GoldenCat/BeautifulThings
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Beautiful Things
Selina de Windia: She was sitting in an antechamber, greatcloak wrapped about her. And remembering what happened a bit before.
We...didn't actually do anything, but...
One furative glance at Vorpal, out the corner of her eye.
It feels so odd now.
Not in the way it had before. This was, different? It shouldn't feel like that. She shouldn't be embarassed. Her wings shift irritably behind her as she contemplates this.
But I bet she feels weirder than me.
The naughty child in Selina got some pleasure out of that, at least. She should probably have never donned the perfect face for a fight, not with the Pale Angel. But then, one of them might be dead now if she hadn't.
"I wonder what...we'll have to choose from." Selina offers quietly, not looking at the other woman. "Hope they fit."
Vorpal: She's leaning against the wall, her arms held tightly under her breasts, her eyes closed. An odd crease on her brow betrays that she isn't feeling comfortable with the other woman's presence either. Perhaps her choice of attire for this evening is as much for protection against Selina as it is courtesy for the hosting officer - even the dark, unmarked uniform she is wearing cannot conceal what kind of a woman she is underneath, but it is the most covering and chaste thing she has worn for a long time.
"I don't know", she murmurs in reply after a moment, only her mouth moving. "It shouldn't be too difficult to change something to fit your wings."
Selina de Windia: "I didn't mean my wings." She doesn't actually say the rest, though. Iria probably had different measurements from either of them, when it came down to it.
I should have gone farther, why didn't I?
Because Alexander was there? No. That sort of thing had never stopped her in the past.
Fool girl, you know what it is.
She did. And it irritated her. Well, what was done was done. There would be more time later to sort it out properly.
Now where is our hostess?
Iria: As if to answer Selina’s unspoken question, a familiar voice echoes through the antechamber. "I trust neither of you had difficulty finding your way?"
Above them, at the top of broad flight of stairs to the second floor, stands Iria Lumanti. Gone is the standard wear of armor or serviceable male clothing. Instead a low cut corset hugs her chest, the display of her cleavage masked by a net-woven shawl wrapped around her shoulders. A shield-patterned skirt blossoms from her waist, cling just enough to her hips to make their sway evident as she comes down the stairs to greet her guests. Iria’s long hair is piled neatly to the top of her head, two long sticks of dark wood running through the carefully tied knot of hair.
The entire outfit is certainly well made, yet not quite the extravagant style almost standard to nobility. Instead it carries more the impression of a matronly house wife, in control and at ease within her home.
Selina de Windia: Hmph. Selina thinks as the woman of the house descends the stairs, her gaze moving smoothly to her.
She catches looks, but put me in that and so would I.
"No trouble, no." Selina replies, suddenly wanting one the of the grand gowns her mother had worn. Not Dynastic fashion, she had said. No pants underneath.
My mother always was somewhat uncomfortable with petticoats, from what I remember.
Vorpal: She already draws breath for the reply, but decides against it on the last moment. Yes, she knew Selina hadn't meant the wings, but...
They had stood so high and proud on her chest, so firm and unyielding, drawing the fabric of her leotard so taut. The smooth length of her legs, the arc of her hips, the --
She lets the air come out from her lungs, slowly, not to betray it to the other woman. It's infuriating how she finds herself conscious of her every move, not daring to even shift her weight without thinking about how Selina would interpret it.
Well, she thinks glumly opening her eyes slightly to see her own chest, It's not like I'm a half-grown girl either.
She looks up at the sound of the familiar voice. Oh? she raises a mental eyebrow. Preparing to outshine us already?
Small chance there, she cannot help but to add, with a small, dark glance at Selina from the corner of her eyes.
"The directions were accurate enough", she responds, allowing her hands to fall to her sides.
Iria: "Then I am pleased." The Captain smiles pleasantly to both, inclining her head in way of a welcoming greeting. This would be an… interesting night. "Are either of you hungry? Thirsty?"
