(1310-10-05) Bondage
Summary: With Baptiste's blessing, Piers sets an appointment with Isabelle de Valais regarding an ensemble for his upcoming debut, and the two discuss the finer points of power and bondage.
RL Date: October 19, 2018
Related: This one.
isabelle piers 

Gardens - La Rose Sauvage

The gardens of La Rose Sauvage offer a different ambience and atmosphere than that of the more oppressive and richly ornate salon. Tall casement windows spill out onto a paved area which gives way to neatly arranged flowerbeds, where a predominance of roses pay homage to the canons encompassed by this salon. The paths are of a dark granite grey which have softened over the years by the enroachment of mosses and lichens, with smaller paths winding off through the beds. It's here along these secluded paths that arborial areas and private nooks might be found, and where privacy is granted to those that seek it through flowering hedges and curtained awnings.

A fountain plays at the centre of the garden, the copper figures of two nude women, long since mellowed to a soft verdigris, spill water from shells into a pool at its base. The main pathway through the garden leads to a terracotta tiled courtyard that sits towards the farthest end, the walls here flanked by creeping ivys which cloak the walls in scarlet and orange during the autumn months. An oiled silk awning hangs over the courtyard to give shelter from both sun and rain, and oil lamps light the area when evening falls.


The Gardens at la Rose Sauvage are used for a great many things. Today they are being used for practice of a sort. The rose paths are mostly empty of onlookers or hangers on. Even Novices and other Courtesans who are normally there are not at their usual posts. Which is odd since an attendant directed Isabelle to the Gardens in order to find the Novice she is seeking out! From further in the garden comes the crack of a whip. The sound is diffused by the roses and trees and the winding path until the center fountain of the embracing people is reached. In the open space there has been a target set up that is covered in white sheer cloth. Some distance away stands Piers, the Novice practicing with the whip. A whip that some might recall him weaving with his own hands. Every crack of the whip cuts a very thin line down the cloth showing the bright red cloth beneath barely. They are not the long snapping lashes of someone out to scar someone permanently or punish them indelibly. They are small strikes pin point accurate as directed by the instructor.

Someone is getting a validation test in preparation for his debut.

The many normal occupants of the Garden are found scattered around, watching the testing process and the display. There are those whom are clearly interested in the Novice, there are those who are other Novices, and from all three Houses of la Rose Sauvage in attendance.

She was not there when those cold Kusheline eyes pass along the crowd to take stock of those gathered there, but should he do so again, his eyes would find her, suddenly in the center of the crowd.

Isabelle de Valais is as tall as he remembers, and rendered taller still by the boots she wears, pulled over the knee and with heels thin enough to puncture a body and bleed it. But unlike the first time he had met her, she is not clad in anything overtly feminine and instead has come swooping down the gardens of the salon in an ensemble that plays with her preferences for sharp, impregnable elegance: an embroidered waistcoat, fitted black breeches, and a tailored coat with tails that extend down to her ankles, weighed down by crystal embellishments and fringed with lace. Never one to be less than impeccably accessorized, a lady's top hat rests on her head, pulled closer towards her forehead and carrying the curled plumage of a black swan.

There's a tilt of her head, slender brows climbing upwards to her hairline as she watches the whip inflict its precise, savage kisses on the post, lashes lowered over her eyes and her expression distant as if in contemplation…or memory.

"I had the privilege, once," she begins at the next break between lashings. "To have been a patron of the former Dowayne of Mandrake House in Mont Nuit. When she whipped me, it felt like a scalpel carving between my shoulders and splitting me open. The pain was so sharp it brought tears to my eyes and I assure you, I'm not particularly known for crying, and yet…" Fingers flick to the side. "Not a single scratch on my skin."

She regards the post again, before she pivots to move away from the gardens.

"Come, Novice. We have an appointment, do we not?"

