(1312-06-07) Memories
Summary: Raimbaut is playing the harp in the White Rose Solar, but there's a sorrow to him that's picked up by their newest import, Perpetua.
RL Date: Sun Jun 07, 1312
Related: Entwined Souls
raimbaut perpetua 

Solar — La Rose Sauvage

Compared to the darker, heavy interior of downstairs, the solar feels like a pleasant contrast, where the use of light pastel tones and white provide a light air that is almost convincing. Floor to ceiling windows overlooking the city are guarded by curtains in light shades of pastel greens and blues. A few thick carpets cover the polished oak floor, where a few high backed armchairs are arranged about a kneeling cushion in the center. Beverages offered here will usually be white sparkling wines, to lighten the mood and keep up a certain innocent air. The tapestries on the white walls are kept to lighter hues as well, picturesque depictions of alyssum flower arrangements along with those of modest maidens in innocent situations, while the darker side to Alyssum canon reveals itself only to the attentive eye, in the details of the woodwork in dark mahogany side tables and the seats, depicting a pair of man and woman caught in obvious amorous entanglement, she faintly resisting and averting her gaze.


So there's moving-house to do. It was as much a surprise to the Muted Rosebud as it was to the general population; of course, who would consult with the novices on such a matter? And while it might be a positive development, on the whole, for a child who has lived in these upper halls of the Rose Sauvage for almost as far back as he can even remember, it is a melancholy time, preparing to say good-bye. And so the novice resides in the solar, the giant gilt harp leaning back to rest on his shoulder as he draws a mournful serenade to its walls from the strings.

<FS3> Raimbaut rolls Harp: Good Success. (3 3 7 4 2 8 4 5 8)

Perpetua's arrival at Rose Sauvage a handful of days ago, had sparked much speculation amongst the inhabitants of both the upper and lower floors. A general introduction of her to the white rose fraternity had been made on her second day in residence, and this had lain a number of their questions to bed. Yes, she was a fully-marqued courtesan, and yes she'd come to them from the glittering heights of the Mont. So it is that when she makes her way into the solar today, serenely drifting like a dandelion seed that's been blown from its head, that Raimbaut would perhaps be aware of her name. Carried carefully in her hands is a dark blue velvet cushion upon which a piece of half-formed lace is pinned, and she settles herself in the encompassing curve between back and arm of one of the couches close to where the plays his harp. "You play beautifully," she murmurs during a lull in the tune, and the breath that bears her words barely stirs her veil.

Raimbaut is not jostled from his playing by her arrival. The gossamer forms of his White Rose brothers and sisters wafting through the space is hardly cause for alarm, and— yes, his heart is in the song, saying more than he ever could aloud, the helpless anticipation of homesickness mingled with the loss of Alienor in their company. When Perpetua's words call on his chin to tip faintly upward, he has a morning's dew of tears resting on his long eyelashes, and he encourages the corners of his shell-pink lips to rise to a grateful smile.

<FS3> Perpetua rolls Perception: Failure. (3 6 3 1 2 5 5 3 1 6 5)

<FS3> Raimbaut rolls Expression: Success. (6 4 2 5 6 2 8 6 5 3)

Her head dipped, Perpetua works at sorting and ordering the silk-wrapped bobbins that dangle from the lace where she's settled the cushion on her lap, so she doesn't immediately notice any amiss about Raimbaut. Nimble fingers work quietly, left over right and right over left, preparing herself for an hour or two of blissful indulgence. Though too early in the day for the salon's regular influx of patrons, she nevertheless presents herself as if one such apparition might appear at her side. Her gown is the like of which may not have been seen often within this salon, for it's Eluan in design and and follows the latest fashions; with the purity of the white silk blending into the most delicate shades of peach and apricot hand-painted about its edges. She might genuinely posesses a sixth sense, or it might be the way the hairs at the nape of her neck prickle and stir. Inevitably she looks up and catches a glimpse of those tears. "Oh dear. You look sad." Her fingers still in her lap, and concern shows in her eyes.

Raimbaut comes to the end of a choral reprise and just lets the harmonizing strings reverberate and send out their dying note until only the keenest of ears can hear the space between their making noise and his muting them between stilled hands. Then, leaning forward, he eases the harp to stand on its pedestal, and, seeing it righted, he responds to Perpetua's note upon his sorrow by leaning down to fold his arms over his lap and to nestle his head down into them, evocative of the shape of one grieving in a romantic painting.