The Captain clapped her hands and a young woman came out of the shadows of a doorway bellow the stairs, dressed in what could pass as rustic finery. The girl would have been quite pretty, had it not been for the bandages wrapped around half her face. Their edges were stained with a shade of rust, but her one remaining eye glinted with pride even as she kept it averted demurely to the floor.
Iria placed a hand on the girls shoulder in a familiar fashion. "Elloette will attend to you, if you need anything. She, the seamstress, and most of the kitchen staff are the only ones about tonight I’m afraid. I made my husband vacate for the evening with the rest of the male staff."
Selina de Windia: "Ah, so such alluring damsels as us would not be espied while changing, I take it?" Selina flicks her glance to Vorpal, momentarily looking over her before the turquoise eyes move back to Iria. Too late for that kind of hiding really, Selina had already seen the Pale Angel in less. It didn't take any imagination at all to picture her in less, either. "Your hospitality is appreciated, Lady Iria, though for the moment I am not in want of food or drink."
Or nothing at all.
...Haven't I seen that as well?
She had! But she had done nothing untoward that day.
Vorpal: Rather, so that no male lives would be harmed when the catfight begins, Vorpal thinks, but manages to hold her tongue again. Somehow, it wouldn't feel the same as before. Not at all.
Briefly her eyes move to the servant girl, and at the bandages. The sign of war - bystands always get hurt.
"Nothing for me, either, thank you", she says aloud, matter-of-factly. "Perhaps we should take care of the troublesome business first before partaking anything. Then we can dine without a worry."
Iria: "So my husband doesn't babble and make a fool out of himself, Culwyeh. Like he had when we first met and as he does whenever he chances to meet beautiful women socially." Iria smiled warmly to mention him and tipped her head towards a large painting hanging on the wall near by. It was of Iria, though a much younger Iria with firmer features and most lustrous hair, standing arm and arm with a broad shouldered man. His skin was pale, almost bluish toned, speaking of Terrestrial blood somewhere in his lineage. Two children stood before them, both girls not even yet ten, beaming brightly at anyone who looked at the portrait. "He's a sweet man, but his tongue tends to work faster than his mind."
Iria stared at the portrait a moment longer, her eyes warmed but distant, as if unaware of the other two women or anything else in the household. Folding her arms bellow her chest and hugging them against herself, she let out a soft sigh and shook her head. Smiling in bemusement at some private thought.
"If you’re certain you’re both content then, I believe the Pale Angel is right. We should get started. If you’ll follow me?" Iria turned around gracefully and began making her way back up the stairs. "I’m rather looking forward to this. It’s been a while since I had female company, beyond servants."
Selina de Windia: Selina raises an eyebrow at that. Well, everyone had some sentimental streak somewhere. She was sure her scheming mistress did as well.
Probably bitter and full of misplaced lust, though.
That was, afterall, a deathlord's lot, it seemed.
"Ah, I see." She replies belatedly, then shrugs. "Let us hope we don't fight too much." Her tone is a little flippant at this, but not too much so.
Iria: The Captain cast a glance back over her shoulder, delicate brows arching. "Did you come here expecting a fight?"
Selina de Windia: "No more than I expect a fight anywhere else." Selina replies smoothly.
Vorpal: Behind them, Vorpal follows silently, and raises an even more silent gloved hand to touch her forehead. This is promising to be a long evening...
Iria: "I'll take that to mean you expect a battle wherever you go then." Iria smiled at her, her voice touched with sadness but not sarcasm. "You must be very lonely, Culwyeh."
Gowns were scattered across the bedroom. They sheeted the bed. They hung from curtain rods and door knobs. All of them rejected.
Iria proved to be quite fussy about what to dress the other women in, but set about dressing them up with an almost girlish glee. Her closet was large enough to give a substantial variety to pick from. But it had taken quite a while before she was satisfied with how they looked. Her seamstress, a hard-boned woman with a lean face and a right foot that looked only recently amputated, bitterly argued with her about nearly everything but always ended up conceding (grudgingly) in the end.
"Black." Iria told Vorpal matter-of-factly, holding up what appeared at the moment little more than a sheet of crushed velvet to the other womans chest. "Suits you. It contrasts beautifully with that pale skin of yours. But you need something more light dampening than that ghastly thing you wear everywhere. Something softer to contrast on the hardness of your muscle tone."
