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| Yours, Mine, and Ours; Duchess | |
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| Topic Started: Aug 31 2016, 06:02 PM (267 Views) | |
| Nakara Besschentyil | Aug 31 2016, 06:02 PM Post #1 |
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@$^#$^%!!!!!
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They were on the road more for fun than anything: it was the first rainy day they’d had in a while, and the two were determined to make the best of it. Of course, they only had one horse – others had since been lent out or donated to traveling refugees. Thorne was Nakara’s horse, though, and she shared an emotional bond with the beast which made her unwilling to give him up, even to people who needed it. It was weird: lately everything had turned into a bid to protect what she still had left. She hadn’t forgotten the pale ghostly faces of Gregor and Georg, smiling and at peace, but turning away from her and leaving her. It isn’t right, She had thought, and still did. I haven’t exerted enough control over my life. I’ve squandered so much time. I’ve been careless. If she continued to be so, she would surely lose everything, everyone. So she had gone back home to Olaf and the boys, and apologized. Her family had been painfully accepting, clearly not having forgotten the transgression of abandonment in the family’s greatest hour of need, but glad to have her back. Now the two rode on one horse, moseying around the grounds of the Naumenko estate, and they leaned back to back, passing a cigarette back and forth. In the bright but overcast light, their hair seemed to join and form one dark sheaf, though Nakara’s was admittedly messier. Taras had always been better at keeping up on his appearance, not through any effort to be vain, but because he simply took care of himself, and Nakara did not. Similarly, her clothes were decidedly more rumpled and disheveled than his. Otherwise, the two would not have been easily distinguishable: both shared equal parts feminine and masculine features, but the difference could be told in their attitudes. These days, though, Nakara looked ten years older than she was. Her face was littered with healing nicks and cuts, the corners of her mouth split but also healing. A generous piling of bandages encircled her left forearm, which she moved more gingerly than usual, and there were dark circles under her eyes that hadn’t been there. It had unsettled Taras to see her this way. Almost like… …no. No, that was too cruel to Nakara. “Pass the smoke, dammit, you’re hogging.” He broke out of his thoughts, and held it back over his shoulder. She took it with her left hand, not daring to use that arm to try and control Thorne, and put it to her lips. “Sorry, daydreaming.” “You always were the placid one,” She remarked, passing it back. “You know, they say the tree produces two kinds of apples: the sweet and the sour. Never more true than of you and me.” “Oh, I don’t know,” He said with a smile, “You strike me more as, ‘tart’.” Her head whipped around in mock outrage – a bad idea, as the sprain her mother and Vannevar had caused twinged, and she hissed. “Careful, old lady.” “Bite me,” She retorted. “You makin’ fun of me?” Taras laughed. “No! I think your sass has only richened over the years. Pass the smoke, dammit.” She did, and faced forward. “You want me to drive?” “No.” “You never let me drive.” “Because you suck at it. You fell a dozen times a year.” “I’ve gotten better.” “I don’t buy it, you’ve been in prison.” “Yes, but they have this neat torture device that’s sort of like a horse, and—“ “Don’t joke about that shit!” She spat with rather more fear than she intended. Taras was quiet a moment. He knew she didn’t mean ill: he had been deeply affected by his time in prison, but he also wasn’t as sensitive as his sister. He knew she hated to think of him in such situations. “Hey, I’m sorry,” He offered, reaching back and giving her free hand a squeeze. For a moment it appeared she wouldn’t return it, but she did, with hesitation. She’d been snapping more and more lately, but it wasn’t because she had gotten cold, but rather because she had gotten so much warmer. She figured she’d finally had enough, was tired of the losses of both family and control, and wanted to do something about it, but didn’t really know what. “No, don’t worry about it.” She returned, quietly. “I guess I was expecting a soap joke. Sorry for shutting you down.” Taras flinched: she had never ever admitted to shutting people down before, not even him – and she was very fond of shutting people down. “Kyra…” He ventured. “…what happened at the house?” For a long while she was silent, but he gave her time and space, and she was grateful for the warmth of his back. She had always been able to feel her brother’s intentions – they were close, and he was good at giving them out – and he’d always been patient, altruistic, gentle. Not like her. She would readily trust him standing over her sleeping body with a knife. And yet…. “I can’t,” She finally said, swallowing. “Maybe… maybe later.” Disappointed, but respecting her boundaries, he nodded. “Just let me know when you’re ready.” He’d been trying to get the story out of her since she had come back from Ashcombe, but she never answered. He wouldn’t have worried, but every so often he would see her when she thought she was alone, hunching over herself, shaking and whimpering with a pain or a fear no one else could see. “Who’s that?” It was a clear effort to try and steer the direction of the conversation as much as a genuine query, so Taras straightened a bit and kept himself balanced while he turned to see. There was a person a bit ahead of them down the road. “Dunno. More refugees?” “Maybe,” Came her answer. But there was something… familiar about the way the lone figure moved. “They are on our property. Hey!” She called out. “Everything okay?” Edited by Nakara Besschentyil, Aug 31 2016, 06:06 PM.
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| Duchess | Sep 1 2016, 12:17 AM Post #2 |
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“No Modeste. You can't wear the mask. I know you, you will want to do this as yourself in person. Its no time to hide behind that face unless you are ready to tell her the truth about it as well.” the calm but firm matronly voice came from the doorway to his private chamber and caused Modeste to jump, dropping the cats mask from where he had been contemplating it and causing it to land upon the table with a soft thud. Modeste reflexively pulled the blanet over his frame before he had time to realize it was his mother talking. Of course it had to be, nobody else would have spoken with as much knowledge as she did about him or the mask. Modeste looked at her blue eyes with his own mismatched set and bit his lip not able to formulate any of the multitude of words which tangled in his throat. The woman with greying blonde hair and laughlines well set in her face gave a pitying and warm smile before she shut the door behind her with the soft rustling of her blue gown and gently crossed the small space to stand behind him. Without saying anything she slowly pulled the blanket off of his shoulders, exposing them to the warm air of the stuffy room lit only by candles. Modeste siply turned his head forward again and let his head hang ad his hands fell limply into his lap and long golden tresses obscured his face. Madame Bellamy looked over her son dressed in a gown of regal purple. Gently she rested both her hands upon his shoulders and squeezed softly before reaching around to see the dark lines caused by tears running through makeup that now ran down his painted cheeks. The face in the mirror was every bit the picture of a young lady dressed to catch the eye of every knight in court, were it not for the evidence of sadness that bleed through the illusion. “I'm sorry mo-” he started to speak, his voice cracking but she promptly shushed him giving his shoulders a reassuring squeeze before her tender hands reached out and delicately plucked a brush from the vanity. Lowering her head until her chin nearly rested upon his shoulder so they could both be seen in the mirror, Madame Bellamy seemed to size up the reflection of the young woman she saw. “My my its such a shame for a pretty thing like you to be so sad. I don't know that anything more than dry eyes could paint a prettier picture; but I'll do my best.” She spoke in warm and familiar tones as she straigtened herself up Madame Bellamy raised the brush as if she were about to brush the long golden hair before she instead delicately reached forward with her other hand and removed the wig from atop Modeste's head setting it gently on the stand beside the mirror. “Well now, there is a start.” She remarked casually before she began to brush the mousy brown hair that was bobbed at his jawline. Modeste wrung his hands in his lap at first but after a moment let the familiar feeling of his mother brushing his hair calm him. He closed his eyes and tried to think about nothing else for a long moment before words finally found his tongue. “I just, I don't know what I would even say. Of all the people I have wronged, I feel she is victim of the most.” Modeste felt the weight of everything that had driven him back into his private sanctuary surging upon him once more and as the tension rose with it, his mother sent it all away with another soft stroke of the hairbrush. “Did you do everything you could to help, Modeste?” She asked in her same even tone as she set the brush aside and found a few jewled hairpins to fasten his hair out of his face. “There wasn't anything I could do, she was missing and I wanted the world to look for her; but I couldn't...” Modeste stopped himself this time. Letting the silence return as he batted the tears away from his eyes. “I can't. I owe her too much, to return after all this time, and ask her and hers to take on all this...” “Then don't ask her. We can find another way; but you must still go and apologize.” his mother's tone was firm as she found a small sponge on the counter and wetted it, beginning to wipe away the dark lines that had run down his cheeks. “Why should I even darken her door with my presence? I am removed from her world and it is best I stay removed less she suffer more injustice at my hands. I am a coward and nigh a traitor to my home, her world is all the better without me in it.” Modeste's voice began to raise defensively before a soft rap atop his head from the brush ended it abruptly. “I'll not have you speak ill of my son like that.” Madame Bellamy chided as she looked him directly in the eyes. “My son is a noble soul who I raised to do the right thing too well. Now he punishes himself for every minor slight and tortures himself when his duty to his family and principles conflict with his duty to the obligations and responsibilities of his station. My son does not need you disparaging his name like that.” she continued to look him straight in the eyes until he broke the gaze. “Yes ma'am.” he muttered softly and when he did so she returned to administering the wet sponge to the markings on his face. He did not speak again until she finished wiping the paint from his lips. “What will I say to her?” he asked softly this time. “Do you think its the right thing to do?” she countered his question with one of her own as she continued to wipe the makeup off of his face. “Yes” He answered after a long reluctant pause. “Then don't worry about what to say. When something is important enough, you have always found a way to