lady's own good received a thin bruise the shape of the side of an expertly aimed hairbrush and a tongue-lashing for her trouble. There have since been no other attempts.) Instead, she has wrapped herself in the covers of her bed, her attire unchanged since her return save to become rumpled, her hair slowly coming free over time as the pins vex her and are yanked out and thrown to disappear in the rug.
She is missing entirely. Silent on the network when she would usually be flip, absent from both duties and regularly kept company. Crystal messages go unanswered, and callers are turned away with the vague explanation that Lady Alexandrie has taken ill and is not receiving visitors; that they may leave a card, or a message, and she shall respond once recovered.
Some callers are, of course, slightly more insistent.
[ Here you still are! If you're not Evie and you're coming in the normal person way, Marceau is chasing after you right now in that sort of eminently austere way fourth generation lifelong butlers have. If you're a scalawag or something, she has a window. There's probably a trellis. We'll figure something out. Prose or brackets are fine! ]
no subject
"Mademoiselle," he says, and continues in Orlesian, faintly tinged with a Halamshiral accent, "I apologize for calling on you, but Gwenaëlle suggested you might enjoy company."
Nevermind that he's her friend's husband, calling on her alone- the elveness unmans him as well as the rifterness does, and he finds himself one of the lovely little chairs that find their homes in the estates of fine ladies, and brings it to the bed, and sits.
"That is for Gwenaëlle," he says. "As provost, I am here more to- make enquiries about conduct."
Gwenaëlle had been vague with the details, but at the end of the day, her beau was first, Tevene, second, a mage, and third, Thranduil's problem.
no subject
Which she would be, were they only hers. It is strange to be so hurt, to have recourse for vengeance, and to not wish to employ it in the slightest. Soft. Unforgivably. That hurts again, and she rather daintily employs her handkerchief to dab at the evidence—an immense contrast to the forcefully unrestrained sobbing of earlier in the morning—before replying in the same.
"Your pardon, Lord Provost, but I believe your wife to rather have decided I ought to have company." The meddling bitch. (Affectionately thought, of course). "I shall not turn you away, however, provided you continue to be kind about the poor showing I make of myself."
no subject
“Not at all,” he corrects lightly, and pats his own jacket to find his own handkerchief, embroidered by Gwenaëlle in charming, faux-Dalish leaves and vines. “I think she might object. You ought to award the credit to me, and not her.”
He leans forward to offer the linen square to her. “I have seen worse.” Lightly. Implied either Ghislain or Gwenaëlle herself. All Orlesian ladies must take a class in it, for their similarities in acting out emotions too large to trap behind ribs. “Can you forgive the impropriety of my barging in?”
no subject
"Gwenaelle's work, yes?" she inquires, examining the embroidery briefly before folding it neatly, "She has always had a fine hand." She offers the folded cloth back in return, and affects a small wan smile; the very picture of ladylike fortitude. "And you are of course entirely forgiven. It was kind of you to look in on me. I am quite sure I shall be soon recovered, aided in no small part by such visits."
He can tell Gwen she was well enough to dissemble.