She leaned back and eyed the gown critically, before nodding. "Try this one on now. We'll see how it looks."
Vorpal: Frowning, the Pale Angel lifts the garment offered to her. "This bodice will be a bit tight", she observes, equally businesslike. "And I do not know about the shoulders, either. Hm."
She tilts her head slightly, her hair falling to the side. Abruptly she looks up at their hostess. "Do you have any accessories you could borrow? Something..." she twirls her hand in the air, as if groping for the correct word, "something... red."
Selina de Windia: "Some pale women don't like black, but usually those are blondes." Selina observes thoughtfully, then she pouts a bit. "But the other thing isn't so ghastly."
Iria: "The bodice can be adjusted." Iria answered sternly, returning to her closet to dig through the few remains. "She’ll look poor in red anyway. It’s too bright for her skin. She'll look like a signal fire. Black. It will make your skin glow! "
Vorpal: Vorpal looks briefly over at the Dark Angel, slightly bemused at her comment. Before her eyes can stray to the wrong places in Selina's being, however, she snatches her gaze back to Iria. "Yes, but the red is needed to highlight the black", she insists, following after the other woman. Fine velvet rustles in her hands, but there is a distinct expertise in how she is holding the garment, taking care not to crumple it. "Eardrops, brooches, belts, anything will do, but it will need a third color to contrast the two others. Red will look good against black and white, especially if you can find something that sparkles and holds the same shade as my eyes do. But no pendants", she shakes her head, firmly. "And no chokers. With a neckline this low, their eyes will never stray to the jewelry around the neck in any case..." A brief glance at Selina again, and then she adds, perhaps a bit lamely: "And... like you said, it doesn't look good against white skin."
Selina de Windia: "Hrm, I wonder if I ought to be elegant or sinful..." Selina muses, then turns her attention to the other two. "I've known a blonde or two who wanted to burn, though. They were fiery women, and not a one were dragons."
Vorpal: "Try white", Vorpal drops quickly -- too quickly for her to have really considered that reply. She doesn't even look up. "White, or blue with black and yellow."
Iria: It was sleek and snug, a daring dress inspired by an eastern design. The gown itself one long sinuous length of emerald green silk, embroidered with stylishly simple black images of birds in flight. The silk gripped her hips and left a dimpled impression of her navel. A long sash tied around her waist, helping keep the skirt drawn tight over her hips and thighs, while keeping it looser around her torso. The gown had no corset nor sleeves, though a short half-coat of matching colors hung on the mirror frame to accompany the gown. Instead it split into broad straps that covered her ample chest before narrowing at her shoulders, the design leaving no place for a brassier and no need of one as well. The two ends joined behind her neck. Two more straps formed crescents down from the neck, curving around her shoulder blades and joining together, leaving a triangle of skin bare between the neck and just barely missing the roots of her wings as they curved back outwards to rejoin the dress further down.
It displayed a generous portion of her shapely back and a teasing hint of cleavage, but managed to modestly remain within the realm of decency.
Standing behind the assassin, Iria gathered a handful of Selina’s long blond hair and held it upwards speculatively. "You should wear your hair up. Or over your shoulder." She attempted that, only to be shooed away by the seamstress. In the mirror, the Captain’s face peeked over the Winlandia’s shoulder, cheeks flushed and eyes twinkling cheerfully. She was enjoying this. A lot. It had been a long time since her daughters had been around to play dress-up with. Though, there was certainly no mistaking the two Exalted women for young girls. Iria’s eyes dropped momentarily to Selina’s cleavage in the mirror.
Certainly no mistaking them for that. A slender finger traced against the line of the Windian’s spine. "There is no reason to show that off if your hair hides it all night."
Selina de Windia: "Me, in white?" Selina asks with some bemusement. She dyed her wings white, that was usually all the interaction she would brook with the color. Yellow wouldn't look so good on her, perhaps blue. "White and black? Black and blue?"
Depends on the shade of blue, really.
