(1310-04-21) Waiting for Dior
Summary: Jehan-Pascal calls at Salon de la Rose Sauvage to visit with Dior and gets Desarae instead. At least at first. Wine is had. A Valerian Second is met, and a brother found.
RL Date: 21st April, 2018
Related: None
desarae jehan-pascal severine dior 

Salon de la Rose Sauvage

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. Beside the stairs leading up is a hallway on ground level, leading further into the building to where the offices of the leader of the salon and his two Seconds can be found, along with the two wings of private quarters for roses of Mandrake and Valerian canon.


Early evenings tend to be quiet for Salon de la Rose Sauvage, with a distinct lack of courtesans about the public areas due to a need to sleep off the excesses of the night before. It is just such a time when the novices of the salon ready and prepare the place for those that will come later; with fresh flowers replacing those that have faded, the straightening up of cushions with careful hands, and the quiet chatter of conversation as notes on this patron and that are exchanged between those as they work. Not that there's anything terribly gossipy to discuss about the patrons, for beyond how this one or that one glanced their way, or the manner in which they spoke or dressed, or even comported themselves, there is little to tell. Except sometimes there is…

"And then we danced." There's a too casual shrug to the shoulders given by one of the young novices as she takes something from her pocket and holds it up for inspection to two of the others. "I am not sure what I will do with it as yet, since I never wear rubies." There's an air of resignation, or even sadness, in the tone of her voice, as if to even wear the pretty ring would cause a severity of sufferance for her. Dark of hair and exquisite of face, she holds court with her peers, for this is Desarae Mereliot nó Rose Sauvage, niece of the Sovereign Duchesse, middle daughter of the Marquise Chavais.

Something about this time of day is an impeccable match for the slender frame and the ascetic garb of the man presently arriving. With hair shorn quite close to his scalp, with the dull green of his knitwork tunic, he may as well be here delivering fresh flowers for the salon, but for the dearth of flowers in his arms. An eye keen to spot the value of quality will know that the doehide leggings he wears below that commoners' garb are well beyond the means of your average florist, and his boots are dark brown with a mirror shine you just don't see on the streets. He's of wealth, if not of class— or else merely an eccentric who finds pleasure in this sort of simplicity of dress. He enters and turns instinctiely to the right, eyes seeming to fix on one person, then the next, and the next in quick succession, cataloguing each mentally as he goes. Not merely browsing, he's intent on some goal or other. That goal doesn't seem, for the moment, to include Deserae, as she is pinned in that same cursory gaze and passed by in her turn, only to be returned to in a second take a moment later, scouring the outfit she wears from floor to flank and back.

As with any arrival to the salon, Jehan-Pascal is instantly noted. Inquisitive heads turn his way, amongst them the dark one of Desarae. His appraisal of her cause her attention to likewise linger on him, her eyes boldly mirroring his. With shoulders squared and an uplift of her chin, she peels herself from her peers and is the very first to head in his direction. She's a sharp one, this one, and the quality of his clothing isn't something to escape her notice, and so with a gentle sweep of her skirts to the side, she curtsies, affording him the etiquette that his station allows, bestowing his title upon him in her greeting. "Welcome to Salon de la Rose Sauvage, my lord. How might we be of help to you this evening?" Brilliant green eyes glint behind a fall of dark lashes as she looks up at him, the slenderness of her figure made much of by the cut of her gown and the manner in which she wears it. Which is to say… well. There's a touch of pride to her carriage making it difficult to place which canon she embraces, though clearly not Alyssum given the lack of a veil, and there's the smallest of smiles that's evident in the delightful uptilt to the edges of her mouth. "Refreshments, perhaps?"

Jehan-Pascal bows his head slightly, extending two fingers and gently reaching out with his palm in an indication that the courtesan may rise from her curtsey. It's a small gesture, but she can tell this inconspicuously clad gentleman gets his share of bows and curtsies to have developed an almost instantaneous method of dismissing them. "I'd hardly say no to a beaker of wine," he crooks a slanted, casual smile, "Rather, make it two. One of your very best, and one of your very worst, and I'll see which it is I prefer," he continues in artless banter with something of an air of a riddle about it, the storm of his mind churning in his sea-grey eyes.

"If my lord would come this way?" Desarae rises. "We have comfortable seating where you may taste the wines the salon has. Though…" and she pauses, her mouth quirking into something of a deeper smile. "I am not too certain that I would admit to any of the wines we offer here being anything less than perfection itself." Hands are quick to smooth the ivory brocade of her skirts, and if there's a deliberate lingering of her fingers as they curve out and over her hips before she commences leading the way a step or two ahead of Jehan-Pascal, that'd simply be the mark of a girl beginning to test the waters. "Would you also like company whilst I fetch you your wines? Have you someone in particular you wish to spend time with my lord? I can see if they are free to join you, if so." There's an elegance to the girl as she guides them through the salon and towards seating at the rear of the salon, her unbound hair a shining fall of darkness that swings about her shoulders as she walks. Her training shows in every angle of her carriage, marking her as a girl on the cusp of debut.

