Burville; Ainsworth Manor
Duchess Ainsworth stood in all her glory before a floor to ceiling mirror, marveling at her unfinished outfit with glistening eyes. One of her many servants - she never bothered to learn the woman's name - was behind her, fastening the strings to her corset. "Tighter," demanded Matilda. Her high brows furrowed into a scowl, and she sucked in a breath as the strings were pulled tighter. She would not allow her appearance to be marred by improper corset etiquette. A satisfied sigh escaped her stained red lips. "Finally," she cooed, trailing her palms over her hourglass form, "Perfect figure."
"You always have a perfect figure, My Lady," agreed the Maidservant. Matilda shot a glare in the mirror, puffing out her bone-thin chest in indignation. "Don't you think I already
knew that?" retorted Matilda, smacking the Maid's hands away. "If you're quite done blabbering, fetch me my Gwen Artoli gown. The one with the frills and high neck."
The Maid bowed and quickly scurried across the vast carpeted floor, past the Duchess' lavish four poster canopy bed, and to the extensive mahogany wardrobe. Tossing open the double doors, gazing into the wardrobe was a splendid sight to behold. It never ceased to take any Maid's breath away. Matilda Ainsworth was a woman of nobility, wealth and exquisite tastes. The only one that could possibly top the Duchess' fine assortment of clothing would be young Marah Garrick, of the filthy rich Garrick family. That child had
everything. She did not speak it, but Matilda's hatred for the wretched young miss extended far passed their on-going fashion battle. The child was spoiled to the core - and deserved more than a few lashings to put her in her place.
"Stop gawking and bring me my dress!" exclaimed Matilda, her sunken cheeks burning red with impatience. "Theodore is
not one to be kept waiting."
"Yes, My Lady. Sorry My Lady."
Matilda rolled her eyes.
Such an incompetent woman, she thought, narrowing her eyes. If the young Maid hadn't been a talented seamstress, she would've been tossed out on the streets with the rest of the unworthy servants that dared sully her doorstep with their trash. "Send in the rest," said Matilda, shooing the woman away, once her gown was secure.
It would take a bit longer before she was ready to set foot outside. Let alone into the public's eye.
She had a reputation to maintain, of course!
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Soon after dressing, the Ainsworth's carriage, with its two large Clydesdale horses calmly trotted out from behind the large, wrought iron gate, the neighing and nervous stomping of horses' hooves shooing away any of the lesser folks who decided to wander too close to the main road to Aristene. Matilda scowled, fanning herself. "Hurry up, driver!" she ordered, "I don't want to catch their inferiority." A couple of traditionalists that had been standing on the sidewalk overheard the insult, and turned their heads, casting glares in the carriage's direction.
One look from Matilda's beady eyes from behind her lacy fan sent the young boys scurrying off like scared little insects, in which a delighted laugh emitted from her wrinkled throat. "Oh, how I love tormenting the commoners," she sighed.
"If I didn't know any better, Duchess," came a masculine voice from across the carriage, "I would say you are ecstatic." From the shadows, the male advisor, Farlo, leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, a smug grin stretching across his well-trimmed, angular face. His grin only grew wider still when Matilda's aged face flushed. Indeed, she looked much younger than she was, but he could see passed all the beauty treatment, deep into her eyes.
She scoffed, and snapped her fan closed, waving it in his face in a threatening manner. "You better watch your tone with me, Farlo!"
He only stirred the pot more when he brushed away her menacing fan, and leaned back against the plush cushions, crossing his legs. His smug expression never left his face. "Or what, My Lady, would you do to me, for my questions?" He tilted his head to the side, resting his chin among a gloved hand. "Would you cut me loose?" His green eyes narrowed ever-so-slightly, "No, of course not. You couldn't afford to lose another adviser." He gestured to himself, "Men such as myself are quite hard to come by."
Matilda pursed her lips. His pompous demeanor infuriated her so. She snapped open her fan, and waved it in front of her face, dismissing his disrespectful conversation, as if it never happened. The sun was setting further and further behind the mountains. Soon it would be night and the Opera would begin. She, of course, would be enjoying herself among the other aristocrats. It was all she could do to quell the excitement welling up in her chest. One cautious, fleeting glance in Farlo's direction and all traces of excitement faded.
He just had to dampen her fun.
Aristene Opera House
Among the crowd of well-dressed socialites, the noticeable faces of the Duvall family could be seen, conversing with many well-known people. The Sterling family was in attendance. A well-to-do musical family, filled with gifted pianists, cello players and other musically talented children. They would be taking part in the orchestra tonight, however while the show was not going to start for another hour or so, their golden heads bobbed between the throngs of people, sipping on glasses of red wine.
Rhodes Sterling stood beside the grand staircase, glass of wine in hand as he ran his slender fingers through his straight golden hair. Out of all the Sterling boys, Rhodes had to be the ladies' man of the family. Twenty-four and had never settled down, he had many prospective women lined up in a feeble attempt to claim his attention. Like all the rest, they were cast aside, as he informed them, rather bluntly, of his love for music and their lack of marriageable qualities. As rude as he was charming, he never cared for the married life. His attention would always be focused on Vivian, the very nightingale to play Giselle, her destined role.
