MASQUERADE! [GROUP THREAD]

[LA MORT]

L E T S - J U S T- N P C

STAFF CONTROLLED CHARACTER

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[atrb=width,240] Astor Archambault thrived at gatherings like these. He wore his mask dutifully, and was in his finest apparel. He was appearing before the king tonight, after all! He was not personal friends with the king, because Henry, Comte de Chambord was barely twelve years old. However, he was friends with all of the boy's advisers. This compere was friends with everyone in Paris - at least, everyone who was anyone. That was his job as the Master of Ceremonies. This soiree, with its excess of rich food, fine wine, well-dressed guests, and the mystery of masks, was sure to surpass whatever events had occurred in the day thus far for those who had been invited. Indeed, it was the event of the season! It was hot, but not even that could dampen the festive mood. Over the crowd of aristocrats who had been invited, there seemed a hum of excitement palpable in the oppressive air. He took his place on the king's dais, addressing the mass. "Mesdames et Messieurs!" he began, grinning widely. "Bienvenue to our exquisite soiree! I hope your evening may be as magnificent as our monarch." At this cue to acknowledge their young king, every attendant was expected to show some sign of respect. Of course everyone had already bowed when he entered, just as they were expected to do when he left. This formality completed, however, everyone was free to dance, drink, eat, and be merry. "Music!" Archambault demanded, and the band struck up a lively tune. "Let le amusement commence!" Merrily, he made his way down from the dais and into the crowd to introduce people to one another and smooze.

[atrb=width,100] CONTROLLED BY, FRATERNITE NOTES, This thread is only for those with invitations. The word count is only 150, and it's rapidfire, so please post within 2 days if it is your turn or you will be skipped. Follow the posting order! Merci!

TEMPLATE BY THERE CAN BE ONLY ONE MIKEY @ CAUTION 2.0

[richardgeorgemoors]

[atrb=border,0,true] [/style][style=width: 450px; background-color: ffffff; text-align:center; padding: 8px; line-height: 10px; font-family: verdana; font-size: 9px; color: 000000;][style=background-image:url(http://i48.tinypic.com/95wmli.jpg); width: 252px; height: 138px; float: left; margin-top:10px;] FAMILY MEANS THE WORLD, FAMILY IS EVERYTHING, NEVER DOUBT YOUR FAMILY AND ALWAYS TREAT THEM WELL [/style][style=width: 252px; height: 26px; float: left; margin-top:10px] made by historyofus of caution Richard was in a very good mood for many different reasons, one such being that a masquerade was something the man always loved to go to. He had been to many in his life and they were always good, always the hot social occasion that they were bigged up to be, maybe he had always been invited to the right ones but they were certainly his scene. Many good things had happened for Richard and to Richard at social events like this, one of the biggest moments ever to happen to him in his life at an event like this was his meeting with his Wife Victoria. If not for that day he would have never met her, they would of never shared that special dance together, that day in his life was not only his most special memory but that most important one in his life, it was the day that he always knew that Victoria was the one for him, that she would one day become his wife the women he loved and adored with all his heart. She was also the women he would have three children with three wonderful and beautiful children who just like the rest of his family were very dear to him. As he always said Family was everything, Family should be cherished and protected. Social events such as this were also a very useful way to be able to gain a better status or standing in the eyes of those who had made this, it was also a fantastic way to strength bond's and gain new friends and allies that can be useful for the days to come, especially in the world of politics, it was always good to have useful contacts and preferably those you can really on, and Richard was sure his own standing in British politics and the British government would attract a few of the many aristocrats here to talk to them, a person in a position of power was always welcome at these events and at times sought after by those seeking to rise through the ranks himself. Richard had once when young been like that, when seeking to make a reputation and rise through the political system, he had seeked out those that he felt would most benefit him and it did help he had the reputation of the Moors family in his hands, he had been able to easily use his father's old contacts. The man had many friends within the aristocrats that had assembled at the masquerade this evening, most of them French but there were certainly a mix of aristocrats from different countries in the event and every single one of them held favour with the current French Monarchy. Richard himself did and was not surprised when he was invited to the event, he had after all been one of those people who had helped to fund and support the Chouannerie, Richard was a very staunch Monarchist and though not his country believed that only a monarchy could really work and would rather see a Monarch controlling France than a republic. He was not entirely sure about the boy king Henry V, he felt that a strong monarch was need to keep a country in line, and a child could hardly do that when he himself was in some degree being controlled, if something was wrong the fault lay with that particular king not the system. Richard had always remarked to his wife who had a love of France due to her family having hailed from there, that maybe the country should try the British way of a constitutional Monarchy. It works for us after all is what he would often more than not say. Richard was glad to be here he had many friends among the assembled so he had plenty of people he could talk to. Richard like every time he went out to events such as these, was dressed to impress, make a good impression of yourself was very important to Richard, how you are presented to another could affect they the way they see you before you even started to speak, Richard himself was like this though just because he held an idea of the person through their image it did not mean the image would not change once they got talking. Richard had very much adhered to the dress code that was asked for, his clothes were a mixture of red and white as was asked of, the coat he was wearing a red colour with a with a white collar and edges around him, his shirt and waistcoat underneath both white. He had left out his top hat this time around deciding that it was not really needed, he had of course his usuall cane that he carried around with him, not that he ever needed it it just completed his appearance, it was basically a simple decortication of sort. His mask was a simple, not overlay decorated but a simple statement, it had small red circles along its side which would meet in the middle around the eyes. Richard had arrived by himself, his wife he knew would follow soon after, but she was busy making sure that Gareth was okay looking after himself at the Torchlight parade, he was not sure about leaving his oldest son by himself but the boy was rather insistent so they had agreed to it this once, the boy was confident enough so Richard was not going to deny him. He hoped his wife would be okay with getting here by herself she had told him to go on ahead so he had. The other two boys were being looked after by his older sister so very were in good and safe hands. Richard was not expecting anything bad to happen to his family today at least. Having bowed and shown all the appropriate necessities when the king had arrived Richard had found himself getting a drink and tied up talking to a familiar face and had started to converse with him, as he was listening to the man he took a quick glance around to see if his wife was around or at least someone else he knew had arrived, he was also keeping an eye on the Pianos that were in the room to see if one would be vacated playing something for those here might do him some good. For Now Richard would keep conversing with the man and await his wife.