Perpetua's concern is genuine, and she's quick to set her cushion aside and rise to her feet. The bobbins clatter and tangle as bobbins are wont to do, but they'll be easily re-ordered when she's ready to recommence. "What is the matter, little rose…" she asks of Raimbaut, and her slippered feet whisper on the floor as she closes the distance between them. Doe-like brown eyes stare at the top of his lowered head, and so she folds herself to a kneel by his side, her hands coming to rest on her thighs. "Is there something troubling you?" Her words are soft and her voice is reduced, unwilling as she is to share their conversation with others in the room.

Raimbaut's shoulders edge upward when he marks her come to her knees near him, whether by sound or by peeking with one eye from behind his large white sleeves. A soft gasp of air is as close to a sign of crying as one will get from him, but he nods his head into his arms to her question.

A crease etches Perpetua's forehead as her brows draw together. "Would you like talk about it?" One hand lifts from her leg, and a glint of silver shows at her wrist as she touches Raimbaut lightly on his shoulder. Her touch is light and barely there, the touch of a feather, as if she's unsure whether he might take the intrusion as a breach of his personal space. But hopefully not. "Would you like me to take you to speak with our Second?"

Raimbaut does startle slightly at the touch, but no more than has been well-trained as a response, a swift flich of the shoulderblade melting into the comforting warmth of contact, and he lets out that air again in a long, shivery sigh. He shakes his head as eagerly as he had nodded it before, and he lifts his head to lift his eyes to hers, finding, from here, so close to her veil, that their eyes are of nigh-matching honeyed hues. He hopes he takes her eyes with him, angling his shoulders and unbowing his back to sit straighter, to look out a grand Solar window, to the garden— past the garden— to the house just past the garden. Then back to her.

He doesn't pull away from her hand, so Perpetua leaves it where it is. Her fingers curl on the angle of his shoulders, and her touch becomes one more of comfort. "Not the Second, then," she surmises, and her eyes hold Raimbaut's for the briefest of moments before he looks away. Silence falls between them, and her breath moulds her veil to her lips as her eyes follow where his lead. "What is it?" she wonders, scanning the view. "The new salon? Is that what makes you sad?" She keeps her questions to the minimum since it seems the only responses she going to recieve are limited to nods or shakes of his head, and it'd be more than difficult to unpick his answers and make sense of them if they're not given in response to direct questions.

She understands him. He appreciates it, his eyes warming in gratitude for her doing so as he does give a minor wobble of his head to confirm she's on track with him, in case it wasn't apparent in his features. The arm the shoulder of which she's holding lies still. The other lifts to his heart as his eyes begin to wander the familiar features of the Solar. Familiar to him, at least, still too-new to her, possibly, but that door he's opened and closed so many times he's amazed there's no shadow of himself left indelibly upon it. That shy woodwork-maiden who made his boyish mind ask and answer so many questions. Even just the knot in the baseboard he'd always sit and poke his finger into while he was at his reading evercises when he was only a little creature. There are a lot of memories in this place for him; almost all of them, really.

"Change can be scary," Perpetua whispers, noting the touch Raimbaut makes to his heart and the way in which his eyes sweep the room. "It's your home, and has been for years." There's the gentlest of smiles upon her lips and, though it can't be seen, that shift in her expression lends a warmth to her words. She navigates her way with care through this one-sided discourse. "Memories last a lifetime, little rose, but they'll stay in your head when you wish to revist." Her gaze falls now upon that self-same head, and she notes those those angelic curls that run so contrary to the sorrow in his eyes. "I wish I could say something that would banish your tears, but I fear I cannot. To dismiss such sadness so easily would make it less than it is, and it seems very great indeed."

Raimbaut flares his nostrils, widening his eyes at her maxim on change with an awed little bobble of his head as though to say that that much certainly is true. And then she's poking him right in the projections of homesickness and the long white tunic sleeve of his is soon flicking away brand new tears. And she's trying to soothe him, and he's just frantically looking about, trying to paint portraits on the backdrop of his mind of all the things so dear to him, and, in among those things, there's Alie, painted all a-glow amid it all, which just stings his heart the harder. But she's allowing him to be sad, and he appreciates, more than he can say, not being told to be brave or to stop crying. And so, in thanks, he just leans forward and plants his face upon her shoulder. Those poor robes.

"Poor you." Perpetua's arms wrap around the lost little soul, the hand that was on Raimbaut's shoulder lifting to cradle his head. To hold him close against the comfort of her shoulder. The faintest remnants of her favourite fragrance lies within the threads of her silks; white oleander and vanilla, a gift from a patron. His tears soak through her silks and dampen her shoulder, but she remains on her knees at the side of his chair, her head dipped down against his, and will do so as long as she's needed.

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