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So we just hold on fast, acknowledge the past as lessons exquisitely crafted
Painstakingly drafted to carve us as instruments that play the music of life

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        She… knew that she had not managed to cover her own introspection and disquiet, truly- That she had hesitated too long to hide her agitation. They did not believe her smile… But neither did either man look truly certain enough to call her out, when she looked at them, and she forced herself to tunnel in on the subject at hand- On what they were to do next. The next step. The way forward. Only what was right in front of her. Even if the literal answer was the man staring right back at her, watching the stubborn shifts in her expression… And answering them.

        I see little point in expanding upon anything that is not necessary… Carrier-Belleuse being a perfect example as such.

        The levity of the words might have been shallow at best, but Marguerite softened for it, her grin slipping into something warmer, that actually spoke emotion- A strange sort of gratitude. And it was only in the passing of the possibility that she realized she had truly feared being called out- That he would, in his fine intentions, force her to retreat in hostility or, be left to reveal emotions she did not even understand, before another, that she felt - or feared - in her gut Erik would not would not wish to deal with- Save only to be good to her.

        And the worst of it was she had not even known she had it in her to be hurt like that… Like a muscle she did not know she had until she pulled it.

        But she understood its nature enough to want to tuck it away, and breathed easier when Erik left her the room to do so, her very manner easing and further burying any hint of distress under his watchful eye, a true piqued interest blanketing her expression as she arched her brows. “Sadoul… That will do fine. Erik Sadoul. -it rolls well.” And she mouthed the words – along with other syllables that didn’t match but ‘slurred’ too much for lip reading, her expression fogging a moment before she shook herself from it again, sniffing. “And yes- Architect should do! It isn’t really even a lie, is it? It’s a part truth- The best sort of story…” And she smiled, tossing true bits of affection, from across the length of the room. Metaphorical blown kisses…

        However the distance might have rung with some, odd meaning, though, Marguerite did not prove stubborn about maintaining it, rolling her full weight back to her feet as she ambled her way closer to the two men. “And I… Don’t think, there should be any trouble there.” She squinted up at Erik, as if trying to look for some ‘give away’ she herself might not see, before shaking her head. “I wouldn’t have known myself, if you hadn’t brought Ma and your promise into it from the beginning… I might have guessed soon enough, but- Do you remember Jammes at all, Monsieur Khan?” she suddenly asked, turning her head and shoulder’s Nadir’s way. And there- There it was. There was no true name for the it, and Meg certainly didn’t look at Nadir with the same undercurrent of affection only Erik seemed able to earn from her, like a soft barely heard hum of machinery, but there just wasn’t enough… Shift in her body language when she looked to him, for she hadn’t offered Erik the usual display she would- A near constant proximity or touch, always seeking some contact. A difference that threw her off-kilter- Even if she was did not consciously note it as anything more than a vague tension in her body.

        She was the pretty one- Well, one of the pretty ones. But if you saw us girls at all, you must have noticed two of them usually heading the whispers of ‘the Ghost’- One screaming and crying shame, one hissing little facts and warnings? Jammes was the hisser.” And if her grin was anything to go by, as she shot little laughing looks at Erik, she took great pride in being the unsaid screamer. “We took to that quite early- But it just suited us well. I was better at riling them up, she at keeping the ‘facts’ straight as we had set them… But truth be told, she was the one most afraid, I think. Near as much as poor old Sorelli. Because-” she explained, shifting a vaguely mischievous gaze more fully to her masked lover as she turned to the point- The one he apparently did not realize. “She believed, without any doubt, that there truly was a ghost.

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Aldric :: Bertrand :: Charles :: Damien :: Marguerite :: Marie :: Raoul :: William
---
    musιc Mr. Monokuma's Lesson [Takada]
    тʀιʙuтe Banner art created by Tricias.
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ץσυ αre тнe s n o w s t o r m, ι'm pυrιғιed.______________________
______________________тнe dαrkesт f a i r y t a l e, ιn тнe deαd oғ nιɢнт

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          Erik was well aware of the sudden, strange distance between them-- pained, really, to think he had somehow caused it in all his ignorance toward… Whatever had reared its head between misunderstandings, roles and names thus far undisclosed between them-- mutually so. But it was all he could do to simply maintain that gravity of disposition, numb if not for a brief solace to be found in a subtle warmth she cast his way. But it was nothing compared to what they had shared only a short period before and, in truth, he found himself despising whatever shift in the universe had deigned it time to move forward with life outside the little existence they had carved out for themselves over the previous day and a half. It was only so natural that it would all become marred in light of that transition.

          And so he held fast to a detached alertness that followed Meg’s movements, her changes in demeanor, before looking away entirely-- only allowing a cool poise to come through once she, too, had turned her own attention toward Nadir instead.

          Do you remember Jammes at all, Monsieur Khan?

          The sudden acknowledgment to his presence, once more, drew the Persian’s attention promptly to Marguerite, having been startled out of an introspection-- an observation of the two. But he was quick to shake whatever considerations he had been contemplating for the time in favor of minding Meg’s description of her former and current friend. “I certainly recall the two young women you are referring to.” An amused smile donned his features, nonetheless aware of the slight glower that had taken to Erik’s once his lady’s own gaze had changed its subject.

          I see, well… It will be a pleasure to see her again. And to be properly introduced this time, of course.” A quiet but genuine chuckle escaped him as he bowed his head to one side in thought. Yet the news she had next proved something of a surprise to both him and the masked man not so far away-- a revelation of facts that was enough to pull Erik from grim thoughts to instead falter and squint, as if in disbelief.

          And here I had thought she was simply playing along with the rumors for the sake of amusement.” Much like another former ballerina over whom he had turned to regard, though a feigned sigh escaped him as he went on to muse: “That should make introductions a little less, odd.” As if Marguerite introducing her eccentric, masked lover with a scarce at best story would not be odd enough on its own. At least they did not run the risk of the woman shrieking about old ‘ghosts’ in the process.