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[Deleted]

[atrb=border,0,true] [/style][style=width: 450px; background-color: ffffff; text-align:center; padding: 8px; line-height: 10px; font-family: verdana; font-size: 9px; color: 000000;][style=background-image:url(http://oi45.tinypic.com/2m2xbnr.jpg); width: 150px; height: 151px; float: left;] HOW COULD YOU LET ME LOVE LIKE THIS? NO ONE DIES UPON A KISS ONLY FOOLS BELIEVE IN BLISS Even though there were plenty of things that she could be worrying about, for once, Marguerite Blakeney allowed herself to just enjoy the moment. She was wearing a fine gown, she was back in her native France – she was in her element. And so was Percy. If he were to tell her that this whole act as the exuberant and flamboyant Sir Percy were only an act, she would laugh. She had no doubt he was enjoying himself. She could only hope that he was truly enjoying himself, and not playing up the facade even more fervently because he was trying to avoid looking suspicious as he secretly schemed. She pushed the thought from her mind. She was with her husband, and she was feeling healthy and happy. For now, they were safe. What more could she want? She was reveling in the festivities. Was it traitorous of her to say that she felt safer among the aristocrats than she did among those of her own rank of birth? She never would have thought that she would say such a thing after the violence her family had faced at the hands of the St-Cyrs. However, circumstances had changed; the world had flipped. Now that someone else was seeking revenge, things were getting tense. But she did not think of that now while she glowed on Percy's arm. If no one recognized her as the actress Marguerite St.-Just any longer, the life of every party in Paris, they now recognized her as the wife of the infamous Sir Percival Blakeney. If anyone suggested that the two had an unhappy marriage, they would have to make a strong argument that Marguerite was still a skilled actress. “Come, Percy, let us have a puzzle!” someone in the crowd had shouted – undoubtedly another English nobleman who had come to France and was familiar with the king here as well. Marguerite smiled, blue eyes gleaming. “The real puzzle is why anyone invites my silly husband to these soirees,” she rejoined merrily. She tossed her husband a wicked smile.

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[SIR PERCIVAL BLAKENEY]

[style=font-family: times; font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 1px; text-transform: lowercase; color: #989898; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;]560 WORDS FOR EVERYONE Sorry if this doesnt read too well <3 BALL! [/style]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=width,450,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: #6d6d6d;] [style=padding: 10px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 10px; height: 475px; overflow: auto; color: #1e1e1e;] Percy decided to cover his tracks and this post is now lost [/style]