Jehan-Pascal's hand is already extended, it's easy for him to gesture further for Desarae to lead on, an assurance in signal form that he will follow. His long step dallies, not to overcome the shorter woman with the pace of his stride, but he follows along after her, giving the flaunted hip its due consideration before he raises his eyes again to consider the decor, maybe checking to see whether there are any bottles on display. "I'd have thought there would be some dregs of a barrel for those whose taste runs toward punishment," he gives a half-jestful, half-dead-serious opinion. He has that sort of voice— that which can pull off such semantic acrobatics. His gait carries him slightly askew when he sees the cabinet of wines on offer, but he's drawn back on course when Desarae asks him about company. "Hm? Yes," suddenly decisive enough, he hip-shifts his way past a table and settles in between it and the wall, leaning back to stretch his arms against the back of the cushioned seating. "There's a youth with hair as long as mine is short and as red as mine is black." More riddles? What's with this guy? "Do you know whom I mean?"

"I believe that my lord is speaking of Lord Dior Baphinol nó Rose Sauvage, for I can think of no-one else whom that descriptor would fit." Is that a slight crowing of triumph that shows in Desarae's voice as she offers the name of a courtesan? One of the pillows is plucked from the couch to be plumped in anticipation of Jehan-Pascal's derriere being dropped as she speaks. "But if my lord truly wishes his stomach to question his choices, I expect that the dregs of a barrel might be siphoned into a glass for him, though on his own head be it…" Her voice trails off as with a crinkle of her nose that suggest she thinks the idea a poor one, a breath is drawn that's deep enough to lift her shoulders and fill her bodice. "I will fetch a platter of fruits and cheeses along with the wine and Dior. If you will excuse me?"

"The Tiberian poet Flaccus tells us— be wise, strain the dregs of your wine, and cut back your abundant hopes to fit the brevity of life." Oh, hell, it's a poet. No wonder nothing he says makes any sense. He does brighten readily when she produces Dior's name. "That's him," he confirms, by way of congratulations, sprawling copiously in his given seat and twisting his back a little bit such that one hip is eased into the pillow, his opposite leg spread wide to one side to indulge in a slight bounce on the ball of his foot while hie hide-clad knee keeps time. "You may fetch as you please, and bless you for your efforts on my behalf." He thinks of telling her to tell Dior it's his brother— but then thinks better of it, his shoulders giving a shake along with a breathy gust of laughter as he considers Dior being summoned on the pretext of a client awaiting him.

Off Desarae goes, her steps light as she disappears to hunt down the asked for courtesan, and to also gather up the promised refreshments. A solid five minutes elapses, perhaps six, and wearing the smallest of frowns on her face she returns, settling the tray containing two decanters of wine (unmarked), two glasses and a selection of the promised fruits and cheeses on the table. "Dior will not be long, my lord. He is preparing himself to join you, but has asked that I wait with you until he does. If, that pleases you?" A tilt of her head as she looks to the tray, and without waiting to be asked to do so she pours wine from the decanters into the glasses. "Perhaps my lord might wish to indulge himself in the wine in the meantime? I am sure you will not be kept too long for Dior." A pillow is taken from the couch and dropped to the floor, and she takes up the classical abeyante position of the salon's training. Her eyes should be downcast, but they're not. Instead they're lifted to his in defiance of where they ought to be, perhaps to watch his reaction to the wines that she's fetched.

Jehan-Pascal might mind, if he were a true dominant; Desarae can no doubt smell on him that he isn't, or, if he is, he's really not feeling it with her— from the way he half begins to protest when she kneels before him, to the easygoing way he gives up his protests before they've even begun. He's just going to skip straight over the part where his brain might start to imagine what on earth Dior might be doing to 'prepare' himself; a good drink of wine (or a very bad drink of wine) might well help to wash that image straight out of his head. "Cheers that," he doesn't much hesitate over which wineglass to take. "Worrying only makes you suffer twice," he philosophizes off-handedly to the young woman at his feet, then drops the wine back down his throat with hardly a sign he even swallowed. Just poured it in. Blessed or evil.

*

It's not much in Jehan-Pascal's nature to have someone kneeling after him, and, yet, with enough wine, both good and bad, to fortify his veins, a man might grow accustomed to anything, even having a lovely conversation with a woman on her knees. "I prefer the bad to the good, when it comes to wine, on the whole; good wine is often poured so sparingly, while bad wine flows the more freely for its lack of sophistication. Kallimakhos' cricket may sing sweet, but the ass of Omeros will carry your burdens," he explains, now three flagons of wine down and only the better for it. How long he's been waiting for his brother— he no longer minds, nor cares. He's got another flagon of wine coming, and a captive audience to listen to him ranting. Maybe this sort of thing isn't so bad.