get the words on your heart out, to great effect.” As Madame Bellamy gave her assurances his gaze drifted up from his lap to the cat mask resting where it had fallen on the vanity. As if she read his mind, her hand which was beginning to show the signs of her years, gently rested over top of it. “You had that talent even before you had this mask. After all, the Duchess is not her friend, you are.” Modeste nodded silently in agreement and pulled his eyes away from the mask and up towards the vanity. There in the mirror he saw a face he almost did not recognize. It was his own. Un-painted, unmade, unhidden by the eyepatch, un obstructed by his brown hair. His mismatched eyes looked back at him reflecting the restrained surprise. The first innitial sense of dissapointment in what he saw came and went with the acceptance of this stranger being not so bad as he often led himself to believe. Like an old frined one dwells on bad memories of, to keep the pain of their absence at bay. “I didn't think it was possible, but here we are, a very lovely sight to behold.” Madame Bellamy spoke in her warm and encouraging voice before she planted a gentle kiss upon her child's head and then stepped back. “Someday I wont be the only one to get to see how beautiful you can be.” “The Duchess turns plenty of heads, Mother.” Modeste defended his persona and the labor he put in to making her the picture of beauty whenever she was worn. “I was talking about your heart Modeste, this is the only room where you really fully let it out to beat.” Madame Bellamy answered without looking over her shoulder. As she began to open the door she paused and turned to face her child who still sat before his vanity. “And if you ever try to apologize to me for finding you taking a moment to be yourself again, I'll beat you with more than a brush.” Modeste's cheeks flushed red as his mother turned to leave, but just before she could close the door behind herself he called after her. “Mother, wait.” “Yes?” She asked, a little surprised as her face poked back in through the doorway. “Could you help me un fasten my corset before you go? Its nigh impossible to remove swiftly by myself.” -|-|-|-|-|- The sun shone down on Modeste Bellamy in his well trimmed blue coat, and stark white trousers. His soft brown riding boots seemed spotless despite the dust of the road all around them as he made his way along the road, occasionally wringing his hands, and then forcing them apart. His eyepatch kept one eye safe from the sun but the other occasionally squinted as the bright daylight caught it. He was still having trouble adjusting to the outdoors after spending so much time coordinating so many things during the day from within the rooms of the estate where they had been staying. His horse had been left well outside the property line of the Naumenko family estate. Modeste had hoped to buy himself time as he walked to think of what he was supposed to say, to her, to her family, to anyone, and the words continued to fail him each idea sounding only twice as wretched as the one before. As Modeste glanced up from his thoughts he saw two figures riding on a horse and nearly fainted. Riding back to back as they were, he was convinced for a moment that perhaps he had truly begun to lose his mind. A distant terrible fear that the fate of his sister was a hereditary one began to surge up before burrying him in twice as much shame for thinking of poor Alexis that way. Still evidence of encroaching insanity was upon him for surely Nakara could not be twice mounted upon the same horse? He had worried himself into a fit for certain! How was he supposed to apologize to her in such a state as this? How would he find her if everyone he saw looked like her and how was he supposed to remedy a halucination brought on by guild if he could not find the source of the guilt? Then the figment of his immagination called out in a voice that sounded so real that he dared to believe it was. It was her voice asking a simple question which to Modeste's slightly pointed ears became a million times more profound. His one visible eye began to brim with tears and he fought it back as his lip tried to tremble. Modeste had barely managed to get both under control by the time they had gotten close enough to see him clearly and he them. “No. No everything is not alright I am afraid.” Modeste answered his voice beginning crisp and clear as a proper greeting to a stranger might. However as he continued it began to falter “It is not alright at all, because here you are, and here I am, and I still have not found the words with which to even begin my greviously overdue apology.” Mortified, he could not stop himself as yet more words followed. “And of all the things I could have said, those are the first!” |
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| Nakara Besschentyil | Sep 1 2016, 12:58 PM Post #3 |
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@$^#$^%!!!!!
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The twins watched as the figure cam closer and closer, and the closer it came, the more interested Nakara seemed. She leaned forward in the saddle, squinting. “No way…” “Hm? Friend of yours?” The figure got closer, and Taras could see them now: small, meek, and lovely, he would have mistaken them for a lady had he not already been so well versed in looking like one himself. Growing up with Nakara, you rather stopped relying on and caring about gender stereotypes and appearances after a while. After she broke basically all of them. But all that aside, he recognized the eyepatch and the eye from stories she had told him, not to mention the snappy dressing habits. Taras’s smile brightened. “Ah! Is this the gentleman you were telling me about? ….Ky?” She was staring. Modeste started talking, and the brother elbowed her ribs slightly, whispering: “Hey, you need a reboot or something?” The man finished talking, but Nakara had hardly heard the words themselves. She knew that he was apologizing for something, she wasn’t sure what, but right now she didn’t care – she could find that out after. Her ragged features had softened for a moment. Then, she swung a leg over the pommel and jumped down from the horse easily (though she probably should have been more careful as she was still covered in hundreds of cuts from the mirror and Ylsa’s harionago – but this too she didn’t care about), carried herself to him in a couple of long strides, wrapped her arms around him, and pulled him close. “Think of an apology later,” She said softly through a smile, her face buried between his neck and shoulder. He still smelled the same, like so many faint perfumes and candles, roses, soaps, the comforting scents of civilized life. Not that Morrim couldn’t be civilized, it was just…. A different type. The softness of his coat and hair felt like magic on her battered face. “Just give me a hug right now, goddammit.” Taras had likewise dismounted, but instead of joining the two he decided Thorne needed a hug too, and busied himself with coddling the mighty stallion, who then verily turned to butter in the young man’s hands. It was weird: up until his escape from prison, he had always figured he’d be made to marry his sister just as his father had been made to marry his. It was a relief to see that she had found someone who wasn’t related to them, but at the same time, he felt a very small, rather insignificant pang of envy for Modeste. Not that being married to Nakara would be fun – but being her partner definitely would be. The two finally separated, and Nakara’s hands settled on Modeste’s shoulders, her expression one of immediate concern. “What of Madrid? Is your family all right? How are the girls? Are you all safe?” |
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| Duchess | Sep 1 2016, 04:05 PM Post #4 |
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There she was, despite the greatest efforts of weariness and injury to deface her, to Modeste’s eyes Nakara looked every bit the ravishing valkyrie he had met that day outside the spectral manor. Modeste had almost as much trouble looking directly at her as he did the sun. Still he tried his hardest to continue facing her. His upper teeth bit his lower lip almost to the point of drawing blood simply to keep it from quivering as she silently dismounted her horse and closed the distance between them. Modeste’s insides churned and twisted and wound themselves into more knots than usual as she glided towards him wordlessly and he had no earthly idea what to expect would come next though feared the worst as always. All of a sudden warm arms wrapped themselves around him and Modeste was stunned as he was pulled into her soft embrace. His arms were already returning the gesture bearly a breath after she made her request. In a voice barely above a whisper he responded to the demand “It would be my pleasure.” Modeste could not prevent the tears from falling as so much of the tension that consumed him had melted away in a wave of tremendous relief. More than a year away during times of tragedy, and still she greeted him so warmly. For a moment he gripped her so tightly he feared he would be unable to release her at the proper time, and was not sure he would want to either, but his sense returned to him before it came to that. A welcoming embrace was not a substitute for apologies, nor was it permission to hold the wronged lady ransom in his arms. Besides, someone was watching. Who that someone was had to wait for the moment as the embrace ended and Nakara, creature of compassion that she was, asked him of his home and family. The tears continued in a steady silent flow down his cheeks as he thought of the answer and eventually forced himself to speak it. “Oh, La- Nakara.” He caught himself and remembered how she disliked it when he used more formal titles with her. “I was able to get the girls, my mother, and my sister out of Soto well in advance of what was coming. My dear friend Master Beaumont gave us a cryptic warning that dark times were ahead and made me promise to leave the country post-haste. I had thought perhaps to deny him, thinking he was overreacting or confused by the drink; but news reached me that he had perished, and so to honor his dieing wish I did as he asked.” Modeste barely gave himself time to breathe and had to stop to inhale after that lengthy explanation. “Words can not express how deep my shame and regret run when I heard of the tragedy in your family and was unable to come to you. I… I tried to go looking but the girls… and then Alexis. Oh I am so sorry Nakara. Could you ever forgive me? I feel a villain for not finding a way to come to you sooner, and more so now that when I finally do it is also during a time of need.” Modeste caught himself realizing the plethora of words that were escaping him were a surging tide that dared to steal all his breath and drown his long lost friend as well as her mysterious associate. It was her associate that momentarily distracted his one visible blue eye, shining as it was with tears, from Nakara’s face. A feat that would have been otherwise impossible were it not for the fact that this face looked so similar to hers it demanded his attention as well as his curiosity. Questions dared to form in his mind but he did not speak them yet for he had said enough and it was only polite to allow the lady to decide when the two needed to be introduced. |
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| Nakara Besschentyil | Sep 1 2016, 04:31 PM Post #5 |
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@$^#$^%!!!!!