TABLE BY CALIFORNIA DREAMING @ CAUTION 2.0

[PAUL CHAUVELIN]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 500px; background: url(http://i12.photobucket.com/albums/a223/Achillea/whitesilk_zps07d335a9.jpg); border-radius: 30px 30px 30px 30px; padding: 10px;] Let my heart grow colder and as bitter as a falcon in the dive His much-preferred color was black, but royal decree had brought forth a rare flash of impish whimsy and tonight Chauvelin was dressed almost entirely in white. His dark, albeit now greying, hair was hidden beneath a snowy wig, and his face behind a porcelain half-mask. His impeccably-tailored formal wear was almost blinding, light glinting from silver buttons like ice. There were froths of white lace at his wrists, and the soft leather shoes donned for the occasion were bleached to the color of alabaster and limned with a fine tracery of silver. Even his cravat was white, a confection of lace and lawn woven and knotted perfectly into place. The only flashes of color were crimson rubies in silver rings and cufflinks like drops of fresh blood on his hands, an oblique and very inside joke. The costume was one of the handful of fights his whimsy had won since being soundly thrashed by reality and locked in a mental closet during the once-carefree boy's mid teens. It had again lost, for perhaps the hundredth time, the one over his title. As much as it would enjoy seeing Blakeney's face at the introduction of 'Paul-François, Marquis de Chauvelin,' the amusement wasn't worth his head, which -- given the tidal wave of another revolution about to break over the aristocracy -- was exactly what it would cost him. And the sudden image that came to mind being of forced to try to appeal to the Pimpernel for rescue from ravening republican hordes didn't even bear thinking about. No, he would content himself with 'Chevalier Paul Chauvelin.' As he and his consort neared the Master of Ceremonies who would announce him by that minor title, he could hear for a few moments Blakeney's voice, clear and carrying over the music and murmur of others. It was a riddle, rhymed of course, and Paul was fairly certain of the answer, but he kept his mouth firmly shut and his expression pleasantly blank. It was tempting, but another loss for the whimsy. Knights didn't answer questions Comtes and Marquis could not -- or at least they made sure not to do so in public. Tonight of all nights, with Sylvie St-Cyr in the equation, he needed to avoid attracting any more attention than absolutely necessary. They moved forward, reaching the top of the long sweep of stairs at last, and the Master of Ceremonies' voice, trained for just such occasions, rang through the room. Unable to resist, Paul turned his head slightly to observe the reactions of Lord and Lady Blakeney. [/style] [style=width: 205px; height: 400px; background-color: 101010; float: right; margin-top: 10px; border-left: 3px solid #353535; border-right: 3px solid #353535; padding: 5px; border-bottom-right-radius: 20px; overflow: auto] [style=border-bottom: 1px dotted #cacaca; width: 30px]TAG: Claudette NOTES: Since Rienne isn't in the posting order yet, I've tried to be as vague as possible on that score. LYRICS: "Falcon in the Dive" by Terrance Mann CREDITS: table made by MADAME MARIANNA of CAUTION 2.0 [/style]

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[COSETTE FAUCHELEVENT]

A vision in red, gold, and white, Claudette swept into the ballroom behind her mother and the distinguished Comte who had escorted them. The Comte had been paying a lot of attention to the widowed Baronne, taking her on outings, giving her expensive gifts, and endlessly flattering her fading beauty. Claudette believed he was courting her mother with the intention of marriage … probably so that he could control her fortune. There was something about him that didn't seem quite sincere, but the young woman knew that it might be jealousy that made her think that way. The Baronne had been spending more time with the Comte lately than she had with her own daughter and it was if she had forgotten all about Claudette's poor martyred father.

And yet it was good to see her happy again. Claudette had never seen her mother smile so often since they had been spirited away to England so many years before. She still didn't trust the man, though, even though he gave her gifts as well and treated her like the daughter he had never had. But she would not think of him tonight. No, tonight she would dance and flirt and enjoy herself to the fullest. Perhaps she would even be asked to sing.

She had only just arrived and many young men had turned their heads in her direction, watching in admiration as she gracefully glided through the room, her golden mask, shaped like the face of a cat, covering her face. Claudette's ensemble had been made especially for this event, and she had looked forward to the night she would be able to wear it. The bodice and overskirt was of deep crimson silk, embroidered with golden thread in a floral pattern and enhanced with glittering golden beads. Frothy white lace trimmed the low square neckline and provided the ruffles for her crimson sleeves adorned with golden ribbon. Her underskirt was of the purest white silk, also embroidered with golden thread and beads, and the overskirt was split to show the underskirt beneath it. The bodice was inset with a white panel, beaded in a floral pattern with golden beads.

Around her neck she wore a gold necklace dripping with rubies, and rubies also sparkled from her ears. Her hair had been arranged in a fashionable style, with ringlets left loose to stream down her back. Her hair had also been adorned with rubies and beads and her golden cat mask was embellished with tiny rubies forming flowers around the sides of it.

“Claudette!”

Her curls bounced against her back as she turned toward her friend's voice. “Solange!”

After the two embraced, the tall brunette indicated a crowd forming about an elegant and very well-dressed men. “Let's go see what's going on!” she exclaimed, pulling Claudette along by the hand. The man in the center of the crowd looked somewhat familiar to the young blonde, but in a vague sort of way. A memory hovered at the edge of her mind, but try as she might, she could not quite grasp it. His voice sounded vaguely familiar too.

“Wine,” she muttered to herself in answer to his riddle.

“Wine?” asked a servant passing with a tray. Lifiting two glasses from it, she handed one to Solange and took a delicate sip from the other one. Where had she seen that man before?