Whether he has noticed that one Rose was exchanged for another while he was waiting, remains to be seen. But the woman now settled upon the kneeling cushion is of a different hair color than Desarae, honey-blonde with a tendency towards slightly reddish. The gown of dark green silk leaves more of her pale skin to the view, an inspiring neckline at the front and the whole of her back with the finished marque of Rose Sauvage. Séverine was the one who returned with the wine, and after grasping the situation, dismissed Desarae to withdraw to the Dormitory. "You prefer the bad to the good? Then maybe you came to the right place," she murmurs, a soft voice smooth as the silk she wears, a bit of dark amusement lingering beneath the layer of submissive courtesy. "You came to see Dior, and he shall be with us in a moment. Is it a contract you consider? If so, I can see to the necessary arrangements, my lord."

Having been caught midway through getting dressed in a rather elaborate gown has delayed Dior a bit. Having to remove and then stow the gown away again took even longer, then he had to get dressed. Curse those naughty Mandrakes for being so easily amused by his fabric struggles. He finally does arrive however, wearing a long Hellene tunic style dress of billowing white silk that reaches just past his knees and a pair of matching sandals that twine up his ankles and calves. Its an innocent look for him one that highlights his natural softness. His long red hair flows behind him loosely as he glides through the salon heading towards Severine and the man she is with. He pauses nearby just in time to hear Severine's words. "My apologies for being so late." His gaze flicks upwards to Jehan-Pascal and he arches an eyebrow his cheeks turning pink with embaressment. "I was led to believe that this was a potential client…"

A flutter of half-ennerved laughter wends its way from the pit of Jehan-Pascal's stomach when the woman — wait, this isn't the same woman — remarks upon his preferences, and he's set to wag a cheeky finger in her direction with a crooked little smile when she asks him if he's after a contract and it sets him to pause; "Oh— oh, gosh, no, nothing the like," he replies. "I'm only just in town and I thought it would be the thing to do to look in on how he's faring. Dior!" he raises up a chalice of wine when the youngest Baphinol makes his appearance. He lacks anything of shame upon his features, despite the awkwardness of the situation; he's apologetic, but not embarrassed. "I hardly meant to make you go through any," he rolls his free hand in search of a word, "Rigamarole. I only thought to surprise you. Are you surprised?" he grins, standing from his seat and opening his arms to invite his little brother into an embrace.

Dior arrives, and this is enough for Séverine to give up her spot on the cushion before where Jehan-Pascal is so comfortably seated. She moves to stand in one fluid motion, that makes fabric whisper and shift into place, dark green providing such enticing contrast on her pale skin that is sprayed a little with freckles here and there. "You are late, Dior.", she chides with a faint roll of her eyes, the smile dimming into a cast of rebuke. As she is still assuming - very much like Dior had - that the charming enjoyer of wines is a potential patron for the adept with the flowing red hair. With a sharp flicker in her gaze, she looks towards Jehan-Pascal, and then towards Dior. "Surprise? Who is this, Dior?", she asks.

"Very surprised yes. It was good of you to come visit." Dior admits as he steps into that embrace and hugs his brother tightly, there may be a bit of snuggling given too before he steps back grinning to Severine. "Jehan-Pascal is my older brother. I hope he wasn't too much trouble while you were waiting for me?" He gives the aforementioned brother a fond look one that clearly says he has been missed.

Jehan-Pascal has a long, rather rangy set of arms to him, and he wraps his brother up in them, resting his chin on the top of Dior's head, unafraid to express familial affection in public, but neither hesitant to let him go again in the aftermath. "I fear now I've taken you unduly from your other duties. Let me leave a present for your house to enjoy in return for the time we spend visiting," he suggests. Not a contract — gods and angels, no — but a recognition that his brother's time is money and that he ought to have announced himself less surreptitiously so that his minders could arrange a visit in his off-time.

"Oh! I am pleased to meet you, my Lord Jehan-Pascal de Baphinol," Séverine assures, now that Dior has clarified their relation. Glancing from one brother to the other, she adds, "No present is required, my lord, unless you truly wish to give it. A remark, dropped now and then when in company of nobility newly arrived to Marsilikos, would be recompensation enough. Truly. Dior has no engagements for the next hours. Feel free to withdraw to the gardens and take your time." The curving of her lips is genuine, warmth flashing in her gaze. "Even if I believe you may not wish for more wine." This she adds with a certain dryness to her tone. "I am Séverine nó Rose Sauvage, Second in charge of the Red Roses. If you have any concerns or questions regarding Dior's time here, feel free to approach me, anytime."

"I have been treated wonderfully by all whom I have met in this house; I will be sure that all I meet do know it," Jehan-Pascal assures Séverine in turn, "And still I believe having a present delivered would be most appropriate, when I find the appropriate present. You have all taken such good care of our brother. Look at you," he chuckles to Dior. "You've gotten so tall. Though I half-expected to find you wearing a dress," he adds, with a quick, playful glance to Séverine— rumors get around, obviously. "That's something I've got to see one day. My little sister," he noogies Dior quite playfully.

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