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Her relief was palpable when she heard that he had gotten his family and the girls out safely. She had met many of them, of course, but the first to come to her mind was Ornella Tanzi, the girl who lost her parents to Brennia’s rage. Secretly, she hoped the girl still had the book of pressed flowers, and that it still brought her comfort – especially in such uncertain times. But her expression turned again to worry when she heard of his friend’s death, and she waited to extend her sympathies (because for once, her sympathy was very genuine), but the poor guy kept going – and the conversation turned to her own loss. Naturally, she understood: if their roles had been reversed (and she had been a bit more responsible back then), she would have had a difficult time leaving her brothers and parents. Truthfully, she hadn’t had time to dwell on his lack of contact. The moment she found out that Olga had died because of her actions, however indirectly, she had… lost herself. Knowing of their association Yuri had written to Modeste, of course, but between finding Taras and being driven to Ashcombe by Vannevar, and trying to resist, she hadn’t known enough to be upset with him. It hadn’t helped that she had been constantly moving to avoid being reached via post by her adopted family, or temporarily kidnapped and controlled at the Zauber mansion by her cousins and aunts. All the same, she thought of him whenever she dared, and the crushing disappointment of what she had thought was a foregone conclusion: they were so different, she was so violent and stained and he was flawless. Of course it couldn’t have worked out. It was both a blessing and a curse that she had visited Ashcombe and been subdued there. A curse because now she was injured and fatigued by the ordeal, but a blessing in that it had forced her attention to the things that mattered most. It had been family, at first – her real one, the ones who actually took care of her. Now, the one who was flawless was here weeping in apology, and the ball was in her court. A year ago, she would have felt stung by his tears, as though it had been her fault instead of his. Now, though… “I’ve already forgiven you.” Nakara smiled. “A lot has happened… you probably wouldn’t have been able to find me anyway. Modeste…” She frowned a little here, and swallowed. “It was at least half my fault, you know. When mother died, I ran like a coward. Brennia killed her, so I thought it was my fault. You needed me too, and I wasn’t there for you, when I easily could have been if I’d just taken my head out of my ass and stopped feeling sorry for myself.” Her smile returned, because she already knew the answer: “I hope you can forgive me too.” By Thorne, Taras smiled. That’s something I never banked on hearing, all my life. Even if we were married. As though hearing his thoughts, Nakara started. “ Oh, right! Modeste, this is my twin brother, Taras. The one who’s been AWOL for like, fifteen years.” Taras turned to face Modeste and gave him a smile and the best military bow he knew. In fact, military bowing was all he knew. “It’s an honor to meet you. Nakara’s talked about you – all good things. She’s jealous of your nice hair, you know.” His sister laughed a little, then turned back. “You said this was an hour of need, right?” She offered. “Whatever I can do for you, consider it done. Just name it.” |
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| Duchess | Sep 1 2016, 07:05 PM Post #6 |
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I have already forgiven you. While by this point he had already begun to suspect as much hearing those words did wonders for his overburdened soul. Modeste’s heart practically fluttered in his chest, so glad to know that he was once more in Nakara’s good graces. Some small sentiment much deeper in his heart burned twice as brightly and somehow made the whole world seem brighter. Her assurance that he may not have been able to find her, would have done little to abate his guilt had it not already been absolved with here generous forgiveness. However as she continued to explain, Modeste’s heart broke for Nakara all the more. Brennia killed her, so I thought it was my fault. That news alone was so striking, so heavy, that his guilt threatened to return again in twice the force. He had indeed missed a great deal, and knew himself to be one of the few who could glean so much from so little a phrase. The witch from that house had dared to raise her hand against Nakara once more and in another secret corner of his heart, anger, righteous indignant fury lit a tiny spark. But that spark would be left alone in the forgotten corners for now. She had not asked for his anger or his help, and by the looks of her now, had handled her ordeals on her own as much as he had handled his. As Nakara shouldered some of the blame upon herself Modeste wondered if his apology to her had sounded as absurd as hers did to him. He had been able to carry the weight of his responsibilities through this ordeal simply because it was what he’d had to do. Never once had it crossed his mind that she could have been of help to him, or that he could have asked were she not lost to the world. They had been his problems for him to overcome. So perhaps, her absence had been hers. Nakara’s smile was returned by a warm smile from his own lips. Modeste dared just enough to rest his hands upon her shoulders as she had his, but was not so bold as to cup her cheeks in his hands as his heart so begged for him to do. “It is all in the past now, and there was never anything to forgive.” He answered. With those simple words, their isolated world of apologies and almost closeness was broken, and the full world reintroduced. Nakara had turned away and faced her near doppelganger that had patiently waited for them to finish speaking. His patience had not gone unappreciated by Modeste. AWOL the words rang in Modeste’s slightly pointed ears and stirred long buried and familiar memories. Those memories were awoken further as the formal bow was presented to him. He looked so much like her, Nakara introduced him as her brother, a twin no less, what were the odds? Despite this, the old memories stirred up ever present fears. As if a reflex, Modeste took a distinct step away from Nakara to allow himself ample room. His posture became more rigid and formal and he promptly returned the militaristic bow with a similar gesture of his own, though flavored by his home in Soto. He had been a soldier and a soldier never forgot. “I-it’s a p-p-pleasure to m-meet y-you as w-well, T-taras” Modeste felt the burn of shame flush his cheeks red as his voice betrayed him. This was Nakara’s twin brother! If ever there was a single time in his life he wished more than any other, that his damndable stutter would leave him, it was now. The comment about his hair did little to ease his nervousness but caused his cheeks to flush even redder. Modeste hated his hair, and tried to tell them so. If any was jealous it was he, for Taras shared the same luscious raven tresses as his dear sister. What Modeste would not give to have hair like that, or even simply to let his own grow out. Nakara brought him back from thoughts of the judging eyes of military men, and their collectively enviable hair with talk of yet unspoken important matters. “P-pray, do not ag-g-gree so quickly Nakara, for wh-wh-what I ask is no small f-f-f-favor, and is surely a d-decision to be m-made by your ent-t-entire est-st-state. Esp-p-pecially by whomever p-p-presides o-over it as h-h-h-head.” Modeste mentally cursed his infernal stammer that refused to quit hindering his speech as he addressed the pair. Squeezing his eye shut for a moment he took in a sharp breath and when he opened his eye again fixed it on Nakara for hope of better handling the nerves threatening to undermine his plea. “As caretaker for the girls of the former Bellamy Accademy, it has been my duty to continue to see to their well being. In addition, it is my duty as a son, brother, and employer to see that my mother, sister, and beloved staff are equally protected. For the last year we have been residing in an estate overseen by a former generous benefactor to the school. While I appreciate their generosity I feel we have been an imposition on our host for too long. Moreover, our host has been drawn in to the Sotoan conflict, and while I myself have been negligent at best in my duties to the nation of Soto and her people, my girls have no place being anywhere near the fields of war. While war itself has not reached our estate a certain element has been gathered on the grounds near and around in increasing numbers and I would see to it that my girls are exposed to it no further. While these girls are still my responsibility, and my beloved charges, I will not stand for them to be in such close quarters with the ever growing presence of an army around us. True some of them have ambitions of becoming soldiers someday; but now is not the time. Those that were old enough to fight and chose to do so have already left my number...” Modeste trailed off realizing at some point along the way he had begun to veer off course. Pausing he cleared his throat and reflexively his eye glanced towards Taras before quickly darting away. “Th-the point I was t-trying to get t-t-to is. The N-n-naumenko e-estate is q-quite l-l-large and I h-h-hope to ask that m-my girls...m-my girls...” Once more Modeste squeezed his eye shut and took a deep breath calming himself and finding his words. He reminded himself of the need, and for whom he was speaking. “The Bellamy Accademy, and indeed myself and my family would be eternally in the debt of the Naumenko family if you would bear the burden of our presence by allowing us to seek refuge within your estate until new arrangements can be made, or Soto is finally reclaimed.” There, at last, he said it. It was what he had needed to ask, and was by no means a small favor. The girls alone numbered more than 60. |
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| Nakara Besschentyil | Sep 1 2016, 07:57 PM Post #7 |
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@$^#$^%!!!!!