[SYLVIE ST-CYR]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 500px; background: url(http://i12.photobucket.com/albums/a223/Achillea/redsilk1_zpsee2e3270.jpeg); border-radius: 30px 30px 30px 30px; padding: 10px;] I am the nightmare of your own desire I am the song that the devil sings The Masquerade was a celebration of wealth and privilege, an opportunity to flaunt and strut both, and Sylvie St-Cyr was in her element. For her costume tonight, she had spent what was a trifle to her, but enough to feed several peasant families for a year. She had also eschewed her normal dark, somber colors. Sylvie was beautiful and she knew it. Tonight, she was the Phoenix, wreathed in fire. Her mask was of red lace. The same also feathered her crimson silk gown, which flowed over the lush curves of her body and boasted a daringly low bodice that displayed the swell of her breasts. The white the King required came in the form of pearls and diamonds. The clear precious stones sparked brilliantly in the candlelight at her wrists, fingers, and ears, and in the high, lace like choker that clasped her throat. More diamonds, interspersed with pearls, were in strands woven with scarlet feathers through the black hair piled elaborately atop her head. She held that head high as she stepped to the top of the stairs to have her name and title announced to those assembled. Of course, most of them already knew her at least by name, even a few of the English such as Moors. But there were two who did not -- a certain English lord and his base-born French harlot of a wife. The lord was a useless dandy whose only significance was the status he brought the actress. Status that brought the slattern here, into Sylvie's reach. The Marquise's parents had known Blakeney, but Sylvie assumed that the St-Cyr name would have no meaning to him beyond that. The French whore, however, was another matter, and the Marquise watched her like a cobra watches a mouse as the Master of Ceremonies' resonant voice rang through the room. [/style] [style=width: 205px; height: 310px; background-color: 101010; float: right; margin-top: 10px; border-left: 3px solid #353535; border-right: 3px solid #353535; padding: 5px; overflow: auto] [style=border-bottom: 1px dotted #cacaca; width: 30px]TAG: Adrienne NOTES: Please just imagine her outfit in the pic as diamonds & red. LYRICS: "Black Unicorn" by Heather Alexander CREDITS: table made by MADAME MARIANNA of CAUTION 2.0 [/style]

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[adrienne]

s h o u ld i g i v e u p o r s h o u l d i

just keep chasing pavements even though it

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[atrb=width,240] Adrienne had chosen a white dress. Matching with Chauvelin's white costume. Silver coloured jewels flashed on the dress were understated but beautiful all the same. Rienne's hair was again done up, but this time she had taken more time. Smoothed each strand and carefully placed the headpiece atop of the style. The dress rested off her shoulders and that was the way she'd had it designed. It showed off her bony collarbones and with her hair up, her neck was carefully highlighted by long golden chain that rested on the neckline of her dress. The teardrop shaped jewel on the bottom of the chain was hidden from view, it had slipped into the bodice of her dress but the jewel was a light grey-blue colour. She'd been drawn to it, because it matched the colour of her eyes. The lace mask was tied just under her up do, and tied tightly so that it wouldn't slip off. The mask covered the area around her eyes, and the bridge of her nose. Early when she had looked in the mirror, she couldn't believe that it was her. It was almost surreal. She walked beside Chauvelin, she'd never been to a place so fancy, and she was trying not to be overwhelmed by it. The young courtesan should not have been in a place so fancy. She smiled to herself, secretly a little amused, and she kept close to Chauvelin. She rested her forearm on her hipbone and she breathed in. Rienne looked around at all the fancy ball gowns and all the mens outfits. The room itself was a sea of red and white. Rienne hadn't bothered with the red, maybe she should have added a red jewelled bracelet or something. White and blue she could pull off... Red wasn't so much her colour in her opinion. She couldn't pull off a red dress, partially red maybe. Red paled Rienne's skin even further, and it made her look washed out. Blue brought out the colour in her eyes, and white pretty much suited anyone. Of course, the colour was a little brighter and less creamy coloured that her own skin.

[atrb=width,100] words , 355 words tagged , notes , mask chain dress and hairstyle

TEMPLATE BY THERE CAN BE ONLY ONE MIKEY @ CAUTION 2.0

[richardgeorgemoors]

[atrb=border,0,true] [/style][style=width: 450px; background-color: ffffff; text-align:center; padding: 8px; line-height: 10px; font-family: verdana; font-size: 9px; color: 000000;][style=background-image:url(http://i48.tinypic.com/95wmli.jpg); width: 252px; height: 138px; float: left; margin-top:10px;] FAMILY MEANS THE WORLD, FAMILY IS EVERYTHING, NEVER DOUBT YOUR FAMILY AND ALWAYS TREAT THEM WELL [/style][style=width: 252px; height: 26px; float: left; margin-top:10px] made by historyofus of caution It had only just started and as they always seemed to be the masquerade was buzzing with excitement from every angle, there were plenty of different people here, all of them had a tale and all of them brought some excitement to the dance. Every single one of them was known by someone else at this Event, no one here could be considered a total nobody to the people gathered. There was also a reason for them to be seen at an event like this, to raise one’s social standing is one such reason, another is they have a reputation to uphold, there was also plenty of political and business opportunities to be had at an event such as this, something that Richard was always on the lookout for. One of the very reasons he had come to France recently was due to the political possibilities that he had at his fingertips, to further his own goals. He knew plenty of people here, he owed them a few favours and others owed him, and there were others that he had been in partnership with before. Here at this masquerade he could gain a bit more support, for something he had been looking to do in the political world, he had already gained some support back home but with a few more names to the list he could certainly wrap it around the public's ears. Of course these people would need something in return, they would want to get something out of supporting him and as always Richard would promise to deliver. Even if he was lying, to be honest he called it stretching the truth he got what he wanted a lot of the time anyway, plus people seemed to find themselves believing him in the end never caring about his lies. Richard knew how to spin things to his advantage. This was exactly what he was doing with his old friend Sir Jean De Temorire, as he awaited the presence of his wife. Also while he finished what he was saying and listened carefully to his old friend he took the chance to listen and check the surrounding area for anyone else he might know or have heard of. The First person he heard very clearly was that British Dandy and rather amusing Sir Percival Blakeney, and his wife Lady Marguerite Blakeney, he had never met the two personally, but it was never hard to miss them or even as a matter of fact to have not heard about them. He seemed to easily draw a crowd as well, and the man certainly seemed to be doing so now, to draw not only Richard's attention but that of his friend’s as well who seemed to have stopped talking, about something nonsensical as the time and dogs. He chuckled at what Percy said to his audience, this man knew how to entertain the masses, and he seemed a master at that craft. Richard felt the rhyme interesting and decided to indulge himself a little and make a guess, he did not know entirely and it did not make him a better man for knowing. It was a riddle as well just wrapped in a rhyme, a very good rhyme at that. "If I could Hazard a Guess Sir Percy maybe Love?" He asked, he was not confident in this question it was more a simple guess, something told him Sir Percy meant entirely something different something very interesting. Richard had not spoken overly loudly, but loud enough to be heard over Percy's audience from where he was.