That was certainly an eager suggestion from someone who was distant before.
Vorpal: "Why not white?" Vorpal blurts, then pauses, as if a bit startled at how this discussion is turning out. "It looks good on blonde hair", she concedes after a moment.
Selina de Windia: "Maybe for a wedding." Selina concedes, thinking for a moment, imagining some other situations she'd wear white Those weren't quite for discussion in polite company, though. And even for weddings, Blue was more traditional.
Polite company, well, whatever.
"Or for...some other things."
Iria: "White is a poor choice for this sort of party." Iria interjected from the closet, smiling in spite of neither women being able to see it. "Unless you enjoy making a target of yourself. White is a… special color, at mister Kurodona’s affairs."
"I have something better in mind for you, Culwyeh. As soon as I… Ah!" she suddenly cried in triumph, turning back with a length of green silk folded over her arm. Black shapes formed upon it, indistinct in pattern the way it was being held. Iria approached the Dark Angel and held it out towards her. "My husband bought this for me some time ago from a Guild merchant out of Winlandia. I’ve never worn it. Green isn’t particularly my favorite color. But you…" Stretching an arm towards the Windian, Iria tapped a finger against the emerald jewel set upon her throat. "Go well in it."
Selina de Windia: Selina gives Iria a curious look. "What does white do?" She asks, taking the green garment and looking it over. That was another problem: where was she going to put her hearthstone? That was not the kind of thing you left laying around.
"And call me Aine -- Culwyeh is the moniker attached to the woman who raises the tortured dead." Not that she had, lately. Poor fairings against real necromancers, and that is what she'd been fighting for the longest time. And they required certain preperations. "Brilliant green, more so, I would say."
Vorpal: Vorpal moves to vanish behind the screen to try her own black dress out, but before she does, she cannot resist taking a quick peek over Iria's shoulder at the garment the captain is offering to Selina.
Green?
That would go in nicely with the Dark Angel's eyes, true. Deep, endless aquamarine sparkling with all the unspoken threats and promises of --
Stop it.
Iria: "Aine, then." The Captain nodded in satisfaction. "It does trip of the tongue easier."
Iria answered with a devious look, a touch of red coloring her cheeks and a faint glow in her normally impassive eyes. "Have you ever seen butchers scraps thrown to a pack of stray dogs? Wearing white is something akin to that."
Vorpal: Ah, wonders Vorpal while unbuttoning her jacket. So now you're giving me black in opposition to white?
Selina de Windia: Selina pauses for a moment, blinking as Vorpal looks at her, then almost feels as if she has done a double take, looking at the other woman disappear behind the screen.
You just had to go and use that, didn't you?
Too late to fix things, wasn't it. Or would that fix anything? There was already something there.
Um, it's only fair I do the rest now, I suppose.
"In this case, it would be more like dogs attacking a river dragon, trying to get at the steaks it can be made into." She replies with a shrug, sizing up the garment some more. How much adjusting would need to be done? "Though I suppose some people lose their minds at the sight of sport."
Iria: The seamstress vanished with Vorpal behind the curtain to help her in and out of the complicated gown and adjust it as needed. The dress is tight in places but too long in others. Iria was a full bodied woman herself, but taller than Vorpal and longer limbed. The seamstress clucked her tongue in annoyance as she went to work with pins and scissors. Her hands were calloused but skilled, making short work of the resizing.
"Some do." Iria nodded in agreement, eyeing the screen herself for a moment before returned her gaze to the Windian. "And sometimes the sport encourages them to. It’s usually best not to present yourself as bait to a trap you don’t intend to spring."
"It shouldn’t take too much to fit you." Iria said, noting Selina’s attention on the dress. "It came from Winlandia with one of your winged people in mind."
"Besides," she added, crossing her arms beneath her chest. "Unlike the Pale Angel, you and I aren’t so different in certain regards."
Vorpal: Oh, thanks, she muses sourly, even as she holds the garment still against her side to help the seamstress with her work.
Selina de Windia: "No, I suppose we are not." Selina answers easily, putting the garment over one shoulder, away from her wing roots. "Tell me, what is this Kadel like, and what are his parties like?"