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” The N-n-naumenko e-estate is q-quite l-l-large and I h-h-hope to ask that m-my girls...m-my girls...” It was almost more than either of them could bear, but especially Nakara. Taras understood the imploring quality of Modeste’s voice, but Nakara understood both that and how important the girls were to him, and it nearly broke her heart again to hear. The fact that some girls had already gone off to fight but hadn’t returned… …she wouldn’t have gone back on her word, but this fact made her more determined than ever. “Well… I am the lady of the house now--” “And the lady is the heart,” Taras added. Neither of them were talking of Brennia, of course. "Right.” She nodded, and flashed Modeste her best roguish smirk. “This estate has been used since its creation as a sanctuary for people who need one – even if it meant Father betraying his country.” She paused, then, and looked off into the distance for a minute, sombre but soft. “…Olga always wanted a daughter,” She revealed. “She loved her sons, but she really wanted girls too. She would have loved to host the Academy. Olaf… Olaf should listen to reason. He’s hurt and he’s hard, and he may not be a good man by all accounts but he is an honorable one. And I’m nothing if not persuasive.” She didn’t mention that Olaf was probably still sour with her for abandoning the family. Modeste didn’t need to worry about that – and she didn’t plan on leaving Olaf’s study later until he said yes. After a quick consultation to determine if Modeste had brought a horse, Taras took it upon himself to go and fetch it. Not only was he exceptionally good with animals, but he also wanted to give the two some time to bond alone: gods knew they wouldn’t get it at the Naumenko estate before sundown. -------------------------- And why this was, became evident the minute they stepped through the door. The place was gleaming, though black tapestries indicated that the house was still in mourning. The work of servants did not stop with the Mistress’s death, especially not in this family where the boys were raucous and messy and the Master was a perfectionist. It had a main entrance hall just like Ashcombe, but it was arranged to be less oppressive and more open: one could fit an entire masquerade ball in the entrance alone. The color palette inside the house was warm and relaxing, with plenty of rich browns and golds, rusty reds and deep blues, and bustling servant ladies and gents in crisp clean clothes, aprons, and vests. Cosette, naturally, was the first to reach them at the door and take their coats, and this time her smile was not marred by sadness. As they passed through, Nakara pinched the girl’s cheek lightly, teasingly. “Miss me?” Cosette blushed and giggled, and made off to hang the coats. “That’s Cosette,” Nakara explained to Modeste. “She was on the run during the war when Grey found her. Nearly fell off a cliff to her death, poor thing. Prettiest smile in the house, let me tell you.” She took him around and showed him the place – or most of it, anyway, including the chapel and private halls. “When we get a large influx of refugees and runaways, we just expand the servant’s quarters. Thing’s big as a house itself, now.” After a while, they stopped outside a heavy oaken door, in front of which Nakara made a quick effort to smooth down her hair and clothes, and straighten her posture. “You’re fine,” She made sure to tell him. “It’s me and Dmitri he likes to pick on. And uh… don’t ask him about the thing right away – I’ll do that later.” Olaf would have felt put on the spot if asked straight away by a stranger, especially one his daughter was so fond of. Not that she didn’t want him to say yes, but she also didn’t want any more bumps in the road of her relationship with him. She knocked three times, before a baritone voice answered: “Come.” She opened the door and stepped inside, giving her adopted father a casual bow before approaching his desk. The study was beautiful, as polished and immaculate as any study, and stacked to the ceiling with books and documentation from so many military accounts. Olaf himself looked the very picture of a general: his hair was shot through with grey, more than there was last time Nakara had lived here properly, but it was trimmed and well-kept, as was his moustache and beard. His eyes were old, older than the man they inhabited, and though they seemed cold and distant there was also a receptive glint to them. This was a man who took no shit, but still knew how to take a joke at least. He glanced up, and, noticing that there was a guest, set down his pen and stood, nodding a bow of his own. As Nakara spoke it was clear there was some tension between them, but not enough to disrupt a functioning relationship. “Sorry to interrupt, dad,” She offered. She had been calling him ‘dad’ more often lately instead of ‘father’. That was what she had called Sascha, and she was done with all ties to her old family, even the titles. He put up a hand in dismissal and laughed. It was short, clipped, and sounded as natural as it did painful. He was clearly still mourning his wife. “If it was important I’d have told you to go away,” He smiled slightly, then looked to Modeste. “Who is this?” “This is my friend, Lord Modeste Bellamy of Soto. He’s come to pay us a visit.” Nakara stood then, like a young soldier, feet slightly apart, hands behind an impeccably straight back. Every visit to this study felt like a competition to see who had the best posture. “Ah,” Olaf’s smile did not deepen but it warmed. He extended a hand to shake. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, young man: I have heard about you, and Nakara has spoken fondly of you. You are most welcome in this house.” Olga would have wanted to meet you, He wanted to add, but didn’t. It was too painful to speak of her in past tense, and this poor stranger didn’t need to be burdened by the grievances of the family. “I hope your Academy is safe from the insurrection. I’ve sent many of our men to try and help, but… well, the earth is angry, and these days she has no mercy to spare for men.” Edited by Nakara Besschentyil, Sep 1 2016, 07:59 PM.
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| Duchess | Sep 2 2016, 08:50 PM Post #8 |
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Modeste felt the glimmer of hope turn into a much brighter flame as Nakara announced the history of the estate as well as her place within it. Pangs of a bitter sweet empathy accompanied this hope when they mentioned the recently departed Olga, and he once again felt regret at having not gotten a chance to meet the woman. Modeste wondered how these wounded hearts would take to having his mother about. He had gotten the distinctive impression that the departed Olga would have gotten along well with her. After thanking Taras for going to fetch his horse, Modeste was allowed a pleasant few moments walking arm in arm with Nakara down the road of their estate and back towards the main house. -_-_-_-_-_-_- Modeste admired the interior of the Naumenko main house almost as much as he did Cosette's smile. Passing the sweet girl his jacket and listening to Nakara speak of her, he eventually recalled that she had been mentioned to him in passing, in one of his few letters from Yuri. He gasped in shock at the appropriate moment and then smiled as Nakara briefly explained how the girl came to be with them. “She seems to have settled in nicely here.” he managed to say as he struggled to keep his thoughts in order. Something had been preying on them ever since the twins had mentioned the man of the house. It wasn't until they had nearly reached the study that he realized what it was. Fear. Olaf Naumenko was a military man, and judging by the respect that came with his name, and the adjusting of Nakara's posture he was a strict and proud one at that. Memories of his father danced before Modeste's thoughts and a familiar ache in his stomach returned with a swiftness. ”You're fine.” Nakara told him as he was already attempting to straighten his shirt, and glancing down at his immaculate boots as if they might be caked with dust. Reguardless he continued to fuss with his hair trying to ensure it was straight enough to pass inspection. He was certain it would be met with as much dissapproval as every inch of himself was bound to. A smaller thought added its own dark realizations to the brewing storm of fear as well. This man was a father to Nakara.... something about that fact made all his other fears seem all the stronger and he could already feel his tongue catching in his mouth. ”...And uh… don’t ask him about the thing right away – I’ll do that later.” his eyes widened at the thought. He was supposed to leave the asking to Nakara rather than face the man himself? What kind of precident would that set? Wouldn't that paint him an even larger coward than he already was? Sending in the man's own daughter to ask requests for him? “But Nakara isn't that dishone-” ”Come.” The single word command sent chills down his spine and snapped his mouth shut like the jaws of a beartrap. Already Modeste could picture the man behind the voice, towering, dark, powerfull, judging and imposing. His blood ran cold and his heartrate thundered in his chest. How had he grown so much weaker since those days a lifetime ago when he had been a man in uniform himself? How had he survived then? How would he survive this? As they entered the study Modeste was struck by how similar to his fathers it looked in almost every way. A rogue thought wondered if all military men used the same interior decorator, or had a unified set of interoir design guidelines. Nakara spoke to him with such ease, and Modeste wondred if the fact that she did not call him 'sir' was any kind of sign that perhaps this man was not quite as intimidating. Despite this faint sense of hope, his posture did not dare break away from the ruler straight position it had taken. His shoulders dared not lower themselves a breath. Pay them a visit? Modeste was too frightened to recoil at the egregious understatement. He had come to ask so much larger a favor and in his own mind with every moment it was misleadingly labled it would make the delivery so much worse. He supposed his personal immediate desire was a visit, yes, he had not exactly arrived with a train of carraiges and little girls in tow but he felt as if he might as well have. Of course if the man said no, a visit would be all it was and he could move on, but still... Nakara has spoken fondly of you Modestes eye widened ever so slightly. Those words had been stated as fact and were likely simple politeness like when one is introduced to the friend of any friend; but somehow the words seemed to feel more weighty than that. As if they were silently a warning and threat at the same time. His daugther had spoken well of Modeste, which would make him a suspect living in this house, and a lowly creature that demanded so much further inspection. Despite all his fear, Modeste still felt the tiny wisps of sadness that seemed to linger just behind the mans words, and it was those threads of humanity that helped him to see past the monster his own mind had created long enough to allow him a moment to breathe. This moment was all the more important as Modeste slowly realized he had let the mans hand linger for more than a few seconds and was now being addressed directly about his personal matters