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[Deleted]

[atrb=border,0,true] [/style][style=width: 450px; background-color: ffffff; text-align:center; padding: 8px; line-height: 10px; font-family: verdana; font-size: 9px; color: 000000;][style=background-image:url(http://oi45.tinypic.com/2m2xbnr.jpg); width: 150px; height: 151px; float: left;] HOW COULD YOU LET ME LOVE LIKE THIS? NO ONE DIES UPON A KISS ONLY FOOLS BELIEVE IN BLISS Margo rolled her eyes good-naturedly as she took in the spectacle of her husband performing to the crowd. While she was the former actor, this was his stage, one he reveled in. Sometimes she couldn't tell if his glances around the room were to look for his colleagues or just to proudly take in the expressions of the audience he held spellbound. “Puzzles are hardly the most tiresome thing here,” she retorted pointedly, though smiling. She was surprised that Percy referred to himself as a mortal – most of his feats made him seem all-but-invincible. Like every other woman in London, Margo had fallen for the Scarlet Pimpernel, as well as for Percy, and the smile he directed towards her still made her melt. As she heard another person offer an answer to Percy, she nodded faintly before giving her own. “That's easy,” she replied, lifting her chin. “Marriage.” She knew that he would no doubt have some kind of clever response to that. In the end though, no matter how much he teased, they were happy together. What the mystic had told them earlier did not truly frighten her. But that did not mean that the night was to be entirely without fear for her. There was a man there, a man who had found satisfaction outside of marriage, though this satisfaction had certainly not lasted the test of time. Paul-Francois Chauvelin, her former lover. As she heard the Master of Ceremonies announce the man's arrival, she felt the blood rush from her face, and she was glad that she was wearing a mask. Perhaps they would not be able to recognize each other – or at least that was what she told herself. She could not truly believe it. Surely he knew they were there; Percy had made no effort to hide himself. And she would know the man's cold blue eyes, his broad form. Uncertain whether she should remain by Percy's side, where Chauvelin was sure to notice her, or move away, where Chauvelin could catch her alone, Margo placed her hand on Percy's arm. Perhaps a warning. If Chauvelin should approach, it was nothing that her haughtiness or Percy's wittiness could not attempt to deflect. She was less assured by that, however, when she heard the next name. A St-Cyr. The division that her role in the St-Cyr's deaths had caused between herself and Percy had long since been gulfed, but that did not mean that everyone had forgiven her. At times, Margo was strong and fearless, but her life was not just hers to lose anymore. She knew that some people would not be satisfied until death was repaid with death. "Percy," she whispered urgently, though of course he could not have missed the Master of Ceremonies' announcements. There was not enough time to say more, as a figure had started to move towards them. Margo composed herself hastily, her expression unreadable behind her half-mask.

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[SIR PERCIVAL BLAKENEY]

