(1312-05-23) Just Passing Through
Summary: Log Summary
RL Date: 2020-05-23
Related: This Space Intentionally Left Blank
alienor raphael 

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.

When looking out of the windows, you see: It is a spring evening. The weather is warm and fair.


Winter is always a slower season - though by no means dead - at the salon, but as spring brings blooming flowers, it also brings blooming custom. So even before the sun has fully set, there are already a number of patrons, new and old, having their appetites whetted in small groups scattered here and there. A petite Thorn adept has a large nobleman bent double at the waist with his chin in her hand. Two Red Rose adepts kneel before a male and female couple, matching their gestures carefully. And Raphael is standing with his boot on the outstretched fingers of a patron who is prostrate. At the same time, the Second of Thorns is casually accepting a goblet from a novice.

The real problem with going out to the gardens to get fresh air is that one must walk through the main hall of the Rose Sauvage, and that is a dangerous trek for White Roses. Clad in a conservative and somewhat voluminous gown that's as opaque as possible while being light enough for the warm spring weather, Alienor is covered from throat to ankles, and she wears a veil to cover her face and hair. She focuses her gaze on the stairs leading up to the solar, not wanting to see much in the way of what may be going on here downstairs. She keeps her eyes downcast as she heads from the door to the gardens, and when she nearly trips over the patron that is prostrate before Raphael, she squeaks in surprise and dismay.

Raphael puts out a firm arm, holding the goblet in his opposite hand. The arm could serve to catch Alienor should she lose her balance, yes, but it is also quietly protecting the patron, whom Raphael would not see meet with any pain not carefully curated and meted out by himself. "White Rose," he says. "You've stayed so late in the gardens that you risk tarnishing yourself in your return. Is that why you're veiled so thickly that you almost trip over my patron?" Rather than privately, his voice is pitched that he might naturally be heard by a few surrounding patrons. After all, while there are rules against White Roses tarrying on the salon floor, a chance glimpse of one and a little drama of her imagined peril can be fascinating indeed to the patron lucky enough to witness it.

"Please, I don't want to see anything, sir. I just want to make my way through without any trouble," Alienor begs, standing with eyes downcast as she tries to figure out where she's suppose to place her feet with all the frothy white of her skirts. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. You have my deepest apologies. I just want to get through." She mumbles a bit, and there's an edge in her voice of nervousness and discomfort.

"Well, then," Raphael says, voice smooth and rich, giving the impression of quiet without being too low. "You mustn't soil your feet by walking over this one, much as he might enjoy that." A slight shift in his weight has the patron let out a groan. "This way," Raphael guides, making an open gesture with the goblet hand, as if making a safe path for the White Rose by interposing his body between her and all the dark sexuality she might encounter beyond. They aren't too distant from the stairs up.

There's a bit of squeak at that, and Alienor shuffles her dainty little white-clad feet in the direction that Raphael has indicated. She's careful about her skirts, too, for they're designed to conceal her figure in layers upon layers of petticoats. "So sorry, my lord. Thank you sir," she says to Raphael a bit breathlessly, using him as a shield for all the terrible things.

"I am not a lord," Raphael says, though his tone is patient enough. "But as Second of Thorns…" Another groan from the prostrate patron, "I do have an interest in seeing to your well-being. Go on up, now." The eyes of a few patrons have been drawn to Alienor by now, and one of the couple on the couch with the paired Red Roses is leaning over to a novice, perhaps asking the White Rose's name.

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