of business. In a flash of blind fear Modeste reached deep and found the only thing he had left of the time when he could speak to men like this without being their equal or superior, and not stammer and squeak his way through every word. This last desperate hope was the form of old habbits and instinct driven in by years of training and repitition. Quickly taking the mans hand he shook it as firmly as he could without going overboard. Three quick shakes and release. A short step back assuming the propper rigid posture he gave a small traditional Sotoan military salute. “Former Tactitian First Class Modeste Bellamy.” he felt his crisp voice ring out the introduction and already realized the error of how overboard he had gone. It was too late to stop now however as the words continued to flow out of him in his military cadence. “It is a pleasure to meet you Master Naumenko, sir!” The sir was punctuated as it was when one had finished a report back to their superior officer. Modeste realized it, realized that Nakara and Olaf realized it, and yet his rigid posture and blank expression refused to falter from his old soldiers ways. In that same military style of reporting he heard his voice move on to the question he had been asked. “I had received inteligence that some form of danger might befal the Accademy. At the time it had seemed unlikely but out of respect for the informant arrangements were made for a brief recreational trip beyond Sotoan borders. While there we received news of the aggressive advances of hostile enemy forces, and elected to hold our position where the civilians would be out of harms way.” CIVILIANS!? Modeste could not believe the words coming out of his mouth and everything in him wished that he could curl into himself and die. He had asked not to stutter, and this was the price he paid. The girls you daft fop the girls! Speak like a human for once in your life! his mind screamed at himself but his mouth soldiered on. “It seemed I made the correct command decision,” AHHHHHHHHHHHHH! “the latest reports have informed me that the grounds and my personal estate have been completely overrun with the rest of the city. As a Councilor of Soto I speak for all of us when I say that we thank you for any and all aide you have sent to our people.” The wave of formality passed him and an awkward silence filled the room for a breath. Modeste felt what little color was left in his face drain out and he used all of his nerve to maintain his rigid military posture. “P-p-pardon me” Noooooo! Not the stuttering! What was it all for!? he mentally wailed as he realized he would now make himself twice the fool having sacrificed sense and human conversation for military proceedure only to return to his feeble stammering ways. There was really only one thing left for him to do. “I th-think the r-r-oad has w-w-worn on me, and I am f-f-feeling a t-t-touch ill. If you would ex-exc-ex-excuse m-m-m-me a-a-a-a mo-moment.” Before anyone could respond Modeste turned on his heel and walked out of the room in such a regimented fashion that he was nearly marching. As the study door closed behind him Modeste's knees turned to Jelly and his breathing quickened to the familiar state of hyperventalating. “What have I done!” he whispered alloud to himself before the entire ghastly scene replayed itself for him in a loop. Unable to take anymore of the shame and humiliation Modeste's body did the only thing it could to preserve him from further suffering. The room spun around him for a moment and went dark as he collapsed. |
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| Nakara Besschentyil | Sep 2 2016, 09:31 PM Post #9 |
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@$^#$^%!!!!!
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As poor Modeste went on, a rather different sort of judgement was taking place than the one he suspected. What Olaf saw wasn’t a man who was rapidly losing his shit and descending into a downward spiral of social embarrassment, but a man who had clearly been and seen and done and knew. At first he was taken aback by the sudden tumble of words and jargon – but Olaf was a man who had seen men lose their minds on the battlefield and start speaking in tongues, and if he felt any sort of annoyance with his guest his face didn’t show it. For her part, Nakara was baldly staring, eyebrows up in surprise. Where was this coming from..? She had known his father was a military man as well, though perhaps not the full extent of their relationship, but she had never heard him speak this way and never thought she would. It… didn’t really suit him, though she was impressed with the lingo. Nakara had, of course, neglected to go to war at any point until the peasant’s revolt, and even then it had only been to prove to herself that she could be more than what she was. It hadn’t worked. It had taken a disaster of an entirely different calibre and nature to persuade the stubborn Besschentyil heiress to change her ways. When at last Modeste finished his frantic dialogue and began to stutter, and sink in a way, Olaf’s confusion turned to concern – but before he could say anything, Modeste abruptly turned and left. For a moment, Nakara’s eyes met his, and he nodded, as though he seemed to understand. He flapped a hand at her, and she wasted no time going to see to her friend. It wasn’t that Olaf completely understood, though he thought he did. Clearly, this young man had suffered horribly during some conflict or another, and the general’s rigidity must have triggered some sort of traumatic response. As a man with one son scarred from war and another emotionally destroyed by it, Olaf was far more sympathetic than poor Modeste thought. ------------------------ A moment later Nakara was on the floor, kneeling with Modeste in her arms, propped up by her knee. She had caught him just before he hit the floor, and now, trying not to draw too much undue attention, held her free hand in the air and snapped her fingers loudly. It didn’t take long at all for someone to come running, and together lady and servant brought the poor distraught man into a side room. Nakara laid him on a sofa. “Prop his feet up,” Cosette said through a thick accent, and Nakara did so. Cosette returned with smelling salts, and Nakara fetched a carafe of brandy. ”Monsiour? Monsiour?” Cosette called to Modeste softly, waving the salts under his nose. “He’s coming around.” “Hey you,” Nakara returned and knelt next to the sofa with a gentle smile, and held out a glass of brandy. “You okay?” |
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| Duchess | Sep 2 2016, 10:12 PM Post #10 |
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This was not the first and would likely not be the last time Modeste slowly swam to consciousness reclining on a couch wafting smelling salts provided by the servantry. As the golden haired Cossette came into focuse before his eyes Modeste smiled softly at her and recalled Nakara's words about how she had the best smile in the place. In this moment he felt inclined to agree. When Nakara's voice reached his ears and he realized it was not a memory this time the horror of everything that had just transpired flooded to the forefront of his mind and Modeste groaned and lay back down holding an arm over his head. “I do not suppose...” Modeste hesitated before asking his question, knowing full well the answer. 'I do not suppose that this has all been a horrid dream and you are about to tell me that I fainted from sunstroke as we walked towards the house?” Modeste sighed heavily knowing the answer already and continued. “If it is not then I dare say I am not alright. I would rather instead profess that I am to die of shame and embarassment and bequeath the care of my estate to you. Clearly your hands are far more capable than mine. Do tell my mother she may keep my clothes. I dare say they will do you no justice.” The fact that Nakara had seen his incredible display of cowardice only made the matters worse, and were it not for her presence there he likely would have continued to wallow in shame and self pitty on the couch but doubted that doing so would win him any favor in her eyes. For some reason, this mattered tremendously to him and so instead of continuing to pity himself upon her furniture he sat upright and fanned himself gently with one hand before beginning to absently straighten his hair with the other. “We have a habit of finding me in a state in drawing rooms like this don't we Nakara?” he remarked remembering when he had last beeseeched her help in stalking one of her charges. The memory of the night that followed caused a soft smile to dance across his lips for a moment before fading away. “Well, what now?” He asked after a moment, at a loss as for how to proceede from here. Back home in Soto, fainting was usually the end of his days activities and the next step would be to burry himself in his private quarters ringing for his staff to bring him paperwork in bed. |
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| Nakara Besschentyil | Sep 2 2016, 10:48 PM Post #11 |
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@$^#$^%!!!!!
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Nakara dropped her chin in her hand and waited for him to get it all out of his system. Cosette politely excused herself and left to return to her duties, leaving the two alone again. Looked like Taras was wrong about bonding time. “You know, you’re not the first person to slip up in front of someone’s dad,” She offered, smiling. “If he was displeased, you’d know, trust me.” Talk turned to other times. Better times, perhaps. "Heh... we used to find me drowning in bottles, too." The smile turned a bit wistful: those careless days of scooping hapless noblemen in her arms and making off with them like a jungle elf finding his mate, not worrying about anything other than the fact that her eyebrows itched from plucking and making sure he didn’t hit his head on the banister when he swooned. Somehow it made her feel horribly sad to remember that time – even though there was little stopping it from happening again. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, and somehow it turned quickly from bittersweet nostalgia to for a moment the distinct feeling that something was very, very wrong. She made a quick glance over her shoulder, thinking someone was there, but of course they were alone. The fear faded and she turned back. “Well,” The woman mused, forgetting the feeling as it fled her. “Now we pick up, dust ourselves off, and continue our tour.” A pause. “I’m pretty sure dad thinks you’re traumatized from something, so he’ll probably end up apologizing to you at some point. But, the best way to impress this family is to show that you might have fallen, but you can get back up again.” She smiled. “It’s really not all that bad. Another family, maybe, but there’s no need to feel quite that self-conscious around him. You obviously haven’t met his sons.” It didn’t feel like quite enough. A month ago she wouldn’t have even noticed it, but now Nakara felt rather more self-conscious (which, in retrospect, was a very good thing), more inclined to listen instead of talk. She hopped up onto the sofa and sat facing him, pulling her feet up. Ylsa had always said that a good friend knew when to ask, and when to listen. “Was it your dad? I mean, remembering about him?” Edited by Nakara Besschentyil, Sep 2 2016, 10:51 PM.