          So will we be meeting Madame Jammes-- or, well Madame Martin-- soon?” Nadir inquired then, quirking a brow as he peered between the two of them, having put aside the strange tension for the time being, as it seemed both were intent on doing so as well. If only temporarily.

          We intended on returning Marguerite today, yes. We will need to assess Chagny’s condition, as well as the child’s,” Erik paused briefly in the midst of his sentiment, something near hesitant crossing his features before he resolutely added, “Before we will be able to make our way toward Rouen.


          Erik // Isabella // Nadir // Landan // Christine // Adelaide
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          ooc . . .
          music . . . I understood something [Marianelli]
          art . . .© Shikorimu

Devoted Browser

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-
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
-
So we just hold on fast, acknowledge the past as lessons exquisitely crafted
Painstakingly drafted to carve us as instruments that play the music of life

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo


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        And here I had thought she was simply playing along with the rumors for the sake of amusement… That should make introductions a little less, odd.

        Exactly,” she giggled, her pleasure in actually surprising them both clear as day in her grin. It was a rare enough feat, after all, with one of the two, and little could distract her from that accomplishment- Even their own troubles. And it would prove that her very avoidance was directly tied to the smoothed over subject, as well, for while she was slower than she might be to move, when Erik answered Nadir’s inquiry about leaving, the shift in his demeanor at the mention of ‘Rouen’ did not go unnoticed, and she did reach for him. Hesitantly as though success was not such a given from that moment to the last, but her gaze was still direct and warm and containing no distress save the sympathetic sort she focused on him… Though even here, she tried to smile over it. “And once everyone else is reunited, we can see what else needs doing, yes? …but, until then, I have a friend to ‘introduce’ you to.

        And it wasn’t a far run to the place, when one had a proper carriage- Kindly lent by Nadir, of course.

        It didn’t take long, after all, to gather what little the couple had left in the hotel room, stuff it in the floor of the rented cab, and for Marguerite to provide the directions needed to take them back north- To the edge of Le Marais, where a line of fine little townhouses sat snuggly up against each other, lining the road. And indeed, it looked by the size of each one – difficult as it was to tell where one started and the next began – the neighborhood must be an opulent one.

        But that would easily fall back down to ‘well-to-do’ as Marguerite hopped out of the carriage saying “That’s the one. The Martins are renting the first and second floor up- And they have a little stable, we just have to speak to the concierge.” Who they could not have bypassed as they liked, certainly, as the old gentleman and his little family – a young girl practically tripping out of the door behind him to get a peek as her presumed grandfather invited them through to the stairs only reluctantly, after a recognizing sight of Meg stayed whatever questions he had for the quite odd looking men – man – with her.

        Things did not run so smoothly once they actually made into the apartment, though, for though they got through the door when the answering butler proved too taken aback at the shadows trailing the familiar lady to shut the door in their face or block their way, he also could not answer Marguerite’s greetings quickly enough for her liking. “Renard, is the lady not in the parlour? Jammes!” she called in a controlled, stifled yell, eyes skimming the sweetly furnished hall she walked down, and the stairs that led up to the second floor – and the bedrooms – before peeking her head into the named room.

        -Cécile is lying down, Meg” came the answer, not from the expected lady but from a man- A young gentleman, certainly not yet thirty, sitting alone in the little parlour with a book in hand that he set aside as the trio filed in. The sight of him clearly surprised Marguerite, but she recovered quickly with a smile- At least until the man told the butler to inform Cécile of the arrival, and went on in the same undisturbed, vaguely amused and friendly tone he had used with his guest before, despite his raised brow. “She was up all night, worrying what had happened to you.

        -I am sorry, Richard. I should have been clearer in my note about when I would be back.” Marguerite did look apologetic, too, but not so far that she couldn’t shake it off as the men made it into the room after her, and she indicated them. “I did find them, though- Or at least some of them. This is Erik Sadoul – my dear companion,” she settled on without a single hitch in her words to indicate consideration, fingers catching on Erik’s arm as they hovered in the doorway, gaze still sliding much more to Richard than either man she gestured to. “And this is his friend and business manager, Nadir Khan.

        Richard… The young man of dark hair and beard was clearly no great politician, if his failing poker face was anything to go by. The sight of Nadir alone would have likely taken him openly aback, but Erik- He had him staring like the masked gentlemen was a math equation simply too jumbled to let slide with so incorrect a solution. But… Whatever he failed in covering, he proved himself at least adaptable, and while his features were otherwise dismissible, nose too thin and pale eyes too wide, he had a handsomeness of manner that showed when he smiled, offering Erik and Nadir each a bow of the head in turn with a perfectly even welcome- And only proper questions, even if his gaze seemed reluctant to leave the curious masked stranger. “A pleasure, both of you- I am Richard Martin. –and I must say I am glad to see you, and Meg Giry here well. She’s been like a woman in mourning these last few days,” he added, his vague amusement only rising when Marguerite suddenly found the parlour piano so interesting, her earlier light ease stained by apparent focus. He did not press the matter any further than that, though, focusing on Erik. “Are the rest of your group nearby? Meg’s letter said that everyone was well, but the count upstairs has been beyond anxious to see his family.

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Aldric :: Bertrand :: Charles :: Damien :: Marguerite :: Marie :: Raoul :: William
---
    musιc Mr. Monokuma's Lesson [Takada]
    тʀιʙuтe Banner art created by Tricias.
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ץσυ αre тнe s n o w s t o r m, ι'm pυrιғιed.______________________
______________________тнe dαrkesт f a i r y t a l e, ιn тнe deαd oғ nιɢнт

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          And once everyone else is reunited, we can see what else needs doing, yes? …but, until then, I have a friend to ‘introduce’ you to.

