(1310-07-17) The White Rose and the Wolf
Summary: Cyriel visits the salon of La Rose Sauvage for an assignation with Olivia — and some investigation for his own purposes.
RL Date: Wed Jul 18, 2018
Related: Peeling the Layers
cyriel olivia 

White Chamber — La Rose Sauvage

There is a charming air of oblivious innocence within this room, about the white drapes at the sides of the four poster bed with playful details chiselled into the light maple wood, flowers, animals twining about the posters, ribbons of pale rose color wrapped about the gathered white fabric. The windows sit higher up at the walls, leaving room for oil lamps and chandeliers below. The layout of the room is quite unusual, tetrangular, but narrowing towards the side where the bed is to be found. Here, three curtains of light rose colored fabric are draped over hidden details at the walls. Once drawn aside, they will reveal two large mirrors flanking the bed and a third, slightly smaller one above the headboard.

An assignation had been accepted. It had taken a number of days for the details to be thoroughly hashed out; there's been the back and forth of messengers between Rose Sauvage and the Charlot townhouse, the paperwork has been meticulously prepared, and the date has been decided upon. The day of the assignation has threatened a storm throughout the majority of it, and finally the gathering clouds had broken, the air crackling with electricity as the downpour had begun. It'll be through the storm that Cyriel will have to make his way to the Salon. He'll be greeted by an anxious novice at the door who's been waiting expectantly for his arrival, and he'll find that his cloak will be taken and refreshment offered before he's shown up the stairs and into the patron room.. The contrast between the patron rooms of Valerian's and Mandrakes could not differ more from the ones attributed to the Alyssums. An oasis of peace and quietude is to be found within its walls, though even here the storm cannot be held completely at bay. Lightning startles between cracks in the drapes, and rain rattles against the windows. Illuminated only by candles that gather upon tables and mantles, it's within this room that Olivia waits. Lit by the light of the candles and standing with her back to one of the bedposts, she wears a gown that's inset with panels of sheerest silk and adorned with silver threadwork. Her face concealed.

How fitting. The change of weather had an ominous quality to it. And the Vicomte de Chavagne had called for a carriage to bring him all the way from the noble district to the Court de Nuit. A pair of two Charlot guards that have accompanied him are left downstairs in a room where attendants can wait for their charges, and his dark cloak is handed to one timid looking Rose Sauvage novice. Cyriel follows along as he is led into the already familiar salon, and then towards the stairs that lead up to the gallery. A curious glance he gives the solar in passing, before he enters the patron room that is used for assignations of White Roses.

With the door falling shut behind him with a soft *click*, Cyriel Charlot stands there for a moment, a dark nemesis in his attire of black doublet and breeches, with a bit of red visible where his shirt shows.

Lightning flashes outside, painting his features in light and shadow, as Cyriel regards Olivia from afar where she leans against the bedpost, the light of candles giving the impression of deceptive coziness, which is deepend further by the white and light colors used in the innocent look of the interior.

No word is spoken. Not yet. But the Kusheline approaches, his footfall soft on the carpet, inaudible against the backdrop of rain assaulting the windows. Coming to stand before Olivia, he regards her for a moment, holding her gaze, or if she evades him, capturing it by touching his hand to her chin to lift it just so.

Olivia looks up at Cyriel, her chin tilted by the curl of his fingers beneath. It's with just the lightest of touches that he holds her captured so, the gossamer gauze of her veil drawn tight across her nose, her cheeks, and her mouth by the pinning of it with his fingers. Her irises are darkened in the half-light by the dilation of her pupils, and her lashes are sublimely long, accentuated at the very tips with a dusting of powdered gold. "My Lord Charlot." As close as they stand, he'll note the elevation in her breathing that's instigated by that first touch of his hand upon her, and he'll also note the way in which her mouth remains slightly parted on the heels of her greeting. Her shoulders pull back as she presses her spine more firmly to the post against which she stands, her arms tucked behind her, her hands clasped about the ornate carving of it's girth. By accident or by design, she's trapped between it and he, caught as easily as he'd captured her face with his fingers. Her eyes with his.

"Aren't Alyssums supposed to run away and resist?"

His voice is low, emotionally detached and yet somewhat amused. Pale blue eyes hold her gaze as his hand shifts slightly, fingers touching her lips with only the gauzy fabric of the veil acting as a thin barrier. His other hand reaches out until it finds her hand pressing against the ornamental carving of the bedpost, capturing those delicate fingers beneath his own. Leaning in even further, Cyriel cants his head a little, nostrils flaring as he inhales her scent close to her neck that most probably is covered with fabric.

"I have a question for you, my little white flower.", the Vicomte states then, leaning away so that he can once again have his own eyes dive into hers. "Why did you accept the assignation? Is it because you have only so few Kusheline visitors here in Marsilikos?" His fingers shift upon the thin fabric, brushing over that concealed part of her face in search for a clasp that needs to be unfastened to remove the veil. He goes unhurriedly about this, knowing he can take all the time he likes, after all he has contracted her for what remains of the night.

"What about Charlots. Have you seen any of those, lately? Let's say, in the last two or three months?" Even as he probably is about to breach rules of discretion a servant of Naamah is sworn to, Cyriel studies Olivia's eyes most attentively, as if any lie or evasive answer she would give would not stop him from getting to the truth of the matter.

