(1310-07-04) A Relatively Boring Mid-Week Afternoon in Marsilikos
Summary: {$summary}
RL Date: Wed Jul 04, 2018
Related: None Scene Ongoing
clementine vira jehan-pascal 

Opera de Marsilikos

Three sets of double doors allow entrance to the grand foyer of l'Opera Marsilikos, where gold-veined black marble floors greet patrons with an air of opulence. A fountain ringed by benches is the focal point of the foyer, its water trickling from a shell held aloft by a dancer with a flute to her lips. The walls are a series of gilded pillars and mock arches which frame trompe l'oeil paintings of Marsilikos and its port, whilst the ceiling above depicts cherubs and clouds against the background of summer's sky. An area of seating situated to the left is waited upon by several of the house's staff, with a variety of the finest wines and liquors sourced from Eisande accompanying a more conservative offering of freshly made sweetmeats and fruits. A sweeping staircase with gilded rails rises beneath a glittering chandelier to a galleried first floor, where access to the auditorium is to be found.

What does one do on a relatively boring mid-week afternoon in Marsilikos? Well, plenty of things if a person puts their mind to it. There's shopping, for one thing; perhaps in the Grand Plaza or in the colourful marketplace where common folk ply their wares. Or there's the port to visit, where ships bob on the water and waves cluck at the wooden stilts of the moorings. There's more hustle and bustle in this beautiful corner of Eisande than can be rivalled anywhere else in Terre d'Ange, except for in Elua itself. Grand buildings present a stunning panorama when entering the noble district, and nestled amongst them would be l'Opera de Marsilikos, and elegant building of ornate edifices and gold-painted doors. Whilst still too early in the day for the hordes of theatre goers whom will later pass through it's doors, there's still the odd few regulars that like to meet and pass the day in the sumptous surroundings of the salon located within the foyer. It's here that the proprietoress herself might be found on such a boring afternoon, holding court with a handful of elderly men whom are dressed in the trappings of nobility.

Curiousity has drawn Vira away from her normal places today. The doll faced Tsingani girl wandering quietly until she comes upon the opera. Large honey colored eyes take everything in as the barefooted youth in her gown of wispy white fabric and golden coin jewelry drifts inside. She is not noble nor is she d'Angeline, her beauty completely different from those around her. She keeps to what shadows she can in the room, watching those around her with a look of innocent curiousity. She doesn't seem to mean any harm simply observing for the moment.

When Jehan-Pascal spends time in Marsilikos (which he does, rather frequently), he tends to be the picture of a man on a mission, moving with purpose to set upon this piece of negotiation, or to have a business luncheon with that Capitaine, or to meet at a shop to inspect the initial fruits of a shipment about to pass into his father's lands— or even to the night court, to visit with his brother, or else with his best friend, who happens also to contract from the same house. He hits the high society functions, as well, when he can, ready and able to present a refined and cordial face for his family name, or else to frolic more freely under the guise of a masque. At any rate, he hardly ever simply dallies somewhere. But, with his newest batch of correspondence sent out, and with a few days' time intervening betwixt him and his earliest expected reply, and, further, no business pressing at home, where all and sundry are merely lying around trying not to feel the heat— he does so. Dallies, that is. A loose-billowing set of shirtsleeves is hugged to his chest with a fine green waistcoat, matched with golden-tan trousers and a fine pair of white stockings, elegant but casual, and he's accomanied by a small folio which sits open in his hand, held open by his second and third finger while his other hand palms a small stub of graphite. He's either lost or simply in awe on his first arrival, turning slowly with his chin angling incrementally toward the ceiling.

Clémentine looks up from where she speaks, and noting Vira, a sigh escapes her lips. She motions to the server behind the counter and requests for him to bring another round of drinks for her companions. "If you will excuse me? I shall be back directly." No further explanation is given beyond that, and with emeralds glinting where they dance at herr ears, she makes her way towards where the Tsingani now stands. She might well think that she's being discrete, but she does — in fact — stick out quite obviously. "Excuse me, Mademoiselle." She draws a breath, her hands lacing loosely before her, and even as she starts to accost the girl, two of opera house staff in their liveried colours are moving to join her. Her eyes cut to Jehan-Pascal even as she speaks, and there's a moment of hesitation. Business before pleasure? Or should that be vice-versa.

Looking towards the approching form of Clémentine, Vira blinks before lowering her eyes and offering a polite curtsey. She does her best to conceal any nervousness keeping her tone soft and respectful as she addresses the woman in return. "Hello my Lady, please forgive my curiousity and my intrusion. I simply wanted to see what was inside so grand a structure. I…I can leave if I am giving offense." Here her cheeks turn a soft pink and she shifts subtly peeking up at the group she faces calmly and with that same polite respect.