          And off they had went.

          It was a short distance to their destination-- a fairly ‘well to do’ little neighborhood where they were quick to find the Martins’ home and, in time, the concierge who greeted them.

          The strange looks-- they were nothing new, nothing surprising, and if it were not for Marguerite’s presence among them, Erik half suspected Nadir nor himself would be allowed through those doors. But with the carriage sorted for the time, the odd watchfulness between elder and young girl ignored, they only truly met a challenge from the butler who, in the end, was overwhelmed by Meg’s impatience and eventually dismissed by one Erik could only assume to be the man of the house.

          Surely enough, his name-- Richard-- escaped their accompanying lady’s lips, the notion of Cécile’s concerns little more than an expected footnote to him that was glazed over in favor of observing the rather young businessman whom soon addressed them.

          As likely expected, Nadir remained aware of Erik’s deceptively lax demeanor, a front that was only betrayed by a stagnant poise and an intense glint in his eyes as he studied the anticipated stranger. Still, he seemed to find a fortunately easy disposition when Marguerite took his arm, his hand settling neatly atop her own.

          Regardless, the masked man was not unaware of this Richard’s close inspection, but he was for all intents and purposes completely unaffected by it to the naked eye. In truth, Erik seemed to return the stare, a slight cant of his head indicating a clear consideration that though it did not spread into a smile in return, in the end donned a pleasant enough quality. “... A pleasure, Monsieur” He answered the greeting systematically, plainly.

          Likewise, Monsieur Martin. Marguerite has told us much of yourself and your wife.” Nadir remarked congenially in return, a polite bow in greeting bending at his waist, even if Meg had not exactly specified much of Richard himself. “We were very fortunate to reunite with the mademoiselle. Particularly her ‘dear companion’ here.” He motioned to Erik with one hand, who simply remained still as he was as ever, by then having glanced away to study the surroundings.

          It was only so lucky as far as Nadir could see-- being the one to do the talking in a situation that could, indeed, be rather delicate if approached incorrectly. “While it is unfortunate the rest of our little group are currently a few towns over, they are indeed quite well. That said, they are highly anticipating the return of the count as well. I trust he and the child are still doing well? Mademoiselle Giry has informed us as much.



          Erik // Isabella // Nadir // Landan // Christine // Adelaide
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          ooc . . .
          music . . . The Spoon on the Nose [Kaczmarek/Ingman]
          art . . .© Shikorimu

Devoted Browser

User Image
-
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
-
So we just hold on fast, acknowledge the past as lessons exquisitely crafted
Painstakingly drafted to carve us as instruments that play the music of life

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo


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        The little boy is flourishing,” Richard answered right off, even if his gaze struggled to leave its focus long enough to answer properly. He managed to tear his eyes away eventually, though, blinking like he had just come out of the glaring sun into a more comfortably lit space, slow to adjust. Questions seemed to rise behind his eyes with the passing of awe Erik had naturally inspired, questions of who, exactly, had just walked into his house, for one thing. For Meg Giry was as like to attract the strange and bizarre as his own wife, but nothing like him had ever walked through his door before… And suddenly he was left wondering if Meg had been spare on the details because she had feared he would not believe her, if she had told the truth.

        Cécile might- She had a perchance for tall tales, truly believing half of them, but, still… Even this

        His greatest fortune was really that he had already started proper conversation, and even if his distraction it was easy enough to drag along with basic facts he knew, like- “Or so my housekeeper tells me. We have no need for a nursemaid, but she had young brothers in her youth, so she took to his care well enough. The count- He has struggled. If he were not dosed with pain medicines most of the week, I imagine he would have been pacing about and wandering the streets as much as Meg here-

        But, that was before-” the said Meg cut in, leveling a look on the man he did not look near sorry enough for in her eyes, even if there was no malice behind the amused stare he shot her. “Raoul has been recovering, hasn’t he? Did the doctor not say he could move soon?

        …I thought that was only about the room,” Richard remarked, clearly hesitant to deny the impatient expectation clear behind the young lady’s words, his hazel eyes shifting questioningly from one ‘gentleman’ to the other as if to ask, or beg for assistance. “But that was two days ago, we might do better to ask the man himself.

        …we should certainly see him,” Marguerite begrudged, even if she knew that in saying so that she would likely discover the count was, indeed, not ready to go, an uncertain frown showing on her face at considering the possibility. “In that case-

        Giry?

        The question was followed a new figure, suddenly there at Meg’s side. The lady did not knock into her, or yank her away, or attack in her affection, but there was still a certain, immediately clear familiarity in how the new woman clasped so naturally to Marguerite’s side- The side farthest from Erik, as the petite lady’s grip on his arm stuttered in surprise, and then eased in recognition. Meg did not move to return the embrace, but the smile on her face gleamed a little truer as she recovered, and side eyed the new arrival who had her chin on her shoulder- A finely dressed lady of fair skin with swept back, champagne blonde tresses.

        Where were you?! Your note said you were well, but you said nothing about staying out all night! I had begun to fear that someone had grabbed you, and forced you to send that note so we wouldn’t come looking for you in time to help. And after you just walked away from those fires and the scene of a gun fight- You should have known we would…” the woman’s words trailed away as she stood straight and slowly looked up, over Meg’s head and realized just who was on the smaller woman’s other side- Indirectly linked to her. And so forget-me-not blue eyes went wide, caught on Erik’s mask as she gave a questioning, quiet “Oh…

        Jammes? This is Erik,” Meg supplied, only continuing to grin as her friend continued to strive for recovery. For the two were quite awkwardly in each other’s line of sight, since – shorter than most she might be – but Cécile’s head still went above her own. Quick to recognize this herself, Cécile awkwardly pulled away, an embarrassed blush joining the other soft watercolors of her features, a marked contrast to the charcoals that made up the visual palette of her friend, just beside her.