Olivia's eyes dip instantanly from Cyriel's with the words that follow her own. "Would you have me leap over the bed to evade your pursuit? I do not think you are one for such games, my lord, and I do not believe that you would find amusement or gratification in that. At least, you do not strike me that way." She speaks boldly for one of her canon, though as his fingers find her's and lace with them, a tremble can be felt rippling through the slightness of her frame. Heat pours through her body once more at his touch, and it warms her skin enough that the scent of gardenia's that she'd earlier touched behind her ears and to the hollow of her throat whilst preparing for the assignation is accented at the top of its notes. Warm summer evenings. Illicit meetings. His senses will be touched by it as he inhales it close to her throat where it permeates her silks, and he'll find her eyes, pansy dark, when he draws back and stares down to capture her attention once more with his own. "My lord needs to ask me why? Perhaps I crave more than the leaping of those beds and the clumsiest of advances." There's something utterly honest about the manner in which she speaks, her veil caught tight to her lower lip by her teeth when he further presses her. "There are a few Kushelines in the city, though most do not venture further than the salon below. My lord must realize that I cannot speak of whom pays patronage to Rose Sauvage, but it is with certain honesty that I can say that no contracts have crossed my desk in the last few months between a Charlot and a White Rose, save that of your own."

Her reply amuses him. "I would hunt you down, if I'd have to," the Kusheline clarifies in a whisper issued not too far from her ear. "Tear off your clothes and rip them to shreds, before I'd sink my teeth into your flesh." Leaning far enough away so that his gaze can meet hers, he adds, at a normal volume, "My games might differ a little from those you usually have to deal with, White Rose." His fingers press lightly upon hers, keeping them trapped against the bedpost. Her other reply causes his brows to furrow, in slight displeasure, a brief flash of an expression that fades as soon as it came. "I see. No Charlot contracted any of your White Roses. Thank you at least for that bit of information. I will have to seek answers elsewhere, then." A thought that has his gaze go distant for a moment, as he considers options. Pale blue eyes alight as they focus once again on Olivia before him. "So. As we lay out the rules for tonight's little game. Please repeat, what was agreed upon in the contract, just that we make sure, there will be no misunderstandings. Will I be allowed to leave any marks on you, Olivia nó Rose Sauvage?"

Olivia's eyes dart back to Cyriel's at his mention of hunting her down. "I would hope that you would." There's a temerity to her voice that hadn't been there before, the blush on her cheeks evident even beneath the weight of her veils. Where his fingers close over her hand, Cyriel will feel the tightening of her's about the post. The trembling of the muscles of her arm when he speaks of their contract. "I am no Valerian," she quietly states. "But it was agreed that you may mark me. I fear blades and have never agreed to the use of those with anyone." Her eyes avert. "You said that you are skilled with them, so on this we did agree. That you might, though I may give my signale before one even touches my flesh." A shivering breath is drawn, perhaps the worry of what she's agreed to weighing heavily upon her thoughts. Those thoughts would be so easily read upon her face were it not still veiled, but enough of them can be seen in her eyes when they cut back to his and she speaks again. "I have been shut up tight inside myself too long. Who knows what might unfold for someone with the patience to peel away those layers. Perhaps some pain would be worth it." She has spoken her thoughts; but she shivers when she is done, conscious that her words are listened to, but not daring to try to observe their effect. Her brow furrows as something further comes to her mind. "Dior. You should speak to Dior. His mother is a Charlot."

"What a bold White Rose you are…", Cyriel Charlot states, narrowing his eyes on her. "Challenging the wolf…" One corner of his mouth lifts into a faint wry grin, revealing a glimpse of teeth in the process. "We can save the hunt for another time, it is a diverting game, best carried out in a garden. There is a delightful maze in the gardens of Château de Rennes. Perhaps there are similar garden mazes to be found here somewhere." Falling quiet then, as Olivia repeats some of the details of the contract, he nods his head. "Marks. Yes. We shall see about flêchettes. I understand that it would be very unusual to use them in an assignation as this. Nonetheless, I've made the required demonstration of skill before the eyes of the leader of your salon. The peeling of a grape." It is no coincidence he looks into her eyes when stating this last fact. "I very much doubt my cold steel will eventually touch your flesh, sweet Rose. The blades have been brought here, as I can see." He looks towards a side table where a flat lacquered wooden box, of rectangular shape has been deposited. "And further utensils."

His fingers leave hers, and Cyriel steps away from Olivia, granting the veiled creature a moment to recover from his proximity. "Dior?", he echoes, shooting her a glance over his shoulder as he picks up a length of rope that has been placed beside the box on the table. "Oh." realization kicks in. "Does this Dior happen to be of House Baphinol?"

"Dior Baphinol. Yes." Olivia confirms for Cyriel. "He is one of the Salon's Red Rose adepts." Relief might be noted within her voice, and also within the manner in which she holds herself so stiffly, when he addresses the matter of the flechettes. "I… am pleased." She admits. A step is taken forwards, her hands leaving the anchor she'd found for them upon the post, and she wraps them around the slenderness of her waist instead, trapping her silks neatly beneath. Her armor. Her fortress. She eyes the rope that finds its way into the Charlot's hands, and if he glances her way — for the briefest of moments — he'll see not a shy young maid, but a reserved, intelligent young woman. That moment is quick to pass however, banished by the quick dip of her head and smokescreen of her canon that she draws about herself.

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