[style=font-family: times; font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 1px; text-transform: lowercase; color: #989898; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;]560 WORDS FOR EVERYONE Sorry if this doesnt read too well <3 BALL! [/style]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=width,450,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: #6d6d6d;] [style=padding: 10px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 10px; height: 475px; overflow: auto; color: #1e1e1e;] Percy’s sharp eyes took in the growing rabble of aristocrats, some keen to guess the answers, others merely sighing as Sir Percival Blakeney made yet another exhibition of himself. Percy was accustomed to entertaining others with his dull wits, he was a good friend of the Prince of Wales and on many an occasion had pleased the Prince with his rhymes and chatter. As he taunted the crowd with his rhyme, he paused to hear his Lady interject and step onto his stage. Marguerite had a talent also for pleasing a crowd and in England she couldn’t move freely though the throng, without a group of admirers following her. 'Aha! Touché me dear!' Percy laughed, bowing at Marguerite, before turning to listen to some of the answers from the gaggle of faces. A voice from the crowd caught Percy’s ear and he turned to take in what the gentleman was saying. He recognised the man instantly, Richard Moors was a British politician and Percy had been at several events with the man, although they had never been formally introduced. Percy smiled, ‘alas sir, it is not love!’ Percy said brightly, pleased that no one had guessed his riddle. Then his wife’s voice piped up, of course the woman chose marriage, just what he would expect from her. Percy smiled, moving beside his wife he waved his mask theatrically as he spoke, ‘Ha! Marriage, Lord no Madame! What satisfies a man and betters with time…it’s not marriage or love but in fact wine!’ he said laughing and picking a glass from a passing waiter, he raised it and took a drink. During his little charade several arrivals had caught his eye. The first was Chauvelin, when his name had been called out; Percy had paused for a second before continuing to entreat the crowd. He was interested to know what the sly fox had done to get himself such a title, Percy would bet his cravat, Chauvelin hadn’t got it through the proper means. Then the young Lady Bridoire arrived, Percy recalled the mission that involved haystacks and carriages with hidden compartments, in order to rescue the young girl and her family, from the guillotine. He noted interestingly, that the young girl held little resemblance to that of her mother and father. Then lastly was the St-Cyr…Percy tensed considerably for a moment upon her name being announced, but it would have taken a great eye to notice. Percy recalled a time many years ago, where he had believed his wife was responsible for the death of the St-Cyrs. Life had been hard; to love a woman and feel disgusted by her actions was nearly impossible. It had been a relief to discover she -in-fact- had been duped, and was not directly responsible for their deaths. Percy felt Margo tensely take his arm, and Percy picked up a second glass and passed it to his wife. ‘I love a good masquerade!’ Percy said softly to her as he took a sip of his wine, ‘don’t fret Margo’ he added, Percy doubted - if the St-Cyr held any resentment towards his wife- the woman would be fool enough to start something at the Kings ball. He made a mental note however, to get Andrew to watch the woman carefully for the entirety of the evening. Perhaps he could exact some information from her. [/style]

TABLE BY CALIFORNIA DREAMING @ CAUTION 2.0

[PAUL CHAUVELIN]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 500px; background: url(http://i12.photobucket.com/albums/a223/Achillea/whitesilk_zps07d335a9.jpg); border-radius: 30px 30px 30px 30px; padding: 10px;] Let my heart grow colder and as bitter as a falcon in the dive Chauvelin wended through the crowd deftly, balancing his urgent need to get to the Blakeneys quickly with the equally-urgent need to not be obvious about it. There was an art to it that involved being aware of the levels of acquaintance and precedence of those around you. Eye contact had to be very carefully judged, to avoid the appearance of either overfamiliarity or snubbing, and not get caught up in any conversations along the way. Thankfully, the introduction of a Lady Claudette Bridoire bought him a little time. Having Rienne on his arm helped greatly. A man was expected to pay attention to his lady, and turning as if to reply to some comment from her got him past a couple of the more gregarious obstacles. She would be a tremendous complication when he got to his destination, of course, and at that point he was probably going to start behaving rather rudely toward her, but there was no help for that. He needed to warn the Blakeneys – Margot especially, but as her husband, Percy was responsible for her safety. And he needed to do it privately. If even a whisper of a word got to Sylvie St-Cyr, he was going to be very, very dead, very, very slowly. They passed a rotund man made even bulkier by quilted red-and-white silk and Marguerite came into view. Paul's heart lurched as it always did at the sight of her. He'd hoped that all the years apart would have dulled the pain, but the ache of loss was just as sharp as ever. She was beautiful and bright and so utterly alive. She was everything he was not, and that's what she'd fled when she saw it inside him – the darkness. If he were honest with himself, she'd done the right thing. He didn't deserve her – she was too young, too happy, too good for him. If he were honest with himself, he'd accept that. Paul Chauvelin was a very practiced liar. "Lord and Lady Percy!" Paul said, practically glowing with bonhomie as he reached out to catch Margot's hand, bowing over it and bringing it to his lips. "Welcome back to France." Straightening, he glanced sidelong at his nemesis, his smile taking on a glittering edge. "Please say you'll be staying for a time. I would welcome the opportunity to repay the hospitality you showed me when I visited your country." The first strains of music began to weave their way through the crowd much as Chauvelin himself had earlier, and the old French spymaster cocked his head at the sound. "Ah," he said, "the basse danse begins." His smile widened, and he extended his hand to Marguerite. "We could not have you violate your principle of not dancing with your wife in public. And this is a French dance, so perhaps you are not familiar with it. Adrienne will be happy to partner with you, show you the steps." Adrienne doubtless wouldn't be, but he was paying her enough to pretend, at least in public. And it was a risk leaving her alone with the Pimpernel, but that was one he had to take. [/style] [style=width: 205px; height: 400px; background-color: 101010; float: right; margin-top: 10px; border-left: 3px solid #353535; border-right: 3px solid #353535; padding: 5px; border-bottom-right-radius: 20px; overflow: auto] [style=border-bottom: 1px dotted #cacaca; width: 30px]TAG: Claudette NOTES: Margot moved with permission. LYRICS: "Falcon in the Dive" by Terrance Mann CREDITS: table made by MADAME MARIANNA of CAUTION 2.0 [/style]

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[COSETTE FAUCHELEVENT]

“Claudette, you were right,” Solange exclaimed when the answer to the riddle was revealed. “It was 'wine.' How did you know?”