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Aldric :: Bertrand :: Cécile :: Charles :: Damien :: Marguerite :: Marie :: Raoul :: Richard :: William
---
    musιc The Spoon on the Nose [Kaczmarek]
    тʀιʙuтe Banner art created by Tricias.
    messaɢe
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ץσυ αre тнe s n o w s t o r m, ι'm pυrιғιed.______________________
______________________тнe dαrkesт f a i r y t a l e, ιn тнe deαd oғ nιɢнт

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          Where Nadir was quick to sigh a relief at the mention of the babe-- supposedly doing so well in his temporary stay-- Erik was far more drawn to the news regarding their wounded Count… Given it could prove more troublesome than the other.

          No, he was none the happier to hear Monsieur Martin’s assessment of Chagny’s condition and that much was clear enough ‘round the edges of his eyes as they returned to the younger fellow. That golden stare had turned sharp, peering practically through Richard in sore thought on the matter. As far as he was concerned, if the man could walk about his room, he could likely survive a carriage ride north, especially since it would be rather withheld in its urgency in order to facilitate the well being of the child.

          Perhaps-- fortunately-- Erik could not help but imagine that it would be a matter the Count and himself could oh so rarely agree upon.

          Assuming he is not too blatantly at risk in moving about and sitting upright, I believe we will allow the Count to decide when he is ready to leave.” It was the longest phrase he had chosen to speak aloud since walking through that door, his attention pinned then upon Richard. The gaze luckily lacked in its usual intensity, instead being something pointed, matter-of-fact, before he added with a dismissive gesture, “Frankly, I doubt he will agree to much else upon finding out where his family is currently located…. Only so long as the babe is prepared to move as well, of course.

          We-- will see.” Nadir cleared his throat quietly at the thought, straightening his coat’s lapel as he shot a sideways glance toward Erik. He did not entirely disagree-- and he expected the same as soon as Raoul likely set eyes on the two men. But he would not allow the young father to push himself too far if he were still obviously too wounded…

          Yet before they could move to fully discover whether such would be the truth or not, there was a sudden chiming of Meg’s name and the arrival of a pretty young woman who was quick to affection and a rambling of concern and question.

          Yet as Nadir and Erik shared a brief, blank look with one another, the latter’s attention returned to the woman just in time to catch that… Familiar girl’s own gaze as she herself seemed to only belatedly realize his presence at Meg’s side. He returned that look with a barren expression, flat and plain and observant… A sharp brow arching beyond the mask as she was clearly-- expectedly-- taken aback by his presence.

          Jammes? This is Erik,

          How… Strange it was to be formally introduced to this girl whom he had more than once observed from the shadows. At the very least, the familiarity would not be mutual… And so he simply bowed his head in a systematic acknowledgment, even if his eyes never left her… Not until he glanced briefly, cautiously, down to Meg and then back up again. But there was no shaking a deeply ingrained sense of mannerism that persisted even then within him-- and even he could offer her a polite, albeit plain, greeting: “... Madame.



          Erik // Isabella // Nadir // Landan // Christine // Adelaide
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          ooc . . .
          music . . . The Spoon on the Nose [Kaczmarek/Ingman]
          art . . .© Shikorimu

Devoted Browser

User Image
-
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
-
So we just hold on fast, acknowledge the past as lessons exquisitely crafted
Painstakingly drafted to carve us as instruments that play the music of life

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo


---
        -Pleasure,” Cécile Martin née Jammes managed in the wake of Meg’s introduction, though even shock could not quite muffle the confusion that slowly furrowed between her eyes. Erik? Was that not the name of the man she was ‘living with’ as she had put it, however cruelly vaguely? That, would follow insofar as her old friend’s stance with the man. Why, even though Cécile had put a semblance of normal distance between them, Meg continued to linger comfortably, familiarly close to the stranger’s side, a pleased, satisfied sort of edge behind her gaze that could only be attributed to the strange… masked man she held to. But he was just… It wasn’t just the mask- He towered over them both, skin a shade of death, the fingers curled… admittedly tenderly over Meg’s own fastened hand such long, skeletally thin things, eyes glowing like fire pits in the night- Even as they stood in her properly lit parlour at midday. He was- He was like something they would have cooked up in their most creative of dreams.

        But he was, apparently real… And wouldn’t it be just like Meg to catch such a figment, and bring it along home as proof?

        Why, she was half-certain she was imagining such things, until ‘Erik’ managed to share a single glance with his apparent lady – earning a clearly unfrazzled, mischievous smile in return – and finally spoke. A single word, and Cécile’s eyes went wide and stuck, breath a flutter caught in her mouth… And she had to shoot a look at Meg, the appreciative, gratified air in her own glance to the man proof she had heard the same as she- And not been shocked by it.

        That really only added to her own disbelief, and it took meeting her husband’s eye and finding the baffled, thrown air hidden behind his mild expression to calm her own concerns that she was losing her mind. No- No, whatever the explanations, the mysteries were external, not within her in any way. She could turn her focus on scrutinizing the pair – familiar and foreign side by side – with a curious eye, belatedly giving a little curtsey. “I am glad to see you are safe… I know far too little of you-” she added, pinning Meg with a look that really only made the raven-haired lady grin the wider, making Cécile’s narrow her own gaze, if without any sign of real anger. “I know you have been sorely missed. –I shall ask the cook to set extra places for you and your friend. We would love to hear what adventures you have had over lunch- And the count should be well enough to join us, I think.