"That fabric is thinner than skin, and if your skin was not broken then it was not a tipped whip. For the purpose of display and testing there must be proof of the strike, it's length, it's depth, and it's precision." Piers answers Isabelle without any change in his expression at all at the possible insult to his skill in comparison to such an esteemed individual. He does not immediately move to follow Isabelle, instead his attention fixes on his instructor and he waits for the nod of permission. A dip of his chin towards his chest in respect to the trainer follows. Coiling his whip, Piers turns and begins to follow with that lazy grace of his. When coiled the whip is hooked onto his belt to rest there.

"Was it?" Isabelle wonders, her head tilting back in an attempt to remember whether the former Dowayne had used a tipped whip or not. But the smile that eases faintly on the corners of her mouth is one of commiseration, something humored burning in the depths of her half-gilded stare. She does not confirm either way, however.

His lazy grace is in a direct contrast to her own as she moves away from the whipping post to find a more private setting; whatever airy, d'Angeline grace demanded by her blood seems to have missed her entirely as she moves in the brisk pace of a woman who is constantly on the move and perpetually spinning wheels, though wherever she chooses, it remains outdoors and well in view of his minders. She has had enough dealings with the Night Court to have, at least, some sense of the proper decorum around a novice and once they arrive at the particularly intricate gazebo in the grounds, she takes her hat off her head, lets it hook on her corner of the bench and takes a seat. One long leg crosses over her own by the knee, her portfolio draped on top of it.

"The last time we spoke, we explored the symbols that unerringly draw you," she says, the tips of her wine-red manicure raking lightly on the portfolio's black leather skin. "And you replied, verbatum: Chains. Blindfolds. Ropes. Blind submission. The veil of what is, and is not, the senses confused and overcompensating for each other, as when the kiss of pain heightens everything else. You also, if I recall correctly, wanted to structure an outfit in hopes that it would give you an idea for a theme." Her expression grows languid, staring through the canopy above their heads. "I mulled it over, our last conversation. We discussed your views on power, also. Are these the elements you are looking for, still? Or has Time enabled you to consider others? It has been a while, after all."

"No." Piers answers: "That is still the symbols that draw me most from an outward perspective. My own perspectives have deepened and grown some since then however, but that is a personal revelation and does not change the symbology of who I am. I am commissioning more than an outfit however, I have received permission to contract you for the design of the debut in it's entirety from my Second. If you are still of a mind to do so and wish the commission that would engender."

"I can accept the commission of the outfit, of course," Isabelle tells him, leaning back on the bench and her expression taking on a more considering bent. "But I am a couturiere, monsieur. The design of an entire event is a completely different discipline, the kind that considers layout, drapery, menus, libations on top of color palettes, music and entertainments. And while I make a name out of having impeccable taste, to overreach to such an extent beyond my named expertise wouldn't just be unprofessional, it would be dishonest."

"Your thoughts then, on what would be a good direction to match the outfit you have designed at least in thought if not crafted as of yet." Piers moves to sit down as well so they can converse easily. As always there are minders that watch the Novice when interacting with non-Salon members. A Chaperone and a Guard some short distance away. Not close enough to intrude on conversation but close enough to intervene if needed. Piers considers: "After all, whatever outfit you craft for me will need the proper venue for it to be displayed appropriately."

"Hm." The single sound doesn't part her lips, Isabelle's eyes drawn inward, still, as she considers the youth seated next to her, taking in his gleaming eyes and the severe contrasts of his coloring - pale skin, hair so dark, it puts midnight to shame. She angles her body on the bench so she could face him fully, leaning back to take a look at him and for a while she says absolutely nothing.

"It ought to be an ensemble that radiates both power and control, in reference to our earlier conversation about the subject." There's a glance to the whip at his side. Her smallest digit hooks underneath the cover of her portfolio and flips it open, reaching into its pocket to produce a stylus. Her right hand draws thin lines freely over the page, glancing over the vellum occasionally, but for the most part, her attention is fixed on him. "Uniforms reflect such elements. They mirror authority. Command." The golden shards of her eyes glint like a cat's. "….and punishment should such commands not be followed."