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| Duchess | Sep 2 2016, 11:44 PM Post #12 |
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The words she had said so far made sense, even if the did only little to ease his bruised pride and lighten his burden of shame. Modeste was nothing if not an expert at facing people he had fainted in front of and acting as if nothing had happened. Though the thought of General Olaf apologizing to him over the matter seemed uncomfrotable at best. Modeste wondered if it was fair to call anything he had been through a significant trauma. Especially considering he had seen soldiers wounded far more and come back in far worse shape. Some of them had come back in body but not in mind. He was fortunate. Perhaps he could find a way to explain... or perhaps it was better just to let the matter lie for now. Modeste felt his cheeks flush ever so slightly as Nakara moved to sit beside him on the couch. They were friends, and like so many of his friends she was a female. The action itself should be nothing out of the ordinairy and yet a small part of him felt nervous and aprehensive in all the best ways that she had decided to sit so close to him. As his eye watched how her hair fell over her shoulder and the way the light from the window shone on her face, Modeste was shocked out of distraction by Nakara's question. Reflexively he looked away and stared straight ahead tight lipped and pondering. The question had been simple, almost too broad; but he knew what she had meant and it was a question he had asked himself more times than he could count. Modeste took it upon himself to pour a small glass of brandy for himself and offer the opportunity for one to Nakara before taking his own. After a sip he knew that he had stalled long enough and though he had not yet found the answer, he found the words that mattered most. “I... loved my father.” he finally explained, still looking across the room rather than towards his enchanting company. Looking into the empty room helped him to draw on his thoughts and memories, and he knew if he looked at Nakara directly he would rather burry them all away again and let his mind linger on thoughts of her instead. “I knew, or rather know, he loved me too. He loved all of us, my mother and sister and I. That said, at times when I was small, it was hard to tell. He wanted what he thought was best for us, and tried to ensure that we lived up to that vision. He was... strict.” Modeste paused and sipped his drink again, feeling the burn wash over his tongue and down his throat. The smell of it reminding him of a few conversations he'd had with his father after dinner when he was small. “I feel to blame him for the way that I am now would be unjust, unfair, and untrue. Though, to say he had no hand in it would be dishonest as well.” Finally he faced Nakara feeling that as long as he was telling her things he seldom spoke of with anyone, it would be best to do so while being able to look her in the eye. “My father wanted a proud, strong, confident, soldier in a son, and did his best to prepare me for that world. It was not a world my spirit took to naturally and it took effort and pain to mold me in that image. When he... when he passed that world came calling and I answered. He had prepared me as best he could and so I became one among a quiver of arrows, ready to be fired upon a target. I was loosed and loosed again, wounding the enemy during the time when time went on for too long. One day, at long last, one of their arrows finally found me.” Modeste reached up and tapped below his eyepatch with his free hand where the faintest of scars could still be seen protruding from beneath the patch. The scar felt more honest than the hidden eye, for that eye had been healed with magic and he had regained his sight, but continued to live the lie that he had not. “After that, I was home, with no commander and no father to anchor me into that world. I have always been more comfortable around women, perhaps a product of having been raised mostly by my mother, so when confronted with another man, particularly a strong military man like your father, I suppose I become like that child I was once again. Expecting to be pulled back into that world and forced to fall in line with a man I can be, but am not.” Modeste looked away from Nakara again, taking a long sip of his drink and feeling that burn once more. The effects of the alcohol loosened his tongue enough to allow him to ponder alloud a little farther. “The man I am not is often the man I must be. While a burden, it is one I thank my father for, because without that burden there would be so much less I could do for those I care about. Had he not prepared me for war, had I been called, I would have likely shattered inestad of chipped.” Modeste shook himself out of the fog of introspection and tried to find a lighter subject. He nearly succeeded. “If only he had been open enough to see how desperately Alexis wanted to be what he wanted me to be. He would have been better off switching the roles of his son and daughter.” And maybe so many things would have turned out differently Modeste could not help but think afterwards. He let a lighthearted laugh escape his mouth following his words, but just like Olaf's laugh, it carried the trace of pain. |
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| Nakara Besschentyil | Sep 3 2016, 12:29 AM Post #13 |
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@$^#$^%!!!!!
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Olaf had come to the room to do as Nakara had thought he would, but stopped with his hand half-raised to knock. They were talking about something, or rather Modeste was. He assumed it was Nakara listening. Normally he would have immediately backed off and waited for some other time rather than eavesdrop like a common…. No, like one of his sons. But he had to admit to himself that he was curious about this visitor: Nakara had never brought a young man home, though Olga often hoped that she would. It hurt again to think that she would have been so delighted with meeting Modeste. Perhaps it was that which made him stay and listen. Or maybe he overheard about fathers, what fathers wanted, what their sons wanted. Either way he stayed. He considered how it may have felt, from Modeste’s perspective, but found he was unable to, and so considered it from his own. If my own father had tried to prevent me from becoming a soldier, I likely would have felt the same way. For the first time he was forced to stop and consider such a viewpoint: there was no one to argue with against it, or challenge it, or invalidate it. How, then, had Yuri felt when he tried to prevent the lad from running back off into battle with his brothers? How had Roman felt when he had sent him away, when the boy was so young and acted so brave to please him? How had Nakara felt when he refused to be patient with her, when he spurned all of her attempts to get closer, simply because he didn’t like the way she lived her life? Perhaps I’ve been too exacting in my standards. He considered. He hadn’t heard it all, but he had heard enough, and retired to his study once more to contemplate these new and profoundly unsettling thoughts. Inside, Nakara sipped her brandy with careful restraint. One half mouthful, swallow, count to 120… The instructions ran on their own tracks, independent of her focus on the conversation, but she was clearly more careful with alcohol than she had been previously. When Modeste broke eye contact she did too, partly for her own comfort as well as his. Something in the look he had given did…. something. It was a feeling she understood, but had never had. The urge to raise the glass and quaff it on instinct was overwhelming, but she tightened her grip on it and held it in place. …30, 31, 32… As he finished, several thoughts crossed her mind, not the least of which was her understanding of the feeling of trying to force a square peg into a round case. Sometimes she wondered if maybe things could have been different: Taras was so much more magically inclined than she was, and she preferred bashing heads, but Brennia had insisted on sorcery – she wouldn’t have her daughter cracking skulls like a lowly common barbarian, but such a job was well-suited to useless men. Men who were only useless because their women made them that way. But it wasn’t about her. She met his eyes, then looked at some distant point on the wall, trying to remember something useful from all those counselling sessions she had had with Ylsa. She had paid so little attention to them, but she remembered the woman’s constant, patient reassurances, and wished she had been more attentive. Next time, she would be. “Maybe the methods weren’t the greatest,” She thought out loud, unused to this sort of introspection, “But… they did good, you know. Your dad and your mom. You turned out well: you’re generous, thoughtful, your capacity for loving others is…” She laughed: “…way greater than mine. The world doesn’t need more fighters or sorcerers. The world needs more people like you, people who are willing to go past the shit, even the shit with their own parents, to find the good stuff everyone else misses. And I think you’re braver than you realize. Dad says courage isn’t an absence of fear, it’s the ability to act in spite of it. I know you’ve got it: I’ve seen it.” She looked to him with a fond smile, and took his hand. “…and I think if your dad could have seen it, he’d have been damn proud. I know I am.” Her heart was hammering, an uncomfortable feeling she rarely experienced and tried to avoid. Once more she broke eye contact, but did not let go of his hand. It was as much for her own security as his. |
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| Duchess | Sep 3 2016, 11:15 AM Post #14 |
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Modeste first nodded in agreement with Nakara’s words before they took a more flattering turn and his cheeks visibly reddened. His stomach simultaneously churned and fluttered. A mingleing of embarrassed flattery and conflicted guilt. Was he really as she thought? Or was he merely playacting as he did so well? Was Nakara right? Or was she simply as fooled as everyone else? Modeste settled on a soft smile, rememberiong some of the last moments his family had shared with his father. He had been fortunate to hear from the man, that despite their differences, he was proud of his son, his daughter, and his wife. Modeste had not been left to wonder as so many other sons had been. Though he sometimes wondered if that sentiment would still be true if his father knew the truth of all he had done, in moments like this it was easy to believe that he might. When the conversation had ended Modeste was no longer so drawn up in the thoughts of his family that he could continue to be oblivious to the hand holding his own and how neither one of them had seen fit to release the other. His heart started to hammer in his chest and he felt as if something wonderful was happening. The moment seemed like some fragile instant of magic wherein if he dared look upon it directly, might shatter before his gaze. For an instant he was frozen terrified that the moment, whatever it was, might leave him if he did nothing, yet aware that the wrong something might just as easily steal it from him. “I…I feel you sell yourself short Nakara.” Modeste’s tongue found words despite how incredibly dry his mouth and throat suddenly felt. “I-I believe you have a far greater capacity to love than you realize.” He glanced towards her and felt that his timing could not have been worse as his face grew all the redder and he quickly in fear searched for a shield to hide behind. “I mean, l-l-look at how quickly you wished to take care of the girls!” a nervous twitter of a laugh followed behind his explanation and Modeste quickly looked away and downed the entirety of the rest of his drink. Despite the alcohol’s best efforts to dull his senses he was still acutely aware of every fiber of his hand that still held hers and was beginning to sweat in the most embarrassing fashion. Desperately he tried to will his pores to stop while not stopping to wonder why it mattered so much. “Well then!” he announced, placing his glass upon a lace doily that rested on a wooden table, so it would not leave a ring. “Perhaps it is time we get on with the rest of that tour? I would be delighted to see the rest of your home.” Modeste stood, and as a ruse to maintain this moment of contact, used their linked hands to assist Nakara to her feet. While it had the added effect of finding an excuse to hold her hand a few moments longer likely would bring an end to that gesture once she had risen. Alas like an opera, a play, or a sunset, all beautiful things were bound to end. |
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| Nakara Besschentyil | Sep 3 2016, 01:37 PM Post #15 |
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@$^#$^%!!!!!