        -well, we have not eaten, no- But I do not know if Erik or Monsieur Khan – the gentleman there – have arranged any transport for us yet this afternoon,” Meg replied, giving Erik an easy sort of side eye.. For however much she didn’t want to just leave her friend now that she had been reunited with her, with Erik revealed killing any need for evasion to boot, Erik seemed uncomfortable enough as it was, beneath quite a fair show of reserved patience… She would not test it aggressively without some volition on his part.

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Aldric :: Bertrand :: Cécile :: Charles :: Damien :: Marguerite :: Marie :: Raoul :: Richard :: William
---
    musιc The Spoon on the Nose [Kaczmarek]
    тʀιʙuтe Banner art created by Tricias.
    messaɢe
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ץσυ αre тнe s n o w s t o r m, ι'm pυrιғιed.______________________
______________________тнe dαrkesт f a i r y t a l e, ιn тнe deαd oғ nιɢнт

❧━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━❧




          The stares were to be expected-- that slow and gradual attempt to scrutinize the man and all his peculiarities cycling clearly across the other woman’s features in her attempts to comprehend him. It was strange, in truth, how there was little more than a subtle pang of agitation glowing across his nerves as “Little Jammes” scoured every detail in checking glances between himself and Marguerite.

          Perhaps it was the latter’s presence at his side, her touch, all things that grounded him, that kept him calm and otherwise indifferent to the shock that may have-- at another time-- elicited a clear and unabated scowl or harsh words to discourage such blatant gawking. Instead, there was little more than a quirk of a brow, a squinting of yellow eyes whose narrowing were cut short when he flicked a brief glance to his lady’s direction. If nothing else, the sheer pleasure he saw there was near enough to spark a note of mirth in his own regard.

          Though the humor did not reach his lips or even his eyes, it did manifest with a passive expression that turned to equally scrutinize Madame Martin in return. Heeding the invitation with a blank stare, Meg’s words drew his gaze first to Nadir, as if gauging his own response. The Persian had long since come to stand at the other side of their former ‘Count,’ demeanor as pleasant as could be, as if there was not a towering skeleton of wraith in the room with them.

          This woman… Oh, Erik remembered enough to know that she was a friend of Meg’s. One that she clearly trusted if she had thought to come here of all places. And yet she had never made to visit the woman in all their time in Paris. His first impulse was to turn down the meal-- to drag the wounded Chagny into a carriage and be on their way, leaving behind the scrutiny of those people. And yet on the other hand, when would Meg next be able to see this woman? … In what amount of a hurry was he to get to Boscherville?

          That sounds lovely, Madame.” Nadir had begun, a smile touching his dark features, “But, I…” He’d continued, only to trail off with a slow look toward Erik, surprised as it was that the invitation had not been turned down already. By then, the said man’s gaze had drifted to Marguerite, studying her carefully for a beat before he spoke-- “... I believe it would behoove us to take our time. If only to ensure the Count and his son are truly capable of travel. We do not yet have any definitive travel arranged, regardless.” Peering once more toward Jammes and her husband, he bowed his head in acquiesce to the lady’s offer of lunch. It was true, after all-- he was not exactly inclined to rush north as it was, and he would be hard pressed to tear Marguerite too quickly away from a friend whom she may not see again for some time after doing just that. “But we will not intrude more than a few hours, I assure you.



          Erik // Isabella // Nadir // Landan // Christine // Adelaide
          ❧━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━❧


          ooc . . .
          music . . . The Spoon on the Nose [Kaczmarek/Ingman]
          art . . .© Shikorimu

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ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
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So we just hold on fast, acknowledge the past as lessons exquisitely crafted
Painstakingly drafted to carve us as instruments that play the music of life

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo


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        To have her own questioning glance turned back at her- It prompted Marguerite quirk thin black eyebrows high with open, easy question, her manner untouched by the way Erik clearly sought input from her. She knew after all, short of the most urgent of scenarios, he would not likely tear her away from the house if she voiced an overt want to stay. But she saw little good in prolonging the visit if he were reluctant. ‘Jammes’ and Martin would surely continue to poke with what they would view as polite subtlety, and Erik would be unlikely to tolerate it for long if he began only begrudgingly. She would not seek to stay only for it all to collapse into strained partings and discontented lovers.

        Her concern was needless, though- Erik proved as willing as she could hope, her put-on ease relaxing into a truer sort as she relaxed into a vague smile, soft look lingering warm on his profile until she blinked it away with a grin to her friend, echoing the assurance as her hand slid on her companion’s arm- a caress wrapped in an adjustment. “No- A meal and enough time to have the two packed up, and we’ll be out of your hair again.

        You were never in it to begin with,” Cécile insisted, her gaze lingering with a conflicted mix of pleasure and restless want to protest- Question whether Meg would just, disappear again- Before she tore away with a soft rustle of her skirts. “But I will tell the cook to add a few places to the table!

        And indeed, she left her friend and her, curious company, with her husband, who could only stare with still, fumbling awkwardness that he finally managed to crack with a few stumbling words. “ No, you’re welcome to stay as long as you like- Though I, understand you might want to reach somewhere before dark… Are you traveling far?

        It was little more than small talk, clearly, and between them Meg and Nadir, and even Erik, could answer as far as they wished before deflecting, Richard’s hunt for details listless at best. He gathered little more than their general direction of travel before his wife returned, coaxing them along to the dining room. By all polite accounts, they should have waited for the ‘full party’ to arrive, but the injured count proved to be delayed longer than anticipated, and Cécile could not excuse making them all wait only to serve a cold meal. No- They simply carried on with the show, and when their missing guest finally arrived-

        -what are you doing?” came the call from the door, the words quiet and half-gasped but sharp. Raoul- Looked honestly surprised, dressed in full street wear as an older woman, who could only be the housekeeper, followed at his heel with a well-wrapped bundle in her arms, the slight jerking movements of the little thing indicating that Philippe was awake and very much kicking- Though he did not cry. By all appearances, the baby’s father had been prepped to leave, his borrowed jacket buttoned up and a small sack in hand holding the necessities of travel that the Martins had been kind enough to provide. He was ready to go… And baffled to find the lot of them at lunch. “The maid said you were here and ready for me.

