(1312-06-20) Rose Blanche Opening
Summary: A new salon opens at the Night Court of Marsilikos.
RL Date: Sat Jun 20, 2020
Related: None
aimeric alienor foulque iphigenie jehan-pascal perpetua raimbaut raphael severine virginie-npc 

La Rose Blanche — Night Court

Through heavy wrought-iron gates, lies the handsome white-washed facade of La Rose Blanche salon. Tall glass doors open into the vestibule, through which lies the salon that's famed for modesty, virtue and sweet forbidden fruit. Spacious and coolly serene, the walls are panelled in the palest blue and white silk, framing to the right of the room an elegantly carved marble fireplace in white. Directly opposite to the entrance are floor to ceiling windows which flank multi-paned double doors that spill into the garden, and these are framed by blindingly white muslin beneath heavier drapes of blue that are accented with silver threadwork.

Silk upholstered armchairs are gathered around the fireplace, and others have been thoughtfully arranged throughout the room in order that patrons might have a choice wherein to place themselves. For those requiring something more languorous, two chaises of velvet are angled near the windows, these affording pleasing views of the gardens. Silver sconces hung with looping crystal chains illuminate paintings on the walls, and these depict figures in various state of deshabille, with blushes charmingly staining their cheeks as if they are only now aware of the voyeur's eye upon them. Whatever the season, an abundance of flowers in shades of white are in evidence; chosen not only for the purity of their colour and fragrance, but to remind patrons that the flowers with whom they choose to spend their time with in the salon are just as fragile, and have many layers of petals to explore and delight in.

Invitations had gone out, and announcements had been made, both at the Night Court, but more importantly, word had travelled all the way to the noble and palace districts. Tonight is the opening night of a new salon, La Rose Blanche, and lanterns that have been lit outside lead the way to the entrance, double doors that are flanked by a pair of Rose Blanche guards. Once inside, there are more pairs to see, duos of a novice holding a tray with single white roses and an adept who will offer one to each visitor that has not already received one.

Further in, there will be the dowayne waiting to greet the guests. Virginie nó Rose Blanche is clad all in white, and she is wearing a thin gauzy scarf on her head, allowing only a vague impression of dark brunette hair beneath the fabric, and a veil that covers most of her features, apart from the pair of expressive brown eyes. Her gown has long sleeves, and it reaches all the way down to only reveal a glimpse of white slippers.

More veiled creatures can be seen. In fact, most White Roses present will wear a veil of sorts, apart from a few (male) exceptions.

A White Rose lingers, leaning at a wall, one shoulder blade touching the pale blue damask surface as he stands there, clad in loose white trousers and a matching shirt with a high collar, meticulously buttoned all the way up. He is half-turned towards the floor to ceiling windows that face towards the gardens. As if he were not really here, or at least, captured in his own train of thought. Aimeric's dark hair falls in a veil-like manner across his forehead and further, obscuring most of his eyes, but not really the fact that he is a lean youth of d'Angeline looks. A passing visitor pulls him out of his reverie, and a faint blush touches his cheeks as he looks up and he offers a reply to the remark. "A drink, my lady?" He gestures for one of the adepts to provide the lady with a glass of white sparkling wine, then… after the lady moves onwards, he lets his gaze drift to see who may be there and require something or other.

Arriving punctually, seated in a wheeled chair which her own lackeys entrust upon the threshold to one of the Rose Blanche's own men, the Dowager Vicomtesse de Rothéneuf looks gaunt and pale in a gown of costly matte-black cloth that seems to absorb the very lamplight about her. Gleaming against it is an elaborate, highly-polished collar not unlike a chainmaille gorget but more delicately wrought, with stylised Valerian and Mandrake blossoms worked in amongst the plainer links, and silver points dangling below that shift with her movement and glimmer so brightly they resemble icicles. Her gloves are of white silk; her hair is a cloud of white snow, surrounding and softening her face. If she in her dotage is an allegory of Winter, the young girl walking at her side, to whom she lifts her emerald-green gaze as she murmurs an encouraging word, is Summer itself.