The sketch that comes to life from those elegant fingers is a faceless male build, stylized in the way most fashion design templates are as she constructs a closed jacket with a high collar with thin rectangular accents running down the front and keep it closed, drawing lines to indicate paneling and notes on stitching and seam to make the most out of the breadth of his shoulders. Modest, but so fitted to render the athletic cut of him obvious. Decorative buttons to run down from the shoulder paneling to emphasize the contrast between the frame his shoulders make to the narrowness of his waist and hips. There is a chain, too, drawn from the top of one shoulder to hook into the first button across the chest. Fitted breeches, boots, but most of the details are at the very top.

"A uniform." Piers murmurs to himself: "Interesting." He studies the sketch when it is offered to him: "The question then becomes how to turn that into a debut. Perhaps something akin to a prison setting, I do not know how a military unit would be ran, or even make a good guess at it." He considers: "I am certain a dungeon setting is rather overdone when it comes to the Thorns of House Mandrake and would be entirely to cliche. The last thorn debut was the costume party." He considers things even further: "It is quite the design. I rather like it. I shall have to come up with something fitting it now. When you have completed the outfit, Baptiste will see to it that you are rewarded for your time and effort by attending the commission."

"I have a suggestion."

She passes the sketch to Piers and as he examines her lines and ideas on paper, she continues. "The setting of your debut does not have to be so literally connected to what you wear," she tells him. "The purpose of the outfit is to mark you as the authority figure in the gathering, the one whose commands are followed. It doesn't have to be a prison, or a military unit. Your invitees are there to bid for the pleasure of being dominated by you….and I think it is a more powerful statement to be Command personified than an actual human commander. Show them that you can be that personification."

Isabelle's arm drapes against the back of her bench, her expression taking on a dreamier cast, giving herself to her imagination. "Sometimes when I'm faced with a difficult creative conundrum, I try to think of what I would do, were I in my client's position. My tastes will invariably differ from theirs, of course, but more often than not, it gives me some much needed perspective and the patron will either seize onto it or refine it. So I'm asking myself now, if I were a Thorn, confident in my ability to understand the finer points of domination and submission, what would my theme be?"

It doesn't take long for her to answer her own question: "Addiction."

She gestures freely with one hand. "Chains. Ropes. Blind submission, you said. The veil of what is and what is not, senses awhirl with confusion. Physical bondage is one thing, but I was never prone to limiting my contemplations to the tangible. Withdrawal…of being denied the thing that one needs the most, be it a sensation or substance, doing what you must, agreeing to what you must, simply for the chance to once again taste what you crave so wholeheartedly, to consume once more what you can't live without. Have you ever wondered what it is like, being in an opium den? Or being so broken in the mind and spirit that you can't help but drag a blade compulsively across your skin in the hopes of finding release and life in the pain that brings? That, to me, is true bondage. Even without actual ropes, even without actual chains, you feel it in your bones. Feel it claw and enslave your mind. It follows you everywhere…and nobody knows it, can ever understand it, but you."

Piers says, "That, sounds like something beyond my ability to set up. I would not even know where to begin with such."

There's a small laugh - the expression is bright, the incongruity between it and the subject at hand a sharp and jarring thing as Isabelle regards the young novice next to her. "And this is why," she remarks, lifting a finger. "You need an event planner and not just a couturiere to bring your own vision to life. Because you are correct, the obvious concepts that command, authority, power, domination and submission normally pull to the forefront of the conscious mind are just that. Obvious. But that is especially why you ought to try, or at the very least, try and find someone who can do for you what I can do to others with clothes and fabric. Your words were implicit in the desire to play with something unique…I have given you, at the very least, a method of thinking where you can perhaps explore what you can execute within your abilities, or another's. Turn your mind away from what's simply in front of you, my dear. Look closer. Deeper. If I can do it, I'm certain you can."

With that, she rises from the bench, extending a hand to retrieve the sketch from him once he's ready to relinquish it. "I'll send over a contract," she tells him. "As well as a breakdown and itemization of fabrics and materials and the estimate of the total cost. I'll also provide you three variations of this initial design, in which you can make your own notes and suggestions, or simply pick the one that you like best."

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