He would've been in back, helping her with her costume, practicing her high notes in accompaniment with his piano - if only his father hadn't drug him from the bag to do some "mingling" with the other aristocrats of Aristene. It was plain as day; he wasn't thrilled to be among a crowd of giggling women, yet he suffered through it, if only for the time being. He'd soon be whisked away by the Maestro in due time. Looking passed the group of women surrounding him - not a very hard feat, considering he stood mere inches over six foot, his blue eyes caught a glimpse of a Soul Stone among the crowd. His brows twitched in curiosity.
A Mage amid this crowd? He knew many of them had Mages in the family, however most did not flaunt their powers in public. It wasn't quite acceptable to elders, who believed in the nonsense from centuries ago. Excusing himself, he left the women with frowns on their faces, their hopes crushed in his wake. His hands tugged on his black tail coat, buttoning the gold buttons across his chest. He would approach the beauty with the Soul Stone Circlet, and inquire her name.
City Streets, Aristene
At the hands of the very capable Rixam and Erik, the ruffians who caused a fuss in the slums were easily taken down, their make-shift weapons scatted across the floor. Blood oozed from many of the injuries, but these boys would live. They, however, wouldn't be moving anytime soon. At least, the ones that were unable to stand. One of the boys' began to stir from his knock out. Broken shoulder and throbbing headache, it took him awhile to get his sight back. Everything was blurry and the agony of sharp pains shooting through his shoulder was enough to make him vomit but he held his own. He didn't have enough in his stomach to hurl at the moment, as is.
He could hear the faint buzzing of voices but he couldn't understand what was being said. Slowly lifting himself up, he clutched his arm and unsteadily rose to his feet. While they were talking, he'd make a run for it. Blurry eyes took in the scene at his feet. His so-called friends lay in bloodied heaps around his feet, strewn across the ground like trash. He then looked to the two men talking.
Magic users.
Mustering up whatever strength he had left - if you call it strength, others would call it cowardice - and fled down the street, attempting to put enough distance between himself and the others. His friends would just have to wait for him to get back. No way was he going to face a more brutal pummeling than before.
Garrick Mansion; Outskirts of Burville
From the vicinity of her bedroom, Marah's stocking covered feet strode across the cold marble floor, her gown's frilled train sweeping across the cool stone like a lover's hand gliding across a woman's soft cheek. High brows furrowed as eyes narrowed into slits. Her small fists were clenched firmly by her sides. How dare Father lock her in her room for the night. Did he not know what she was capable of? Did he not care that she had plans for the night? No, of course not. The money loving old fool was just as pre-occupied as the senile old geezer she called her grandfather. Always keeping himself locked away in his room, doing Akala knows what, for ungodly days at a time. If he wasn't in his room, he was.. somewhere. She never managed to find out where the old man liked to go when he wasn't coped up in his lonely bedroom.
She really didn't care, but if she knew something her Father didn't, it was in her best interest to find out. So far, Harper had failed to acquire any information for her, which made her blood boil. She had spent the last couple of hours, locked in her room, strewn across her bed with a massive headache. It was only recently that she had managed to crawl herself out of bed, let alone walk without being dizzy. Even that was a feat she wasn't too comfortable admitting.
Her blue eyes cast a dirty glare towards the grandfather clock the pleasantly ticked away in the corner of her room. It was only six o'clock at night. Even from this far away, she could hear the sounds of merriment emitting from the town of Burville. Striding across her room, she slung open the curtains and opened up the glass doors to her balcony. The warm air was nice, but she clung her gown closer to her body. It was already starting to get cold. Or was that her sickness making her body sensitive to temperatures?
Frail hands grasped the railing, coiling around the cool metal. Blue eyes narrowed into razor-sharp daggers as she eyed the cozy little town, with its white washed brick homes and clay roofs. The only defining feature about the place was that the Ainsworth mansion, in all its dark stone and high spires, stood out like a rattle snake in a pumpkin patch. She absolutely loathed the place. Loathed the people there, laughing and carrying on with their Harvest Festival, not caring about what else happened around them. As if they were better than anyone else.
Lies.
Filthy pig farmers.
A blond head suddenly bobbed up from the corner of her balcony, a gloved hand grabbing at the metal railing. Marah's blue eyes lit up immediately. "Harper!" she cried, rushing to the boy's aid. With her feeble strength, she did little in helping him climb over, but it was enough. Quietly dusting off his white tuxedo, he stood in front of her with a bored expression. He arched a brow in her direction and turned his head towards her room, before looking back at her.
Her excitement was short lived. She slapped him across the chest, earning her a slight upturned smile. He caught her hands and rubbed them together, never uttering a word. She hated that about him. She jerked her hands away from him and took a few steps back.
"Don't do that," she hissed, glowering.
Still, he said nothing.
Tossing her hands up in exasperation, she rolled her eyes and turned her back to him, crossing her arms over her chest, huffy like a spoiled child. She was quiet too, waiting for him to speak. She must've been daft to think he'd utter a single word. It wasn't like Harper to speak unless asked a direct question. Slowly she turned her head, casting a steely gaze his way.
"Father locked me in my room again," she said simply. That earned her a head nod. She scoffed and tossed small body against the railing, dangling her arms over the edge. "I want out of here. Now." She pointed a long, slender finger in the direction of Burville.
"That's where I want to go." She turned to him, crossing her arms over her chest. "Take me there." It was Harper's turn to stare at her with wide eyes, before nodding his head and bowing, gesturing one arm towards her bedroom again. He was right; she'd need more clothes than this to make her appearance at the Festival.
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