Long dark hair has been curled in soft waves to frame her face and trail against her back, and upon her mahogany locks is set a crown of brilliant yellow daisies, as cheerful and radiant as sunshine. Alienor no Rose Sauvage keeps a light, well-manicured hand upon her older companion's shoulder, her hands and forearms bare, with pale yellow sleeves that ruffle into lace at her elbows. There is lace across the square neckline of the lemon chiffon gown she wears, which though it is conservatively cut, shows off her small waist and trim figure perfectly. Her smile is bright, gray-green eyes alight, and her posture is practically perfect in every way.

Peony flowers and oleander blossoms of white, ribbon-bound and wound into garlands with pale silvery eucalyptus leaves, twine around columns and swag the casement doors that lead through to the gardens. Beyond the doors can be glimpsed a magical scene, where candles twinkle in jars strung through the boughs of the trees, and where diminutive figures in diaphanous white flit between the guests. It's lingering close to these doors that Perpetua's to be found, her fingers absently stroking the fragile edges of a peony's petals. Silver glints at her temples and over her head where a filigree headpiece clasps a web of gauzy veils that covers both her hair and her face. Her gown echoes the silver of her headpiece, with closely-fitted lace cuffs edged in silver threadwork that extends in delicate tendrils up her forearms to her elbows. Silken skirts are inset with diaphanous panels of gauze that lose themselves within folds that fall from her waist to the floor, offering nothing more than a hint of shapely legs whenever she walks. Dark, doe-like eyes survey the room, lingering here on a face a moment, on another the next, content for now it seems to let the novices and adepts fulfill the basic requirements of offering refreshments and flowers.

The Second of Thorns could hardly fail to turn out to see off the White Roses to their new salon. Raphael is dressed a little less for intimidation than usual, in blue and bronze rather than black. But even so, he and his canon are unmistakeable. The hard, pale gaze surely misses nothing of the new salon's appointments or its inhabitants.

Holding between her silk-gloved fingertips the rose she was given at the door, Iphigénie looks about with glittering green eyes at the profusion of pale flowers arranged through the salon— some of whom have arranged themselves, and to such poetic effect. Perhaps she's acquainted with some of them. Perhaps not. One is rarely certain at a glance, with Alyssums. Seeing Monsieur Raphael from next door, so striking a figure under any circumstances, she meets his eyes for an instant and then lowers her own and bows her head over her rose in greeting. A word, and a gesture with the rose, suffice then to direct the guard slowly wheeling her chair across the chamber to position it beside the terrace doors. Out of any possible citrus-scented draught from the sparkling garden beyond, but with a superb view of the comings and goings in general. He has a little trouble getting the angle right, the poor boy. Iphigénie is patient. And then she sets down the rose with care in the Stygian darkness of her lap, and reaches up to pat the hand which still rests solicitously upon her shoulder. "Why don't you go and see your friends?" she suggests gently to Alienor. "I shall be well enough here."

Given the occasion, the Red Rose Second of La Rose Sauvage has come to pay her respects. Séverine's garb may look comparatively somber, dark red the dominant color in the long sleeveless dress she is wearing. A shawl of black lace — paying homage perhaps to the typical White Rose prop, the veil — is worn about her shoulders and back, adding some semi-modest cover to whatever little can be glimpsed of her red rose marque, as the cut of the dress keeps most of it covered. Long red-blonde hair has been done up as so often, adding a touch of frailty to her appearance as it draws attention to her slender neck. After stopping for a brief exchange with the White Rose dowayne, Séverine had elected to take a stroll about the salon, nodding to faces she recognized, of roses who had lived under the same roof with her, not too long ago. The white rose that had been offered to her at the door has found its place in her hair, a fact that may be the reason for the faintly amused glint in her eyes as she looks about. A gaze that warms when she spots Raphael as he enters, and Séverine lifts her hand to give him a wave from afar, before she starts to walk over in his direction at an unhurried pace.