The young blonde shrugged. “It made sense. I'm surprised nobody else figured it out.” What she couldn't figure out why the man who had told the riddle provoked strange emotions for which she had no explanation. Fear and confusion mostly, as well as the musty smell of hay. It was his voice that seemed most familiar to her, but it was if she had heard it in a dream. It was quite disturbing. She would have to ask her mother if she knew who he was, but at the moment, the Baronne was occupied with the Comte and a circle of friends. Claudette did not wish to interrupt them for something so trivial. It could wait until after they were home again.

And maybe her imagination was just running away from her. She knew most of these people by sight, even if she didn't know their names. And after what had happened this afternoon when she had become separated from her friends during the festivities, her mind was on edge, as if thugs were going to suddenly storm the ballroom and drag her away. Like her father had once been dragged away ...

The musicians struck up a lively tune and Solange grabbed Claudette's arm. “The dancing is starting. I promised my first dance to that handsome gentleman standing over by the far wall.” The young man in question was indeed gazing in their direction, and with an inclination of his head, he beckoned Solange over.

“Go on, then. If you hesitate too long, some other woman might entice him away from you.” Her friend squeezed her hand and then hurried away.

Claudette watched as couples began pairing off for the dance. Her mother and the Comte were heading toward the floor, and the Baronne was laughing at something he said. She had to admit they made a striking couple, and the Comte did seem quite devoted to her. Maybe his intentions toward her were genuine. At the moment, it seemed so.

The sapphires in her mother's dark hair glittered under the light of the chandelier. Her father's hair had been dark too, and yet Claudette's was so light it was nearly colorless. As a child, she had asked her mother why they didn't share the same haircolor and had been told that she had inherited her long blonde waves from her grandmother, the one who had also been musically talented. She had died before Claudette's birth, and her mother had said all paintings of her had been confiscated with the rest of their belongings when they were arrested and her father executed. They had probably been destroyed years ago. How she wished she could have at least seen a likeness of her.

Turning her attention back to the ball, she now wished that someone would ask her to dance … and later, perhaps … to sing.

[SYLVIE ST-CYR]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 500px; background: url(http://i12.photobucket.com/albums/a223/Achillea/redsilk1_zpsee2e3270.jpeg); border-radius: 30px 30px 30px 30px; padding: 10px;] I am the nightmare of your own desire I am the song that the devil sings Sylvie smiled as she watched the St-Just tramp move closer to Blakeney and cling to his arm. Don't think he can protect you, bitch, she thought. The English lord was tall, fully as much so as Etienne, but looked just as wispy as the French comte even now coming to her side. He was much flashier and louder than Etienne, but he had the same languidly careless way of moving. That d'Armagnac was a master swordsman who'd killed a number of men in duels completely escaped her thinking process. She wanted to hold Blakeney in contempt, so she did -- not that he didn't make it easy for her. Crimson silk and lace flickered around her like flames as she made her way toward the couple, only to find a stocky man in white had beaten her to the half she was interested in. Long practice at social events kept the anger from her face, but she scowled inwardly. Balked. She hated being balked, even if only temporarily. Brought up short, she stopped and glanced around. There was a pretty woman with a huge mass of golden curls nearby, but she was young and her attention seemed entirely on the dance floor. The only other person close was a man she recognized as one of the Chouannerie's English supporters, so Sylvie turned to Etienne. "Who's that man dancing with the salope*?" she asked the older man, with slightly more volume than she might have intended. His name had doubtless been announced, but he must be some lesser nobility, as she hadn't registered it. The Comte d'Armanac was far too polite -- and far too experienced with Sylvie -- to react to the vulgarity. He simply looked in the direction she indicated. The man in question wasn't actually dancing with Marguerite St-Just yet, but it was clear that short of some extraordinary rudeness from one of the Blakeneys, it was going to happen. "I believe he's a chevalier," the count answered, his voice somewhat quieter than his questioner's. "Chauvelin, something like that." [/style] [style=width: 205px; height: 320px; background-color: 101010; float: right; margin-top: 10px; border-left: 3px solid #353535; border-right: 3px solid #353535; padding: 5px; overflow: auto] [style=border-bottom: 1px dotted #cacaca; width: 30px]TAG: Adrienne NOTES: Please just imagine her outfit in the pic as diamonds and red. * 'bitch' LYRICS: "Black Unicorn" by Heather Alexander CREDITS: table made by MADAME MARIANNA of CAUTION 2.0 [/style]

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[HENRI D'ARTOIS]