        Oh-” Cécile started, taking an awkward look to the men around the table before giving Raoul a lost, uncertain look. “I am sorry… I think she must have passed along me message in the wrong way. I meant we were ready for lunch, if you wished to join us.

        Yes- You’re late, but Ja- Cécile’s cook made the loveliest apple pie,” Meg piped in, smiling in the face of Raoul’s baffled indignation. “You should sit down! Who knows if there will be a proper dinner where we end up, and we shouldn’t so rude as to turn away the meal our friends were kind enough to offer us.

        I would not say that- But it would be good of you to sit down and wait a while- Eat, and have Madame Thomas take the boy back to the kitchen for his own meal. We sent a man to collect a horse and carriage suitable for your trip before we sat down- And Cécile was just asking Monsieur Sadoul here if he has any clients and interesting projects waiting for him up north.

        Raoul stared at Richard throughout his argument, expression blank with incomprehension that only seemed to grow, ending in a simple “…what?” that made the Martin man simply smile patiently… Completely oblivious to which part of his comment had confused the count so.

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Aldric :: Bertrand :: Cécile :: Charles :: Damien :: Marguerite :: Marie :: Raoul :: Richard :: William
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    musιc The Spoon on the Nose [Kaczmarek]
    тʀιʙuтe Banner art created by Tricias.
    messaɢe Raoul be like
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ץσυ αre тнe s n o w s t o r m, ι'm pυrιғιed.______________________
______________________тнe dαrkesт f a i r y t a l e, ιn тнe deαd oғ nιɢнт

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          It would not be truly so awful to linger, despite all the awkward exchanges between Erik and the proper little household he found himself within. Even if he had not caught Marguerite’s gaze from the corner of his own, he had already long since accepted that-- in his own mind-- the benefits of allowing her time with her long ‘lost’ friend before they departed far outweighed any minor discomforts he could otherwise endure. As it were, however, his gaze had settled upon her own in that brief moment, an easy composure speaking volumes of the allowance before it drifted once more to their front.

          In fact, regardless of concerning encounters at the hotel only a short while before, Erik’s mood was among the most fair it had been ever since before the Persian fiasco had begun. As a result, tolerating those odd, often shocked regards carried with it some measure of strained albeit grim but genuine humor, if only in place of what would otherwise have been a gnawing agitation.

          He owed these people a great deal, after all. If they had not taken Marguerite and their wayward count in, there was no telling how long it would have taken him to find her… If he could have found her at all. Their benevolence had already been proven to him by then and their plain willingness in attempting to treat him as they would any other guest did not go unnoticed.

          Still, it led to pleasant enough conversation-- everywhere between the front and later dining rooms, the time between each somehow managing to ease the lot into some semblance of normality, despite their less-than-traditional guest. The guise concocted prior to their arrival likely had some part in that-- the concept of this peculiar man being an architect creating an anchor in reality, a way to view and accept an individual so strange being as human as any other who sat there ‘round the lunch table. Artists of any caliber, after all, were often known for their quirks, their eccentricities-- both of which this “Erik Sadoul” carried in spades.

          Nadir at his elbow at the table, the Persian continued to carry himself with his usual civility, calm and collected as always. For those practiced with the former Daroga, however, there was no mistaking the tension still set just beyond his eyes, beyond the thin line of his lips. And when the entire affair went on without a hitch, that air to him did not change.

          The Persian’s attention only broke when a familiar face appeared at the door, accompanied with a maid and the little bundle they had been promised. “Ah, Count-- It is so good to see you well--” It was a clumsy attempt to regard the man with an expanding discomfort for the awkwardness that followed-- after all, if mayhem did not manifest itself so far-- Raoul’s appearance seemed the mostly likely to spark it back to life. But it was something that did not spread to Erik’s disposition. Instead, the masked man simply shifted a look toward Raoul as he entered, his own expression placid while Madame Martin and Marguerite chose to address him first, the young father’s confusion only being amplified when Richard, too, encouraged him to sit, relax, and partake in the meal-- at the very same table as that masked oddity.

          The irony was not lost on Erik as a subtle humor touched at the corners of his covered expression, only watching Chagny attempt to make sense of everything he was seeing. “Yes. It is good to see you alive and well,” that voice eventually drawled in agreement, tone impassive at best. Soon, he gestured toward a vacant seat before he would continue. “It will be a bit before we are prepared to leave, so you may as well sit. I am certain food would do you and the child some good prior to travel, Monsieur.” Pausing, his gaze drifted once more toward Madame Martin, as if nothing about this entire scene was strange at all. “Actually, yes. I have a few arrangements already made along the English channel. In a few nights, I am to meet with potential commissioners for a large museum in Rouen.


          Erik // Isabella // Nadir // Landan // Christine // Adelaide
          ❧━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━❧


          ooc . . . -snickering because the Musée des Beaux Arts in Rouen actually did start searching to commission an architect in 1873 for a new building-
          music . . . The Spoon on the Nose [Kaczmarek/Ingman]
          art . . .© Shikorimu

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When I was young, I fell in love with story, with the eleventh hour, with the blaze of glory.
The theatre lights dim and all goes quiet. In the darkest of rooms, light shines the brightest.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo


---
        Raoul’s glance drifted quite slowly back to Erik at the sound of his voice, his own seemingly lost as he continued to stare, expression too blank to call incredulous, while the older masked man spoke. And something of his lilting, wry assurances and invitation shot in straight back to a winter cemetery, to jeers and fire at his back as he ran. He did not run then, however, his gaze shifting to the indicated chair and sticking, even as Erik himself turned his attention back on Richard. It was some moments before the man shook himself to life at least enough to shake his head, his gaze settling on the remaining Martin paying him any mind. “I… fear I cannot imagine eating at the moment, practical as the advice may be.” he reluctance to admit that? Indulging Erik and all of them in their casual display of a meal was bitter. But admit it he did. He even bent to shift his gaze to the maid and his infant son and say, “However, I will happily accept your offer on Philippe’s behalf. Thank you.

