(1310-06-07) The Things We Learn
Summary: Discoveries of a social tiding in the temple district.
RL Date: 1310-06-07
Related: Related Logs (Say None if there aren't any; don't leave blank)
carenza juste marielle 

Getting out into a dulcet evening is rarely troublesome for the assembled nobility in Marsilikos. Carriages bearing the Mereliot livery stand out, doubly for their passengers dressed like crows. One of them, however, forsakes the need for a team of four or a palanquin, for that matter. She doesn't even bother with the horse. Going on foot suits well enough, given the somber mood descended around the great harbour city. That Carenza counts among the Mereliots is a thing obvious to anyone with eyes and the faintest experience with the house, their trademark golden-honey complexion in plain evidence above the high black collar of her lush waistcoat. The raven comes to alight in a place of doves, then, though perhaps it's fairer to call her a black swan, a bit out of water among all the beautiful courtiers, haughty courtesans, and assorted acolytes finding their peace from proximity to their angelic lady.

She brings flowers, as is appropriate, but they're an odd assortment: waxen orange blossoms, springs of sea grasses braided together, and a lone, delicate spear of phlox. No telling where she got that, out of season as it is.

*

THe Alyssum inclined Rose Sauvage courtesan comes in in all white and covered from head to foot, save for her eyes. THe veils are placed not to hide them. Though, the cut of the gown is done to flatter her figure, in a modest demure way. It is not right off that she notices Cadenza for she moves to the statue of Naamah to set down her offering. While she does this, Marielle gives a little murmur of a prayer. Undoubtedly about the well wishings of her fellow Rose Sauvage people. Once her prayer is done it is when she notices Cadenza. To the noblewoman and her poisse Marielle dips into a curtsy but stays silent, letting the noble do her thing and approach her when ready.

*

Carenza makes a little effort to dampen her footsteps. Those high naval boots flatter her and allow for clambering through nearly any terrain; in a temple, though, they evince a certain squeak of leather and tread of the sole. Her flowers gathered in a spray of pale golden-green and pink trending to scarlet rest against the crook of her elbow, and she ghosts right up the red carpet for the altar. However compassion and marvelously calm Naamah may appear in all her graven glory, mortals may lack the same kind of skill. Softly, softly. This is not a place for frivolity and light, not most of the time, and summoning the means to smile is a hard thing in the wake of tragedy. Taking her time, she falls into line behind the Alyssum. Not many others may be drawn out in the rain to pay their dues, but she does that all the same. Flowers laid in a dish, another carelessly tossed upwards to anoint those wide-spread fingers, as though luck might follow a successful throw. It's not kottabos.

Whatever is exchanged between them is only in the heart. She tilts her head up to inspect the angel's face, and then turns. Curtsy begets a polite nod of her head. Up goes the social mask.

*

To the side, out of Cadenza's way fully. Through lowered lashes the Rose Sauvage Courtesan watches her, undoubtedly noting a lot of things about her. Though, she still does not interrupt the noblewoman. The stoic mask and the polite nod gets a gentle smile from MArielle, most of it hidden by the veil but her eyes easily betray her. The coolness does not seem to upset the Alyssum. She is likely just in the temple to make her offerings and perhaps wander around to admire a little.

*

Cari comports herself rather well. No crushing despair wreathes her expression in a ruined show of tragedy. She bears up under the quiet mood, pensive rather than oppressed, a distance to her gaze rendering her watercolour features almost wistful. "Pardon me. I haven't interrupted you about your worship, I hope." The statement of someone lost to their contemplative inner thoughts, surely. For all the young woman knows, she might have manifested through the wall.

*

Another veiled smile of sweetness is given by MArielle, "Of course not, my lady. I come here frequently to make my prayers." She doesn't hide her Marque, even with the head to foot covering. THe back panel is simply sheer. "I was just observing that you seem like you need someone to bend the ear of."

*

Juste arrives from the Temple District.

*

Juste has arrived.

*

The soft hush of rainfall outside lends a certain solemnity to Marsilikos, reducing the white-washed vibrancy to a rare softness more common in the northern provinces. Water plinking off the roof plies a tender melody, suitable for the angel of desire's sanctuary. "I wonder if doubling the dose of an offering would help. One for the heart, one for the soul." Her musing point spoken aloud, Carenza gives the slightest shake of her head. As Marielle has her marque, she wears her heritage in plain relief, amethyst eyes and intense gilded complexion. The woman in white she gives most of her attention, sparing but a look for her surroundings now and then. It pays not to be in the way of a stampeding rhinoceros or a troupe of Tsingani, for example. "So long as I am not in your way. And please, simply Carenza. Today, especially here, the titles feel superlative."