[style=font-family: times; font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 1px; text-transform: lowercase; color: #989898; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;]1193 WORDS FOR EVERYONE Notes here: I haven't really had a chance to make plots with too many people yet, so I just stumbled along with what I thought he'd likely know. I can change anything you guys don't like. Henri's looking for a dance partner *grin*. DANCE [/style]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=width,450,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: #6d6d6d;] [style=padding: 10px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 10px; height: 475px; overflow: auto; color: #1e1e1e;]Henri glanced over his shoulder as he finally heard the comtoise clock in the sitting room of his apartments chime the hour. It was time to begin getting ready for the masque that evening. It had been a wonderful day, really. He'd been out of doors all day in the street fesitvals of May day. He'd has his fortune told by the mystic - and wasn't sure how to feel about her answer so was, for the moment, trying to forget about it.. and had bought flowers for some pretty girls at the flower stand. He had voted for the May Queen. He'd bought a French flag on a stick which he'd run about with and of course he'd bought ice cream and other treats which were not exactly the healthiest fare for his lunch, little had he cared. It was a nice treat to have ice cream and candy for lunch without anyone to stop him or scold him. Now, however, it was time to put aside his boyish play of earlier and prepare for the masqued ball that evening which he was giving. He would need to be on his best behvaior, socialize, and in general be charming. Perhaps knowledge of this was why he'd tried so hard to run off his energy earlier in the day. However, he'd be lying if he said he wasn't slightly looking forward to the ball. Henri was getting to the age where girls were becoming attractive to him, and he had loved dancing since he was a small boy and had received lessons. He also enjoyed wine, though some might think him a little young. Good music was always appropriate in any situation. All of these things combined were sure to mean a grand evening for all. Not to mention there would likely be a fine supper as well. However, first there was the business of getting ready which needed to be dealt with. He began the process by taking a very long bath in hot water, laying in the tub until it started to get rather chilly and also making sure all the sweat and grime of the day's activities was washed well away so he wouldn't smudge or dirty his outfit for the evenig. Once he'd finished bathing, he went to his room in a dressing gown for his valet to help him changing clothes - helpful when court dress was always so formal and required so much care. Before long, he was dressed in a pair of tight cut navy blue breeches which fell just below his knee and buttoned there with crisp white stockings. Above this he wore a sparkling scarlet waistcoat covered over with gold embroidery knots and a stiffly pressed and starched white cravat with a gold pin in it which fell just above the v neck of the waistcoat and was inlaid with rubies. Over this, he wore a coat with finely tapered edges pulling away from the front which matched the navy of his breeches and buttoned up the front with gold buttons - though he, of course, hadn't buttoned it up very far to expose the red waistcoat. A hankerchief with his initials was folded carefully into the pocket of his jacket. It was red with gold like the waistcoat. Of course, a pair of fine white gloves were included and soft blue leather dress shoes. The ensemble, however, would not be complete without the masque and cape. The cape had been a gift from a Rajah in India. It was made of a beautiful tiger skin and fell just to the middle of his back and cloaked the edges of his shoulders. He also had a masque of the same fur lined with black silk on the inside and fine black ribbons to tie it in back which covered his eyes and part of his nose. Altogether, he thought himself looking rather dashing! By the time he was finished dressing, it was time to go downstairs for the masquerade, and Henri's excitement had built to a fever pitch. He was excited to dance and celebrate the holiday and just let loose all the cares which had been thrust upon him over the past weeks. Accordingly, he walked down the stairs and toward the ballroom where he knew he would find a daius with a throne - which he quite frankly planned to spend as little of the evening on as possible! He was announced and offered a smile to those in the room with him as he took in the immaculate golden room, the decorations, and all of the people in such finery as he had rarely seen - perhaps at his coronation, but he'd been in such a state of emotion then that he didn't remember it as clearly as he would like to. He saw many people he recognized at the ball - members of society, though few of them were close personal friends. There was the Blakeneys of course... he was told Marguerite had been a lovely actress at one time though, of course, that had either been before he was born or while he was in Naples. There was another woman he was vaguely familiar with, Sylvie St-Cyr. A little shiver crept up his spine when he met her eyes, though why this should be, he had no idea as she was little better than a perfect stranger to him. Neverthleess, something about her made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He quickly turned away from her to lock eyes with Lady Bridoire, whom he'd contemplated voting for for May Queen earlir. Now, he vaguely wished he had because there was no sign of the pretty girl he'd voted for. However, he could not in good conscience fully wish he'd voted for anyone else given he still thought she'd been perfect for the role.. even if she didn't seem to be here. He took one step back, trying to steady himself as he locked eyes with Paul Chauvelin - another confusing aspect of his life. Chauvelin had been smuggling him books over the course of about two years now.. books he knew the Chouannerie wouldn't approve of... Henri was still undecided on how much he believed he could trust the man, and yet found himself liking him.. for some reason he couldn't even place. However, he did not want to seem overly familiar with him when God only knew who was watching. He just wanted to enjoy the evening and not worry about all the tenseness he could sense in the air. But whether that would be possible or not.. he didn't know. So, rather than draw any attention, he merely gave a polite nod of acknowledgement to the latter and hoped he would find someone he could ask to dance soon. Lady Bridoire was soon partnered with a dashing young man across the room and Chauvelin seemd intent on asking Marguerite.. which left Chauvelin's original partner with Sir Percy. He wasn't -about- to go up and aks Mademoiselle St.-Cyr to dance given how uncomfortable she made him feel. For now.. he would wait and watch. [/style]

TABLE BY CALIFORNIA DREAMING @ CAUTION 2.0