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The fluster returned to his voice and the flush to his face, but this time, it only served to encourage her. Now she understood what the something the look he had previously given her, combined as it was with sudden shyness, meant. It was a game the sorceress had never played, but was beginning to find quite fun and rewarding: the courting gentleman/teasing lady game. Everyone wants to feel loved and desired, Someone once said. Likely it was the counsellor again, during one of their discussions about relationships, a concept Nakara used to struggle with. It’s not wrong to enjoy that feeling, even if the desire comes from someone who’s less-than-desirable themselves. But when it comes from someone you really care about, it can be the most wonderful feeling in the world. And it was happening to her. She wouldn’t have thought it in a million years. The boys were going to lose their shit. “I-I believe you have a far greater capacity to love than you realize.” For once she considered the idea. Maybe he was right – her capacity for love wasn’t wide, but it was deep. There weren’t many people she chose to care too much about; her brother, her adopted family, a tiny handful of friends, and Modeste were really the only ones. But…. There were the girls. Indeed, she would have walked through fire for them. At first it had been because Modeste cared about them so much, but as some people were wont to do, the Academy girls had wormed their way into her heart and made a little hammock there. “Hm… maybe.” There was a smile as she actually thought about it. She raised her glass for only the third time since she had gotten it, and took another small swallow. One, two, three, four… But, abruptly, her friend stood up and helped her to her feet as well, and the smile became a grin. Yes – they had had a nice personal talk, and he had taken the initiative to end it when it had become too much for his comfort – the first successful listening session, concluded perfectly, almost by the books! Though it made her feel a little silly, she was rather proud with such an accomplishment. It was a personal marker for her to see how far she had come, not to mention the reward of actually, properly being there for someone. Time slowed down temporarily for Nakara though when she set her glass down, still half-full (another new development). ”You should always leave the table a little thirsty,” Grey had said. ”This way we appreciate what we have in our glasses a little bit more next time, so we’ll savor it longer too.” Her eyes trained on it a little too intensely. Thankfully, though, her partner in crime was even more distracting than alcohol. “Righto,” She agreed, and their hands did part – but only a moment later, she linked arms with him again. She felt a bit presumptuous doing such a thing, but… it felt nice, and she wasn’t quite ready to give up physical contact yet. She took him around to the places he hadn’t seen yet, including the gardens out back. It was actually less of a garden than it was a series of winding trails and paths that led to different spots: a large boulder above a running stream and pond full of fishes and small turtles, little groves of blossoming and willow trees, beds of flowers, and three different gazebos that looked out over the various sections. Olaf had had these trails and gardens made for his wife, and Nakara wouldn’t be surprised if someday they saw her ghost wandering around them. Not today, though: today there was already the clash of blades and wooping shouts of young men deep within the trails, and she followed them to find all five of the Naumenko sons in a clearing. Grey and Yuri were practising their swordsmanship, the eldest brother looking rather a lot like his father and already with one of two streaks of silver in his hair, save for the more relaxed quality of his face. Yuri, of course, was impossible not to pick out with his fiery hair, part of which covered the heavy scarring on the left side of his face and one permanently-staring, milky-white eye. Off to the side, Konstantin – another close resemblance to the father, but with longer hair and a very obvious devil-may-care attitude – and Dmitri, the dashing son of a bitch, were taking a break and telling jokes, while slight, unassuming Roman sat off to the side with his legs pulled up, watching Grey and Yuri practise. His blue eyes, though, were blank and void of emotion or reaction, until he saw his sister and Modeste approach. “…so I said ‘try that again – this time without the pickle’!” As Dmitri and Konstantin laughed, Roman looked over, painfully slowly, then slid out of his position and approached them, giving his sister a silent hug. “Hey buddy, how you feeling today?” She asked after returning the embrace. There was no answer of course. Roman’s eyes, still moving in slow-motion, took in Modeste, but sidestepped and hid partially behind Nakara shortly after. With a slightly sad, slightly touched smile, she reached behind her and gave her youngest brother’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “This is Modeste. He’s really very nice. He’s a very dear friend of mine.” Roman peeked out from behind her arm. “………Mo….. deste…?” He stepped out briefly, gave the visitor a tiny, polite bow, then hid behind his sister again. Nakara was impressed. “He hardly ever talks,” She remarked, smiling. “Good job, buddy. This is Roman, the youngest. And best looking.” In response, her brother shook his head, dark hair flying, and buried his face in her shoulder from behind. She laughed. “Aw come on, you know it’s true.” ”And what am I, chopped liver?” Dmitri called. “Actually, no,” Came her response. “I can stomach chopped liver.” “Ohhh!” Konstantin jeered from the sidelines. “Shots fired!” The other two stopped their practise when they heard extra voices, setting down their training arms and taking the opportunity to dry the sweat from their bodies and socialize for a bit, glad for the break. They each shook hands as they were introduced -- Roman, of course, stayed behind her. “All right, this is Grey. He’s the old man, keeps the rest of us in line. This is Yuri, the dedicated if somewhat sarcastic philosopher,” Yuri actually laughed out loud at this as though it was the best joke he’d heard all day, and some of his tension seemed to disappear a bit as he shook Modeste’s hand. “This is Konstantin, Grey’s dark half, and this…” She sighed theatrically. “Is Dmitri.” Dmitri waited a minute for her to say something about him, but she pointedly didn’t, which only made him laugh. “Guys, this is Lord Modeste Bellamy.” “Ahhh yes,” Dmitri ventured, eager to make everyone as uncomfortable as possible. “The star-crossed—OW!” Nakara had promptly cuffed him upside the face, ears burning. “The star-crossed what now?” “I don’t know, I seem to have forgotten.” His smirk said the opposite. He would get her later, that was for sure. She frowned and squinted at him suspiciously. But by them, Grey laughed, and spoke to their guest. “They’re always bickering. Actually, we start to really worry when they stop. Welcome to our home.” He was the first one to say it, incidentally. “And welcome to our secret hiding place.” “It’s not that big of a secret,” Nakara put in, ignoring Dmitri for the time being. “Everyone knows about it.” “Yes, but it sounds more impressive when you add ‘secret’.” Yuri said, moving to get his shirt. His voice betrayed no humor even though he was running with the joke. “At any rate,” Grey continued, clearly used to being interrupted. “I hope you’ve felt welcome so far. We really do like having company.” “Yeah, and she’s never brought a guy home before!” It was Konstantin this time, bald and shameless, which spurred Nakara into tackling and wrestling him. Turned out she was more than a match for him and had him half on the ground within moments while Dmitri cheered on the sidelines. Roman was busy staring at Modeste – namely, his eyepatch. "What's under....?" |
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| Duchess | Sep 3 2016, 03:17 PM Post #16 |
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The fated moment when he had to release her hand came quickly but in the next the cool comfort of propriety and manners allowed him to steal a moment almost as close as she took his arm almost reflexively. Modeste didn’t dare dwell on why it mattered so, but enjoyed the moment and felt in a small way as if he were getting away with some innocent mischief, finding delight in a secret none but him knew. The two had proceeded arm in arm through the estate and Modeste commented and complimented where his interest and manners dictated he should. He had thought in Madrid that he and his family understood wealth, but the personal estate of the Naumenko family was something else entirely. Were he one to give in to such notions as class determining where friends could be drawn from, he would realize that Nakara and her kin were a league above his own, even before the war had taken most of his family’s holdings from them. As they wound through the gardens he could not help but be reminded of that home he had lost. While Nakara showed him the many features he could not help but imagine his girls running amok within them. One gazebo would be a perfect place for drawing classes. The wide array of plants that were not common to Soto were a perfect chance to further their knowledge of botany. Ideas like this continued to come to him until he realized the sounds of clashing blades were not his imaginings of fencing lessons upon the grounds but rather real sounds. Ah, the brothers. Already he could feel his body growing tense yet again and his voice catching once more in his throat. Certianly these were every bit the kinds of sons that Modeste’s father had expected him to become. Save, perhaps, for the gentle Roman. As the later greeted his sister and fearfully Modeste as well, Modeste could not help but think of him as a large child for he surely seemed as such. Being the first to greet him, he would likely be the easiest for Modeste to meet as well. The slow calm moment was not long for this world as soon the other brothers descended like a whirlwind. Playful