*

"Few can interrupt what I am doing, my.. Cadenza." The use of Cadenza's name makes the innocent flower look a little flustered. Perhaps an act, perhaps real. When one is an Alyssum, knowing what is faked and what is real when it comes to embarassment is hard. "More offerings never hurt, though. Speaking to a priest or a Courtesan can alsob help you find your center again after sucha tragedy." A sweet smile is given from under the veil, "I've two ears if you ever feel the need."

*

It had been close to a week and a half since Juste made proverbial landfall in Marsilikos. He took the time to learn the jist of where everything was in the city, started stocking the shelves of the Temple and the stores with food and necessities. Now, with the necessities covered it was time to do the Rounds; the visiting of the other temples. To learn names, faces, and pay homage to the other companions. It was part of the job Juste was never truly suited for - being a non-social creature that he was. More the 'staring at the stars' sort of fellow than the one joining the group at the revelry. So Naamah's temple was first on his bucket-list and led the grey-robed Priest, hood up to shield his head from the rain to enter the Temple with a not-so-soaked robe. He shrugged off his hood and vigorously ran his hand through his hair to get the hood-hair off of him and entered the Temple with a modest step and poise, a soft greeting to those who acknowledged a fellow disciple in their midst as he came in to take in the view of Naamah's holy sanctum. It required glasses, and so he put them on after making sure they weren't covered in water.

*

Deliberate attempt to upset the status quo, or a slim effort to establish new intimacies? Name the likelihood however one wants. Carenza isn't quite driving a wedge into the conventions of D'Angeline society so much as sidestepping the arms of her signet ring that mark her very much as ruling over a sliver of land, and doubly an inheritor to the greater chunk of land. Musing, her ghostly smile rises and sails away before ever making its own landfall, off to seek another safe harbour. Nothing about her bearing immediately implies difficulty with the social situation at least, and she manages one of those delicate pauses broken by an arch of an eyebrow. "I'm not certain what I should say to a courtesan. It is unseemly to bring tragedy to their feet, and as for a priest…" Ah, well, her bright eyes alight on the man. Hmm. Naamah is easing, surely. "It seems we have an abundance, but I lack much for words."

*

The temple represented Naamah well, as much as he understood the Companion of love to be. He approached the statue to look upon the statue of Naamah and came closer to the Courtesan, who he'd seen elsewhere but never spoke to, and Carenza, whom he'd never met before. "Evening, ladies." He said with a smile in greeting. "No better place to escape the rain from." He smiled. He looked up to the statue of Naamah, assessing something in his head.

*

"Fair evening to you as well. This ay be far more lively a spot than expected." Carenza tips her head back, mindful of any stray doves flappin about. In this particular temple, there's no escape from the likely cooing from a rafter, a gentle song dribbling out of a kind beak. Such music is not exactly unwelcome, a different kind of melody to compliment the gentle striations of water on marble and beyond. "You selected your sanctuary well, it would seem. A fine escape from the everyday cares and the weeping skies." Her offerings left behind on the statue's hands are plain enough, pinkish-red phlox blossoms, braided sea grass, and orange blossoms.

*

"Who would have thought huh? a Temple being a gathering spot." He chuckled, pulling out a small leaflet folded closed and laid it at the base of the statue in offering. "I tend to be a fan of rain. Comfortable, soothing…but only once in a while. This is not one of those times." He gestured to the temple and him being here for emphasis. "Obviously." He offered a hand to Carenza. "Juste Berthier. It is a pleasure to meet you Lady."

*

Carenza manages a smile again, the embers of the last blown back to life for just a moment or two. No more needed, but that honours Naamah all the same. As Juste chuckles, maybe there is something infectious about the whole affair. "Contemplative. Cleansing. Or perhaps a nuisance for any seeking to wash down their houses or step outside and complete business." The sunny blithe nature of the noblewoman resists even the greatest gloom, though it remains deeply subdued out of respect and the simple reality of loss being what it is. His hand extended receives a glance, and then the bronze-tressed girl offers her own, fingers slim and callused by the sheer proof of her art. "Carenza Mereliot." See, no doubt there of a trueborn child of that House. The violet eyes, however, belong to the heartland province of Namarre. "Such a place is good for your soul, if not for wool."

*

Juste gave her a nod at the greeting. Then frowned in thought. Carenza Mereliot. Where had he heard that name before? It left him feeling like Shemhazai, in his infinite wisdom, was holding a sign screaming 'doofus!' but he couldn't for the life of him read it. "Lady Mereliot." The morose, subdued nature of Carenza completely passed him by and it was difficult to tell whether he was ignoring it or simply didn't register it. In truth it was the latter. "So did you escape the rain too, or am I interrupting prayers?" He asked, curiousity in his tone.

*

"Please, Carenza. If we must default to titles, Lady Carenza, I suppose." Ducking from her own rank? Perish the notion. The thin line of her lips and the tilt of her head shows a propensity for flinging the rank she obtains out into the sea, and smirking as the current carries it away. Her complex braids stir when she gives a shake of her head, clearing her thoughts in the most tactile fashion. "The fine courtesan here encourage dme to seek a priest to clear my thoughts, but I fear there's not much inside my head improved by letting out such thoughts. I've sat idle too long today. A walk in the rain sounded lovely, but I owed Naamah at least this much."

