(1310-02-17) Late Night Visitor
Summary: A late night visitor comes to the Salon de la Rose Sauvage, seeking entertainment.
RL Date: 18/02/2018
Related: None
ashton severine 

La Rose Sauvage - Night Court

A huge hearth of black marble, with gargoyles of stone adorning the mantlepiece, governs the foyer of the Salon de la Rose Sauvage, which emanates a certain dark air, the interior design of the more heavy sort, that could easily be encountered in a gentleman's club, especially with the dark cherry wood wainscoting used on the walls. Dark leather upholstery is predominant in the furniture of chaise longues, couches and long-backed chairs that are arranged in a half-circle, leaving space in the center for courtesans (or patrons) to kneel for an inspection. Three tall windows with circular stained-glass insets are framed by dark red curtains of heavy brocade, a few golden threads worked into the fabric catching occasionally the light of flickering oil lamps at the walls. The lamps light a pair of portrait paintings, of the two founders of the salon, Edouard Shahrizai and his cousin Annabelle no Mandrake, resplendent in their dark Kusheline appeal; and a cabinet in a corner, holding a number of quality wines and a flagon of uisghe.

The foyer has a high ceiling, and a gallery beyond a balustrade of dark teak wood, carved in the shapes of gargoyles. Sometimes a few veiled creatures can be spotted up there, stealing glances at what is going on below; from the gallery, which can be reached by ascending some winding stairs at the back of the foyer.

It is a winter night. The weather is cold and fair.

The Morhban Vicomte walks in with a sense of heavy gravitas and severity. Shaking off the cold and his coat at the door, he clearly came by carriage.

It may already be late at night, but the heavy snow falls from days past have ceased, a fact, which may indeed bring visitors to the salon of Rose Sauvage, even at this late hour. Ashton will have been greeted by a somewhat sleepy adept at the door, as the very few novices would already be asleep. The adept has taken his cloak and shown him into the dark parlor of the place. A fire is crackling in the impressive hearth, and oil lamps at the walls shed a cozy yet somewhat flickering light.

Severine had been seated in an armchair in a corner, but now that the footfall of a visitor echoes through the entrance hall, she rises to her feet. The Second in charge of the more submissive roses is on duty tonight, or so it seems. After she has exchanged a glance with the leader of the salon, who sits there in a dark corner, half-asleep. Her dress is a flowing dark green, a high neckline touching her collarbone, while it dips down low at the back. A fact Ashton might notice later, once she would turn around. The marque of the wild thorny rose adorns her, all the way from the small of her back to the nape of her neck.

"Good eve," she greets smoothly, lowering her gaze as she offers the curtsey of greeting. "How may we serve you?"

"I do like a good green dress on a pale body." Ashton muses as he goes to walk his steady, measured steps towards the fire. He opens his palms when there, and states, "Please come hither and warm my hands?" He has yet to seemingly look at Severine more than the passing gaze that translated the hue of her garment. "Good eve, however. Don't allow me to be rude. I have not come for cruelty but to give and by so doing, to get in return. I am Ashton, may I ask your name?"

Severine lifts a brow at his words, but obedient rose that she is, approaches when asked to. Once she is close enough, the warm light of the fire in the hearth lights her more properly, the delicate pale skin with that faint shadow of freckles that can be seen in her features and the slender column of her neck, as arms and front are so cruelly covered. "Be welcome, my lord Ashton." Honey blonde hair is kept in check by a ribbon, gathering her long tresses at the nape of her neck to keep it from obscuring the view. A beautiful d'Angeline in her mid-twenties. "We will gladly see you entertained in the manner you enjoy. Have you been to our salon before?" Her eyes brighten as she adds, a bit daringly perhaps, "I can hear from your accent that you are not native to our lovely city. In fact, it reminds me of a province known for those seeking more intense delights."

Ashton turns to Severine, a small smile on his features that seems grander than almost any other smile. If not stopped, he will slide his hands in the front of her dress boldly, solemnly even, not a swift move, easily avoided, but a dominating one. To cup her breasts with his frigid hands. If he succeeds, he does no more than hold her soft, warm flesh as he speaks. "I am de Morhban, you have a good ear. Kusheth's blood runs in my veins. Already you arouse me. Already I am dangerously close to needing you. Is that your game? To need me to need you?"