ribbing, and banter were tossed too and fro and Modeste did his best to pair each name with its respective face as it was presented before him. Grey the eldest, looks most like his father. Yuri, bright hair, injured, we’ve exchanged letters. Konstantin, close with Grey? Dimitiri, dashing rake, best watched closely if Nakara’s treatment is any judge of character. As if to punctuate this final thought Dimitri’s words were cut short by an unexpected burst from Nakara that caught Modeste entirely off guard. He had nearly squeaked in surprise and was eternally thankful to all the heavens that he had not made such a noise before this boisterous band of brothers. Likely he would never have heard the end of it. Modeste barely had time to guess at what the two were intentionally not mentioning but had a strange feeling he should be embarrassed. Grey took the spotlight away from their exchange by addressing Modeste directly. He welcomed him to their home and their hideaway, and Modeste tried to answer. “Th-th-th” but before he could stammer out a full word the conversation continued to whirl around him for which at the moment, he was grateful. Watching the human siblings and their banter, it was easy to see what Nakara had taken away from them in her own personality and how at home she felt amongst her band of brothers. It brought a small smile to Modeste’s lips and although it did not calm his nerves a great deal made him feel ever so slightly more drawn to them. ”Yeah, and she’s never brought a guy home before!” Konstantin presented the entire situation in a light that Modeste had not considered and it gave him great pause. Before he could glance towards Nakara to see if he perhaps meant what he might have, she launched herself at the brazen brother and became a flurry of fists and dirt. Perhaps to the more enlightened that reaction might have been telling; but to Modeste it was just as bewildering as the statement that incited it had been. Left dazed and reeling from the tempest of activity, there was a small comfort in realizing the brawl had drawn all but one set of eyes away from him. Modeste had thought Roman merely watching him with caution like the frightened fragile soul he seemed to be; but the timid creature spoke in a small voice barely audible over the roar of cheering, jeering and fisticuffs. The question surprised Modeste, as the questions of children were wont to do to even the wariest of adults. For a moment he hesitated weighing his options. Roman seemed like such a harmless creature that for some reason or another had been driven to an even more meek and withdrawn state than Modeste himself and if he were to guess, likely had less means to escape it than the councilor did. For some reason, the casual lies, omitted and halved truths that came with his everyday life felt wrong to be dispensed on the frail creature. The idea of sharing the same falsehoods with Roman felt similar to throwing dirt in the face of a unicorn or small rabbit, and Modeste could not bring himself to do it. As he raised one hand to his eyepatch Modeste raised the index finger of his other hands to his lips in a silent shushing gesture. He raised the patch for Roman to see that which lay beneath. His eye which was open to the world a striking blue and the other that was so oft hidden, an unusual vivid violet. The traces of a scar were slightly more evident beneath the patch and without makeup to hide them but aside from the faint lines in his flesh his hidden eye was as whole as the other. Having given Roman a chance to see, Modeste quickly tugged the covering back down and quietly answered “A secret.” He then turned back towards the others, certain they had seen nothing. Seeing that the row was finally winding down, Modeste braced himself for the flurry that would likely return. |
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| Nakara Besschentyil | Sep 13 2016, 03:59 PM Post #17 |
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@$^#$^%!!!!!
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While the others jeered, scuffled, or just rolled their eyes in the background, Roman hung on the reveal, and his eyes lit up a little – just a little, but enough – when he saw the color of the hidden eye. “Pretty.” He commented. Prettier than Nakara and Taras’s, in fact. When it was revealed to be a secret, Roman smiled (a rarity) and nodded. He was likely the absolute best person to keep such a secret, as he never spoke to anyone else, and seemed happy that someone trusted him with one. Modeste had thusly already won the boy’s approval and friendship. The rest were a different matter, save for one: Yuri waited until the half-elf was finished speaking with Roman (he hadn’t seen anything but Modeste’s back and the boy’s smile), and moseyed up beside him while Nakara had pinned her older brother. She grinned, and extended a hand, her thumb pointing out towards the side. Dmitri and Grey turned their own thumbs down. “Looks like you died,” She laughed, and hopped off to her feet, helping Konstantin back up as well. Her left arm now throbbed painfully, but she regretted nothing. Yuri spoke quietly, softly, also not wanting too much attention from his rowdy siblings. “The news from Soto is on everyone’s mind these days. I’m glad to see you’re all right. I was worried.” Across the way, Konstantin was trying to bicker the match out with Nakara, who merely laughed and maintained that he lost. “I hope your girls are all right. Have you any place to stay?” Whether or not he was volunteering, or aiming to volunteer, was unclear, for about then he was interrupted. “You look a little young to have girls,” Said Dmitri, walking past and happening to have overheard. Yuri glowered his best milky-eyed glower. “That’s because you didn’t hear the rest of the conversation, because you walked in and interrupted.” “Oops. So what were you talking about?” “Things that are none of your business. Go away, Dmitri.” Dmitri grinned and continued walking, giving Yuri a slight elbow that said ‘I’ll get you later’. He enjoyed teasing his younger brother, simply because Yuri never played along and that made the dialogue hilarious. “Sorry about that,” Yuri said to Modeste after he had left. Roman had been hiding behind his flame-haired brother, apparently finding Dmitri just too overwhelming, and peeked out from under Yuri’s arm to watch Modeste as though fascinated by something he couldn’t see. “He suffers from a deplorable excess of personality. Nakara seems to have grown out of her scuffles with him, though.” A pause. “So yes, the girls are—?” “—we’re working on that,” Nakara offered, having just walked up to the two of them. Yuri said nothing more and stopped his questions, simply nodding and trusting that the two of them would figure it out. Instead, he swapped to a different dialogue while Nakara tried to beat the dirt out of her rumpled clothes. “What of your family, then?” Yuri paused just after he’d said it, realizing that not everyone was lucky enough to have a family like he did. Still, he had already asked, and so waited for the possible repercussions. |
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| Duchess | Feb 18 2017, 04:25 PM Post #18 |
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The softspoken Yuri was next to draw Modeste’s attention. He expressed his concerns for the state of the land which Modeste had fled, and that place to which he knew he would have to return. He shared good-hearted concerns and finally ended with the all important question to which Modeste himself was still seeking an answer. Again, his conversation with one brother was interrupted by another. The rakish Dimitri spouted an uninformed question and was quickly scolded by his quieter brother. Yuri’s questions were repeated and again Modeste was spared the trouble of an answer when Nakara provided one for him. Still, he soon realized he’d yet to speak an honest word to any of the brothers and could feel the threat of his stutter and the potential for endless teasing on its behalf looming on the horizon. Was Nakara embarrassed by this? Perhaps she was trying to protect him from the more boisterous of her brothers. Such shepherding would not last were his girls to move here, he’d have to open his mouth and speak his mind at some point. ”What of your family then?” Yuri’s question was innocent, and this time there was no motion, for a change, that anyone might be intent to interrupt. His reprieve was over and it was time for Modeste to speak. He felt his face flush and his throat tighten, as the seconds passed they seemed like ages and he knew the longer he paused the more awkward anything he said would seem. His eye darted around wildly for some miracle to save his face and finally he found it. Seeing two swords protruding from the ground, Modeste made a plan, closed his eye for a moment to focus, exhaled, and began. When his eyes opened again his whole body seemed to relax. Rather than politely look the man in the eye as he answered him as he would normally do, he strode towards the discarded swords with an uncommon swagger of confidence in his stride. “Mother is well and with the girls, all will be sorted soon.” He answered casually as he arrived at the abandoned weapons one hand reached out and rested on the hilt of a sword. Pulling it from the ground he absently tested its heft and gave a slow experimental swing. “It would seem in this house the law of strength is a common vocabulary. I’ll not be left out and mollycoddled simply because I am a fresh face.” Looking up from the sword and tossing back his hair in one gesture, a teasing and confident smirk played across his lips. Taking several steps away from the other blade still protruding from the ground he drew a line in the dirt with the tip of this borrowed sword and stated. “There will be time enough for talk after I have proven myself.” Holding out his sword in one hand, and securing his other hand behind his back he looked at them once more. Modeste’s confident smirk grew into a grin as he issued a challenge in the form of a question. “Which of you troublesome scoundrels will test me?” |
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