<FS3> Aimeric rolls Perception-4: Success. (1 5 2 6 2 1 7 1 3)

Aimeric's sweeping glance comes to linger on one of the visitors, and he pauses, sensing something strangely familiar but yet not in a way that it would ring an immediate bell. It is not sound for a White Rose to stare, not even for one who uses the mop of hair so often as a veil to hide behind, and so the White Rose courtesan lowers his gaze. Waving one of the novices with a tray of roses over, he turns towards Alienor. "My lady, I see you are yet without the evening's adornment. May I bid you welcome and offer you a white rose?", he asks gently, his gaze lowered as he offers Alienor a courteous yet somewhat shy bow of greeting.

"Oh, Aimeric," Alienor says with a lovely smile, as sunny and warm as her daisies. "Don't you recognize me without my veil on? You should brush your hair from your eyes. I am Alienor." Nonetheless, she seems pleased to see him, and she takes a moment to look him over with a bit of a blush in her cheeks, demurely dropping her gaze to the tray of roses for a moment before she looks back to him. "I would love a flower."

Raphael notes Virginie, and perhaps intends to make his way in her direction, but he sees Severine moving his way and trusts that many people will have interest in approaching the new White Rose dowayne, so his greeting may be safely delayed. He inclines his head to Severine with the hint of a hard smile. "It's been finely arranged," he comments.

"Indeed." Séverine lifts her stormy grey eyes to regard Raphael as she appears by his side, and her smile has a vague pensive touch to it. "I can tell, a lot of work has been put into the salon. This place used to have quite a heavy incline towards lavender. I am impressed with what the craftsmen have managed, it is quite the transformation."

That voice and the way she addresses him, these are more familiar than her revealed features, and Aimeric catches himself in a moment of surprise. "Alienor. Is that you?" He smiles and even shakes some of his hair out of his view to facilitate a rare moment of eye contact. "You look… far more colorful than I remember. And lovely." Oh, her blush. It inspires a similar one, upon his cheeks, and he lowers his gaze, then remembering the tray. "Let me… help you." And so Aimeric reaches for a flower, lifts it and slides the stem into in her hair, a few inches above the right ear, carefully and almost reverently. "There."

"Thank you," Alienor replies to Aimeric with a soft smile as he slides the flower into her hair, a white rose to go with her yellow daisies. She reaches up to touch his hand as he puts the flower in her hair, and then she motions towards the Dowager Vicomtesse de Rotheneuf in her wheeled chair and dark clothing, the Winter to her Summer. "I came with my lady; she is truly the patron here. Though she did encourage me to seek out friends. And it is very good to see you, Aimeric."

Foulque walks in, the tall, silver haired Shahrizai smiling quite pleasantly, in deference to the summer he's not wearing his customary black n blacks, but tan breeches with a cream silk shirt and a light blue coat, unbuttoned. He leans slightly on a silver headed cane, though it might be more affectation than an actual support. His deep blue eyes study the room for people he might know.

"Good eve, my lord," a shy looking veiled adept says to the new arrival and in taking a white rose from the tray she holds it out to Foulque, offering it to him. "A white rose for you, my lord."

"Why thank you!" Foulque says with a delighted grin, taking that long rose from the adept's hand , then leaning in to kiss the back of the adept's fingers.

Recognition had brought about a brief lapse in his countenance, but Aimeric catches himself and falls back into his White Rose routine. Pausing at the touch of her fingers, he meets her eyes with his gaze and then looks towards Iphigenie when she is pointed out to him. "My lady." This time the greeting is for the Winter, and the White Rose offers her a bow. But then his attention returns to Alienor and he smiles. "It is good to see you, Alienor." A faint shrug of his shoulders then. "I was gone from Marsilikos for six weeks, never thought I'd be moving as soon as I returned." He lets his gaze wander as he looks about the salon.