        Oh, there is no need for such formality, Monsieur le Vicomte—Ah, Comte,” the Madame Martin admonished, her smile welcoming and lovely as she answered in the place of her husband, already focused back on the masked architect. “Please, at least join us and take some refreshment,” she insisted, gesturing at the same seat Erik had whilst nodding to the maid to walk out with the little baby in hand. “I cannot send you on your way with a completely empty stomach.

        Raoul mouthed for some word, glanced at the back of Erik and Nadir’s heads, but then his gaze fell on Marguerite and her mute, arching brow, and he shut his mouth. “Of course. Thank you,” he said in the direction of Cécile, finally moving for the seat between Monsieur Khan and Monsieur Martin, exactly across from Marguerite.

        The former dancer eyed Raoul as he took his seat, the noble clearly unsettled, but seemingly willing to play along with the social pressure and vague hints for discretion from their own party. However, Marguerite knew Raoul, a year living under the same roof more than long enough to pick up his ticks, never mind the array of stressful scenarios they had faced since their respective returns to Paris. He might be playing along, but his stilted movements and numb glance—like he was watching the world tick on along about him, without him—warned her a storm might yet be on the horizon. Though, Raoul’s particular brand of storm tended more towards torrential downpours and heavy clouds and mists that lingered and got under the skin and made one long for heat, where Marguerite had grown used to fires and lightning, against the silent contrast of roaring blizzards and burnt ash... not that she had seen much if that either, in recent days. No, Erik in contrast seemed at relative ease beside her, merely registering Raoul’s reactions before returning his attention to Richard Martin.

        That was a relief, at least. If Erik was not keen to ignore Raoul’s reactions, and Raoul was willing to share nothing beyond incredulous looks amid their hosts, then what trouble could they expect?

        How lovely,” Richard said, smiling lightly in answer to Erik’s words as he poured himself, and then his guests some more to drink. “Is the north your usual haunt for work, Monsieur Sadoul? Or do you find yourself in many corners? I fear in my ignorance I imagined most architects worked in a specific city or area, but if you are successful enough to work with a man as polished as Monsieur Khan here clearly is, you must have a very expansive business.” He tossed Nadir a glance with the compliment, and it was easy to see by his tone and light glance that he was merely mildly curious and making small talk. It would be all too simple to dodge any details the men wished.

        A reassuring fact, but Marguerite still could not help but shoot Erik her own sideways, smiling glance, eyes fond and curious, wondering if those details on the museum were a pure ploy, or a twist on reality and knowledge that Erik had pulled out of thin air like a conjuring trick. She would not put it past him, after all, to have earthed up or recalled some astoundingly convenient truth. But expectation did not dampen her appreciation in the least.

        Something touched her fingers, and she glanced the other way.

        He seems lovely,” Cécile breathed, her blue gaze on their respective gentlemen before shifting to her, her smile warm and pleased. “I am glad you found one another.” Marguerite beamed in return, tickled by the sentiment and wondering, in a distant, skittering sort of way if her friend had simply seen past the eccentric to the gold beneath with only this easy, short meeting to work with, or if they were simply that obvious in their regard for one another, that a few subtle glances and her own bright shift in mood at his return had been enough to earn Cécile’s confidence. Or was it both? Either way, the bright, full feeling in Meg's chest ebbed a bit when Jammes followed up her comment by saying, “But truly, Giry, you never did explain why you did not contact me when your poor Ma died.

        Her scorn was gentle, her admonishing look kind, enough so that Meg had to try and smile for her. But there was no denying the pain beneath it at the sudden mention of her mother, and Cécile’s general manner. Jammes’ simple, sincere affection had always been so... she was still touching her hand, but lightly, so lightly, clearly still keenly aware of how Meg’s reception to such gestures could be uneven at best, even with a friend. Especially with a friend. (Really, it was a wonder she ever fooled herself into thinking her affection for Erik was anything resembling 'friendly,' given she had never tried to reach out to a friend the way she did him. Not since she was much, much younger.) An awkwardness that she still struggled over with Christine, before Erik even entered the picture. Christine was not overly demonstrative, but the affection she offered was always so sincere, so warm and lingering, and Meg did not know how to answer it. She often found herself meeting Christine’s soft hugs and clutching hands and hurt, mute confusion with friendly pats and tight grips and wide smiles, and little sweetness.

        Jammes though, she was always her more natural match, even if their friendship was never as well-rounded as the one Meg shared with Christine. The two dancers had long ago established their balance: Jammes demonstrative, but considerate, Meg appreciative, but casual. Almost passive. (Unless, of course, she was screaming about ghosts and terrors, when she might crack a friend’s ribs whilst clutching to them.) Little Jammes did not need Little Giry to return her manner of affection. Cécile saw that Meg welcomed what she offered, and that was always enough. “I knew your mother, too. I would have been happy to attend the funeral with you, just as we—Richard and I—would have been happy to house you, at least until you could make arrangements to return to Nice and the de Chagnys.

        In all honesty, I would have likely reached out to you in the end,” Meg confessed, meeting Cécile’s look with an apologetic, but not regretful smile. “I did not intend to when the issue passed, but it is easy to be stubborn and wish not to trouble anyone—even a friend—before the distractions run out.” Before her mother was buried. “And the hunger and cold and empty pockets set in. I swear, I would have turned to you if it had truly come to that.