Jehan-Pascal is drawn back from his panoramic inspection of the opera ceiling by the sounds of voices, neaby— Clémentine, first, coming up to the Tsingani maiden, and sparing a glance for him as she does so. The glance is met, answered with a nod, but then he directs his attention to the stray Tsingani, and he turns another half-step, planting a heel casually and leaning his weight upon it with his other leg left at ease in the middle of the slight lean, a lean which seems to give Clémentine leave to ignore him and discuss the situation with the Tsingani. He'll watch. She made a wonderful first impression on him as a musician. He waits to see what impression she'll make as a proprietor.

Clémentine blinks at Vira and her apology. She shakes her head, the faintness of a frown marking her brow before she speaks. "I assumed you were here for the work." A gesture is given a sheet of parchment that's pinned to the wall behind Vira. It's a Notice of Hiring — for seamstresses, backstage hands and any number of other positions that all needed filling. A sigh is exhaled. "A pity. Unless you are good with a needle and thread and would like to earn some extra coin?" She throws that invitation out there. It would appear that the Songbird isn't above hiring from all walks of life, Tsingani included, though she does take a moment to look about the foyer when the girl speaks of the building being grand. "It is." Another look to Jehan-Pascal. Something niggles. Something tugs. Perhaps it's the way that he leans so casually with his legs just so. Didn't a certain ram at a certain ball adopt that pose? She lifts her voice and addresses him clearly. "Excuse me. Have we met?"

Vira smiles softly to Clémentine and glances over at the notice curiously. She scans the list as if looking for something. "I have some talent as a woodworker and a dollmaker, so I could make props for your performances if you need such. My woodcrafts vary from wooden jewelry and simple instruments all the way to larger pieces like chests and some furniture. But sewing is one art I have rather limited experience in…I can do small things for my dolls but little more." She falls silent as the woman addresses the nearby man, her gaze drifting over that way to study Jehan-Pascal curiously now.

Jehan-Pascal's features ease from measured to a serene smile when Clémentine approaches the vagrant with an offer of work rather than a swift showing-to-the-door. He does have somewhat of a lounge to his bearing, even standing up, doesn't he? He's willowy— the body type just meant for draping over a chaise lounge with one arm extended, hand cupping the bowl of a wine glass. When he shifts his weight back to his right foot, it sets him into motion, and he takes a few meandering steps around the spot where the two are speaking, not makign a beeline, more like a disintegrating orbit. Less aggressive. There's not much that's aggressive about this guy, really. "I think not properly, Mademoiselle," he answers Clémentine. "Jehan-Pascal de Baphinol. I once had the pleasure and distinct honor of witnessing your performance in the Ducal Palace. You sang a bucolic; it moved me to tears," he reminisces. "Are you fond of the opera, Mademoiselle?" he goes on to ask Vira, as well. It might have the opportunity to sound mocksome, those words addressed to such a personage. But there's no slant of ridicule, here, the words open and welcoming.

It'd appear that, for the moment, Vira is forgotten. All true artistes like to be appreciated, and Clémentine's smile for Jehan-Pascal is bright. "That's very kind of you to say, thought I was not at my best that night." She extends him a hand — knuckles uppermost and fingers curved loosely enough that they'll fit neatly over the edge of his palm when he takes it. Up close she's as lovely as she is from afar, which is mostly how those that are fans of the Songbird tend to observe her. The stage is a good deal distant in the opera house, even from the stalls. "It is a pleasure indeed to meet you, Jehan-Pascal de Baphinol. It'd be of little use to introduce myself since you're already aware of whom I am. You may call me Clémentine if you wish." And back to Vira with a hmm… as she waits for her hand to be taken. "Carpentry? We could certainly use someone of that skill."

Jehan-Pascal goes one better than applying his palm to the undersides of the proferred fingers— curling his pinky and ring finger in toward his palm, forefinger and middle still extended, he affects a stylish sweep of her palm, hooking the subtle curve of her fingers onto his nd rendering it the more pronounced when he bows over them, bringing them within moments of his lips without taking the liberty of kissing them on their first meeting. All quite genteel, it reads for a certain masculine sensitivity mingling with knowledge enough of fashionable and modern custom. "I adore a bucolic, Clémentine," he adopts the familiarity which she has granted him. "My favorite genre, and so often overlooked," he goes on, rising from his bow of greeting. "If I may be so bold as to say so among the ranks of such grand artists and performers, I have dabbled in penning bucolics of my own."


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