Raphael nods his agreement. "And to think it was arranged without the need of our help. Most impressive. The White Roses look well, here. I hope they will flourish."

Quiet, off in a corner, head bowed and angelic curls tumbling in an artless cascade that… must have taken some art, the muted novice sits with his harp upon his shoulder, his lips just parted, moving slightly as though to mark the time. One wouldn't say that he performs, exactly; there's nothing to draw attention to him, as is only right— and, of course, if he grew too close to garnering anyone's notice, he has the wide curve of his instrument to hide behind, and lashes to shade the shy beams of his eyes. But, as though a chime in the happenstance of a particularly well-timed breeze, he lets free from the strings a soft succession of notes to linger in the background and soften the quiet between the shores of the conversational ebb and flow.

"I believe they will," Séverine declares. Something in Raphael's statement earns him a glance though. "We have our own charges to look after. Still. I think I'll miss the White Roses spying on us from the gallery above." A faintly wistful glint appears in her eyes.

Since Iphigenie seems caught up in conversation with someone when Alienor directs Aimeric to her, the young woman turns her attention back to the young man and smiles a bit shyly. "I am in a bit of a transitory period myself," she admits to him, watching him through her eyelashes in a coy and playful sort of way. "But I hope that you will enjoy your new home here. It seems like a very nice building."

Raphael nods, smiling faintly at Severine's regret. "And what will become of the Solar, I wonder? I, at least, have not been told." Another hard-edged smile. "I must congratulate Virgine before long."

"I believe I shall," Aimeric replies. "It feels… a bit spacious right now, but we have been given nice rooms upstairs." He tilts his head a little, so that some of his hair falls across the upper part of his face. "Less distractions." He looks at Alienor, considering her for another moment. "It seems, change becomes you," he murmurs.

"The solar?" Séverine echoes. "I could imagine we could turn it into a nice room for taking tea in the afternoon. Or whatever use we can come up with. I suppose Jacques should be glad if we have any suggestions. He hasn't told me either, but… As the White Roses now have a place of their own, we could use the opportunity to redesign and reinvent our own space." Her eyes look towards Virginie and she nods, "I've already offered my congratulations."

Raimbaut lifts his eyes… not to any one in particular, or, really, with any intent. He just lets his gaze rise slowly and traces it along a wall, watching how the white silk makes the blue silk look so blue; how the pale blue makes the white so white. It's hardly an uncharming aesthetic, if not particularly acoustic. The wandering notes find their bed in among the silk and gives the music a quiet, sleepy tone, at least over here where he's playing. It's a peculiarity of the place, one of millions such yet to discover. The talk of the solar reaches him, and he misses it. The solar, not the conversation. It's enough to make a fellow wistful, though he doesn't go so far as to pedal into a different key.

"You know, I never liked wearing a veil, and yet, this is the first time I've really been in public without it," Alienor notes to Aimeric, watching his hair fall in his eyes with a somewhat amused look. "And you with your hair," she adds, reaching up to tuck a lock behind his ear.

"Should he," Raphael says mildly. "Perhaps some of our first time patrons could be guided upstairs. We'll have to think on it." That said, he sees an opening and nods to Severine. "I'll go speak to her." He crosses the room to approach Virginie. "Congratulations," he says to her. "The space is beautiful. I hope you're pleased with it?"

"Me with my hair?" Aimeric does not object though to Alienor's adjustment, and despite what some may have expected, it doesn't seem to startle him to have part of his eye portion revealed. "I believe I can drive people mad with my hair sometimes," he tells her at a low volume, and his eyes twinkle a little with mischief. "I never wear veils, so there is that."

"I would brush it for you if you would let me," Alienor informs Aimeric softly with a little laugh, grinning at him as their eyes meet. "I have missed your company, I admit. You were a good influence on me, I think." She blushes a little and looks down and away, though she's still smiling.