        Probably. She could barely remember the numb state she had been in that horrid night before that first attack. Which had seemed so random at the time, but had it been? Given all that had happened since, Erik and Bertrand and Nadir’s suspicions on her targeting, could it have been more than a simple mugging?

        Still, it was likely she would have reached out to a friend! Jammes, or even Bertrand. Presuming she stopped to consider anything beyond the desolate emptiness her life had felt that night, before it was too late. However, it seemed safe to presume! Surely, she would have.

        Of course.

        I would have had to seek some sort of help,” she pointed out, finding a smile. “I could not leave Christine and her little family fretting after me for long, after all.” Which was why she had written to them even under Erik’s watch, in the first frost of their days together, even knowing something of the history between them. But that was not a safe memory to contemplate from any angle. Not there.

        Thankfully, Cécile did not leave her room to do so, softening as Meg spoke with a slow nod. And at the mention of Christine’s family, she tossed a hopeful, checking look at the mute noble among them. “Of course. And it was kind of you to take Meg and her mother in during the war, Monsieur. I felt a horrid friend, having a way out for myself when the war came while she and her mother were left bereft.

        Marguerite consciously fought the urge to tense, to show some reaction while before her, numbly noted, Raoul blinked out of his own thoughts and whatever focus he might have had on the other gentlemen’s discussion to look to the resident madame with surprise, and then a slow, stilted nod. “It was Christine’s wish. And we were blessed in our circumstances, given the war, much less—” He twitched, and the faintest gesture said he had almost looked at Erik. But he didn’t. But his expression was left vaguely grim. “It was only right to provide what help we could.

        Yes. Yes, of course it was.

        Cécile smiled in grateful understanding, said something polite in response, but Marguerite did not note it. She struggled to smile the same way, given logically she should be the most grateful of all. And she was. Raoul was a good man, whatever their conflicts, just as Christine was good. A good soul who had reached out her hand in the midst of her own overturned life just when Meg needed her. And Cécile and her husband, they were good, decent people, Bertrand was decent, her own mother was decent. Even Erik, perhaps him most of all, though she knew he struggled to see it. She saw it, and it had softened her to all of them to varying degrees. That they were good enough to care for her when she needed it.

        Because she needed it.

        Because they should.

        But just as it softened her to them, it… made her feel unfastened from herself. This person who had troubled another with her needs once again, intentionally or not, became a temporary obligation once more, whether the one obliged minded or not. Welcomed her or not. No matter how warm the reception, how ‘natural’ the relationship or how sweet the connection, there was always that unfastened, anxious feeling. That anxious fear, and shame, poisoning everything. A feeling that took her right back to scraped knees and torn palms and bloody fingers, and cold, calm eyes, looking at her like she was a fool, explaining in a soft, quiet voice about the nature of duty, and love, and decent people, and burdens. And troublesome little girls.

        Marguerite’s heart was thumping in her throat.

        She tried to swallow it down, the thumping, the memory, burning even at a distance, as she tried to look around it—but it was hard to take a full breath and even as she smiled, as she felt the reassuring success of her own control, she felt dizzy.

        And her hand—she had reached out without even thinking about it. It had taken reaching out to breathe.

        The gesture had not been sharp, however, even if she did not remember making it. Her hand had simply slid across the table, slow and natural and oddly graceful in a mindless way, until she found Erik’s own, and clutched it. Held it in a grip that struggled to keep tight, but pulsed with strength when it came too loose. And now that she was conscious of it, she looked, found Erik’s covered face, and—that's right. He was there. It was not true, he was not like that, not now, she was not just—

        She breathed deep, the broken, stumbling mantra a soothing balm against glass-cuttingly clear memory. And all the while, she had kept smiling, and found relief and a true smile in registering that, in managing to refocus on Raoul and press forward with a, “And I will always be grateful for it,” light and easy and a success, no stutter in her voice.

        But however natural she might seem in a passing glance, a short glance, watching the whole process? Raoul lost his own smile, confusion twisting uncertainly across his face at the odd shifts in the lady’s expression, at the way she so boldly reached for Erik. For... how off something clearly was, though he could not say what.

        And Cécile, she was not so lost, sitting so close, in contact with her friend. She had lost her smile early, and while her reaction might be calmer in a way, next to Raoul’s, it was more still, more wary, her gaze shifting from her friend to the man she sought support from… to the hand she still touched. She had never let go, and she felt it, even then: the faintest of tremors, shaking the hand Meg allowed Cécile to touch, though Meg did not touch back. She never reached back. She reached for Monsieur Sadoul. Cécile had been right there, and yet Meg had sought support—comfort?—from the man not even part of the discussion, without a single apparent thought.

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Aldric :: Bertrand :: Cécile :: Charles :: Damien :: Marguerite :: Marie :: Raoul :: Richard :: William
---
    musιc Larks and Katydids [The Newton Brothers]
    messaɢe -pops in out of nowhere, waves off years of dusts, sneezes, dusts again and sits down. takes deep breath- SOOOOOOO I saw Phantom on Broadway last week. I saw the news about it closing last month and instantly rushed to move whatever money and plans needed to be moved to go to NYC and see it because, 20+ year bucket list goal about to expire? AND of course, obsessing over that + the show being amazing had me in the deepest nostalgia kick, sooooo- -sigh- I doubt this will ever be seen at this point, BUT I hated the original last post I had here anyways, so I deleted and rewrote it into a wordy monster featuring warm friends, awkward Raoul, old rp callbacks, Erik/Meg nods, never-fully-untapped traumas, and innate couple trust. And hey, I think I can sit on that. I'm off to try and wrestle a couple other ideas into dormancy/at least fic format, BUT it's been lovely rereading a lot of this in the last few weeks and trying out the old rp muscles again. If this is never seen, then I have no regrets.

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