There is a flicker in her grey eyes, the slightest twitch of her brows when the Kusheline elects to use her indeed to warm his hands. As slow as his own action had been it will be intercepted belatedly. When slender fingers close about his wrists and pull them gently away from the grasp they had stolen. "My lord," Severine intones, her voice no less gentle, a pleasant sound mingling with the crackling from the fire close by. "Do not mistake the parlor for a patron room." Her eyes flit down as she takes one step backwards to offer another curtsey, when he tells her the name of his ancient and proud family. "You honor us with your visit." Her gaze flits for the fraction of a moment towards the armchair in the dark corner, and the ghost of a smile plays on her features. "It may be a game, and only few elect to play it," the courtesan responds to Ashton. "As not all show a fondness for the sharper diversions. I take it you are interested in finding a diversion for tonight? One of the more submissive Roses, my lord?"

"No." The Vicomte states casually as he starts to walk, a wide slow circle around Severine. His hands seem sufficiently warmed by their brief presence upon the woman and he watches her as he goes. "I do not want one of the more submissive roses, my lady… I want you. If you will have me." He crosses his hands at the base of his back, thumb rubbing gently over his finger pads. "I enjoy your confidence and allure. Your smile and clothing. Your heat and your reliability. That you will submit… but you control that submission… for now."

"I do appreciate a man certain of his choices," Severine nó Rose Sauvage murmurs, holding still, as she endures the Morhban's inspection while he circles her at an unhurried pace. The skin of her back pale and with that hint of freckles, adorned with the art of the salon's sign. "You know of course that this will require a fee. And a contract." His observations pull a smile forth, a brief flicker of one. "I am glad that I seem to meet your requirements.", she says, her tone soft despite a hint of hidden challenge lingering beneath that layer of courtesy. Her hand lifts, in subtle gesture, that soon has an adept return with inkwell, quill and parchment. "Let us sit down over here for a moment while we deal with the formalities," Severine suggests, gesturing towards a table and chairs close by. Once seated, she inspects the contract and fills out the name, and another detail, before she hands it over to Ashton for him to review and sign.

"Darling." The Morhban says darkly, "You've /defined/ the requirements." He does follow her as a gentleman would, the game complete at the moment in lieu of logistics. He looks over the document, eyes drawn to that detail even as he asks, "Have you written in a… what is the term? Safeword?"

"Yes.", Severine looks up, meeting the Morhban lord's gaze, her eyes as calm as the quiet before for a storm. "The Signale. You are fortunate that I can be available tonight. I am honored that I seem to be your preference for tonight's diversions." Was there the faintest hint of a tremble in her tone? There may be a glance from a dark pair of eyes in the corner, but so far, the man who is sitting there in the shadows shows no inclination to intrude, or even interrupt their negotiations by moving only the slightest fraction.

Ashton lowers his head faintly, his eyes making it obvious he is tracking her gaze to the man in the shadows. "A friend." He states more as fact than anything. "It is wise of you to have a signale, submissive rose. This is not, however…" He looks back to her, "…a diversion." He straightens a little, and says with quiet gravitas, "This is /art/."

Noting his glance, Severine's head turns just so. "Jacques Verreuil nó Shahrizai.", she remarks towards Ashton. "He leads our salon, but only comes forth if he sees someone that… draws his attention. Don't be offended that he prefers his distance tonight. You are not," and here her lips twitch into a wry sort of smile, "the prey he seeks." Her stormy eyes sweep back to Ashton de Morhban, and he might note a faint coloring of her cheeks when he makes his point clear. "I agree, my lord." Her eyes flicker just a little as she says this, and with a smooth motion she moves to stand, once the Morhban has signed the contract. An adept hovers close by, waiting for the fee to be handed over. As soon as all these tedious delays have concluded, Severine looks towards Ashton, murmuring a soft, "Shall we?"

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