The former Second of White Roses and new leader of La Rose Blanche turns the focus of her dark eyes towards Raphael, as he approaches her. Virginie lifts her hand as if to check on the veil. "Monsieur Raphael, thank you so much," she replies softly. "I am glad, the place is to your liking. I do enjoy the pleasant and light interior. We still need to settle in, though. Only so few days we had, but I am hopeful that the White Roses will feel at home here soon."

"Of course," Raphael agrees. "You must have so much work to do yet. I hope you will call on us if we can help. We are, after all, still bonded." He makes eye contact. "I wonder if I might invite you to tea one day to celebrate your title with you."

Aimeric raises a brow at Alienor's counter. "Brush. My hair.", he repeats, as if she had suggested something highly inappropriate. But then his expression softens and he even manages a somewhat shy smile, falling back into White Rose mannerisms. "I'm glad you think I was a good influence. And that I was missed." He pauses and then leans in to whisper something into Alienor's ear.

Raimbaut glimpses through the strings of the harp, losing track of the notes, somewhat, but it's a free-form sort of piece, meant more for noise than melody, the seemingly random picking of various notes from mid-air conducive to concealing the odd miss — nobody need notice. He watches their new Dowayne profess her hopes for them, and he can't help but hope so, too. And Alie's here. That makes Raimbaut smile. Not abandon his post, but smile, at least. She found them.

Alienor giggles and blushes at Aimeric's scandalized look, looking down and away for a moment, then shaking her head, shedding a couple of bright yellow daisy petals in the process. She murmurs something back to him and then nods a little, folding her hands demurely in front of her soft lemon dress.

Virginie's breath causes the veil to flutter a little, before she gives Raphael her reply. "Much work, yes, but I have help. Perpetua has been very supportive. And others too. Thank you, though. It is nice of you to offer help, and I believe I would enjoy a cup of tea over at La Rose Sauvage now and then. As you will be welcome to come over here as well, to pay us a visit, whenever you like. Jacques has mentioned to me that there are to be regular meetings. The White Rose seems to be its own flower now, but that doesn't mean that we will forget our roots."

"That's good to hear," Raphael says, nodding once. "I should like to meet her one day, too." He smiles. "Let us agree to meet with one another from time to time, outside of meetings. As right as the move may be, Marsilikos is built on the bonds between canons."

<FS3> Aimeric rolls Composure: Great Success. (1 8 8 8 4 5 8 7)

Aimeric manages to keep a straight face at the counter from Alienor, he leans away and tugs the lock free from behind his ear, causing it to fall across his vision once again. A nod then. "So it will be." Something about the music though makes Aimeric glance towards Raimbaut, and he watches the novice for a moment.

Raimbaut returns his fullmost attention to his playing, greatly cheered to have spied Alienor with Aimeric. Mouth set into an angelic smile once more, he renews the music with a touch more vigor— not loud, only with a new sort of energy, back straight, one foot tucked up under his stool, the other outstretched. Contented, with a light-hearted tip of his head side to side with each new pluck. He spots Aimeric watching him, next, and shoots him a grin.

Alienor narrows her eyes as Aimeric lets his hair fall back in his face, but then she laughs brightly, and when her companion turns to watch Raimbaut, so does she. She winks at the novice playfully.

"Very well," Virginie agrees softly and inclines her head gracefully towards Raphael. "We are after all roses, even if of different kinds."

"Just so," Raphael agrees. "I'll leave you to the event, I'm sure others are waiting to congratulate you." He nods politely and then circles round the perimeter of the room. His path takes him past Raimbaut, and he makes a low remark to that White Rose.