*

Carenza…..oh well. He'll see the proverbial sign eventually. What mattered most was the sheer casual nature of her. Growing up in a commoner, even in a temple, you -always- defaulted submission to the nobility. To simply say their name was when you were flogged or beaten to remind you of their importance and that he, a common boy from some hamlet most nobles probably had never heard of, was -not- equal to them. Still, what to do when they tell you to call them by their first name and toss aside what they deserve? "Right. Right then. Lady Carenza." He couldn't bring himself to just say Carenza. That would be beyond the pale. "Seek a priest?" He looked around. Oddly enough the few Priestesses in service at the temple seemed to be busy with others who sought their guidance….should he presume himself to guide in the midst of another order's sanctum? "Well…if you wish for one. I am no Priest of Naamah, and wouldn't besmirch their order by having them believe me poaching…but I have studied Naamah's word in my studies and travels. I could be a surrogate, if you have need of one."

*

One or another way all things shake out. Nobility is as diverse as commoners, some who dwell in trumped up titles and others who demure from anything of the sort. She must fall into a grey area, as it were. The slant of her flashing violet eyes brightens but a fraction, leaving a speculative, insightful edge to the nature of her mien. "For clarity or comfort? I am not truly sure which. I assure you, I harbour no ill-will or threats of harm intended to anyone or anything." How does one manage these things without causing a measure of trouble, or setting off concerns where they aren't entirely warranted? "It's hardly poaching to ask if someone needs help. In this sense, I don't know whether to toss a coin in a fountain or perch on the steps of Eisheth's sanctuary and sing to her of my weariness at this lot in life. It sounds profoundly ridiculous to complain so, doesn't it?"

*

Marielle has left.

*

Juste shakes his head. "I don't think it is ridiculous at all." He shrugged as if her question was a simple one. "Life is a complex and ever-changing thing. It moves forward whether we want it to or not, with or without us, in ways that we may not agree with. Sounds entirely suitable to, now and again, want to complain or otherwise vent about it. Don't you think?"

*

Carenza raises her shoulders in a shrug, the jet black hue of her coat plain in the cool air and airy temple. "I mourn for my lost aunt and cousins. Their deaths were untimely, and there was barely a damn thing I could do to stop it." Her mouth turns down there, a glimpse of frustration perhaps. "I hate whatever degree of uselessness there is to be found in that. Isn't there something I can contribute on that front? And I ask that and find no satisfactory answer."

*

Juste frowned slightly at the news. "What did they pass from, if you do not mind me asking." It would

*

emit Juste frowned slightly at the news. "What did they pass from, if you do not mind me asking." It would help gain some clarity on just what she was wanting to do if they passed, mayhaps, from disease or some other illness or, rather, by violent ends.

*

"Murder." So easy to say that in the middle of a hallowed place where the angel looks on and her mortal acolytes float about, calm and lovely and beautiful, blessed by that most inhuman certainty that can disguise all failings. "I feel terrible for my cousin who lived, and there is my uncle who has taken ill last I knew. He survived. I have no doubt this all ends with trouble. It's a risk enough to consider treading lightly, though."

*

Juste simply nodded. "My parents were killed when I was a boy." He said so casual you would think he was talking about a book he just read. "I was merely a baby when they did. My mom, my adoptive mom, told me our hamlet had been raided by bandits. They died in the plundering. I was found in a crib and was taken to the Priestess of Elua for safe-keeping and relocation until they found I had no other family. All of them died in the attack, and so she became my mom." He frowned slightly. "I suppose it's different though, between me and you. I never knew my family not in a way that would make me wounded at their passing. Nor question how to stop the violence. We tend to just assume, we who live out in the middle of nowhere…that it happens. Whether we like it or not. That there are those who don't care about other people, or respect them, that killing comes to them like breathing. So long as they 'win', that's enough for them." He let out a slow breath. "There is little we can do, to stop the violence that consumes others so. The solace we're given is that your family, even mine, are in the Terre d'Ange beyond living a life of plenty in paradise. It doesn't help -us- though. The ones left behind who have to come to terms with their passing." He pursed his lips. "I've always felt that just because we can't stop it, and that those who desire it will do it regardless, that the best course of action is to offer comfort for those who suffer it. To praise the ones who passed. To give thanks for knowing them and know that regardless the intent of the vagrants who caused it…they are never -really- gone. They live in us. Perhaps it's a way we speak, or a way we hold our cup. Or how we look at something that they taught us, by their influence, we now look at a different way. They aren't gone. So…in a way…the cretins always lose. Because by killing them, they are immortal." He smiled slightly. "Joke's on them."

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