Raimbaut's grin flutters wider at Alie's wink, and he tries to suppress it. Oh, he tries, at least, but soon he has to bow his head to even pretend his composure, giving the both of them a joyful glimpse aside and going back to hiding behind his music. Or, he suspects that he is hiding. Not well enough to miss being addressed by the Second of Thorns, who brings a wide-eyed countenance to look up at him from between the strings, a mute chin to bobble in a surprised sort of agreement. He's not sure whether to keep eye contact or lower them again, and for a moment he seems to be trying both at once, a quick up-down flicker of baffled intentions.

Jehan-Pascal is a little later than simply fashionably late. It may well be he was caught up in some business or other that was keeping him. But he really wouldn't miss the opening of the new house— and a house so dear to him even from its inception. A long-term patron of the last Second of White Roses, Marielle, and, for the space of perhaps a year, almost a regular fixture in their solar, he has to come and see the new digs and wish his favored flowers well. And he's dressed beautifully to do so, of course, in the palest of pink doublets with white lining to set it off, silver fastenings, a backdrop to a dazzling strand of fine pale grey pearls, wrapped twice as a choker around his neck and then twice hanging low before him, one loop to the heart, one closer to the sternum. Hose, too, of fine dove-grey, and pink silk dancing-shoes. It's not very much his current favored color palette, but certainly a fine one to visit the White Roses in. He knows how to make an appearance, even if he's just looking for Virginie, to enthuse with her the new turn of events.

"My lord, a white rose for you," comes the voice of a veiled creature who holds out a bloom, freshly plucked from the tray to him. Blue eyes gaze up at Jehan-Pascal.

Raphael circles further around to Aimeric and Alienor, with no more said to Raimbaut. "A lovely event," he comments. No more than that, perhaps so as not to interrupt the young folks. He seems poised to move on.

Jehan-Pascal turns from his quick hunt for Virginie, letting himself be charmed by the sweet creature in the veil offering him a rose. "Aww. Thanks," he tells her, taking up the rose and holding it up to just below his nostrils to take in the scent, while narrowing his somewhat myopic gaze to focus on the bright blues behind the veil. "Cateline? Is that you?" he grins at her. "The new house is so lovely. I hope I'll be able to come and visit you all properly soon."

Alienor slips up next to Aimeric and slides a bright yellow daisy into his hair, one plucked from the crown of them she wears. She has a white rose behind her ear that he placed there, too.

Aimeric's eyes widen a little when a bloom of such bright color is added to adorn his hair. But he doesn't object. Instead he gives Alienor a smile, and a bow. "I thank you for your gift, Alié," he tells her. "Even if I'm not used to wearing this color." And there he slips away, continuing on his round of the salon, but not without tossing her a glance and a wink over his shoulder.

The veiled creature doesn't respond, not verbally at least, but the blush is even apparent through the veil, and the silence telling. The rose is accepted, and so the adept excuses herself with a curtsey.

With one prey having slipped away, the other comes into view, as Virginie obviously has spotted Jehan-Pascal, or at least his subtly colored clothing of noble elegance. "My lord, welcome to La Rose Blanche," the dowayne greets the new arrival softly.

Alienor blushes at Aimeric's wink, a little giddy in the way girls are when pretty boys favor them with attention, and she drifts away with a giggle to herself, looking for someone else to mingle with for the moment.

Jehan-Pascal dips his head and shoulders forward in an amiable half-bow to complement her curtsey. He looks at her with more affection than predation; her blush might rouse a blush of his own, but it doesn't, quite, only it spurs a fondness to settle at his lips, and he turns to Virginie, who's found him even before he could resume his hunt for her. "Mam'selle Virginie," he greets her with a big grin. "Or should I say, Mam'selle Dowayne," he reaches out with the flower to sweep it playfully at the hem of her veil, not molesting it or moving it out of the way, just a good-natured, no-contact way of being playful with her. "Congratulations! Though I have to say I was surprised to return to MArsilikos and find my favorite roses transposed to a different bed… as it were." Oh, there's a blush, at that non-intentional entendre.

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