Iria: Iria took a step back and watched as Selina sized the dress, considering the question carefully before answering. Kadel was a social and business acquaintance. She’d made use of his unpublicized office as an information broker many times in the past. Those days, just the same, were gone. The public secret was now public knowledge. Everyone knew the part he had played in the rebellion.
"Mister Kurodona is... a deeply... perverted man." Iria squinted her eyes and glared at the floor, uncertain if that was exactly the word best used to describe him. "I can't say I necessarily approve of everything that goes on in his household, but to the best of my investigations nothing occurs that that is strictly illegal. Just... very immoral."
Iria casts a glance towards the screen, watching the shadow-play of Vorpal and the seamstress through the thin curtain. "The man is an excellent artist, I will grant him that. But he tends to be very specific in his subject matter. Art too excellent to ever grace a whorehouse wall, but fit for no where better…" she mused over that a moment, then shook her head. "And as for his parties, they are best summed up by saying that he claims they are often the inspiration for his work."
Selina de Windia: "Ah, so that's what he does -- I know of his kind then." Selina concurs with a slight nod. "So then, if we go to this party, he will make pictures of us doing naughty things?"
How amusing that would be, but he had better watch himself.
"I take it you do not attend his parties." She states, looking past Iria to Vorpal's sillouette in the dressing section, then back to Iria. "They do not seem to be something you generally approve of."
Vorpal: For some reason, Vorpal's imagination immediately conjures up a painting of the moment that had taken place on the Manse's rooftop only a scant few hours ago, a scene frozen in time, captured onto canvas with a brush and paints.
It's a bit.... disturbing.
"Still a bit too tight", she mutters to the seamstress, hiding a sigh behind her words.
Iria: "I use to attend. My husband and I." Iria admitted with a properly embarrassed grin. "In our younger days. We were a bit more energetic back then. He still has a painting of us together with a younger couple hanging in one of his rooms. I'm told he's had quiet a number of offers for it."
Despite the modest blush in her cheeks, there is a bit of pride in her voice when she said that. She smoothed out the look on her face and the faint stirring in her belly at the memories before going on.
"I don’t necessarily approve of everything I’ve seen at his affairs, but only when it becomes excessive. You can’t survive in this city too long if you don’t grow tolerant of at least some immortality."
"Tightsh goof fur yung ladifs…" the seamstress answered Vorpal around a mouthful of pins. "Puffs shome shape in ya."
Vorpal: "I know", the Pale Angel responds with low tones, then shakes her head in a moment of exasperation. "But I'd like to be able to breathe in this without making anything rip."
- The older woman snorts in displeasure and clear disapproval for a younger generation, but begins making adjustments to loosen the gown at least a little.
Selina de Windia: With a younger couple in the way I am thinking?
Perhaps not. This was Iria afterall. But you could never be sure.
"I attend one or two parties like that in Nexus on occasion." Selina says hesitantly, then shrugs. "You meet a good amount of useful contacts in those places. And see things you can use to your advantage later."
- Iria made a non-commental sound of agreement in her throat. She had found the same once, long ago. Now, it was easier to send any number of eager faced young officers to take her place.
"Alright. There. You're done." the seemstress grunted and gave Vorpal a surprisingly powerful shove out from behind the curtain. There were still adjustments to make. Pins to be replaced with thread, but it was fit as well as it could be.
The gown Vorpal reappears in is divinity in black. The corset hugged her torso like a second skin, pushing her breasts upwards into perfect orbs. What had appeared solid black before revealed threads of gold spun through it that shone in the warm light of the bedroom, glistening across her torso into patterns of angels and roses. A single velvet rose rested between them, part of a hem of crush black velvet that lines the corset front and back. The hem connects to sleeker silky sleeves as well, wrapping around her shoulders to give the sleeves a blousy look even while leaving the tops of her pale shoulders bare. The sleeves slide across her arms, tapering sharply at the wrists to loop around the middle finger of each hand.
The layered skirt poured off her hips and swayed vibrantly with their motion. The heavier black velvet split in the front to give air to a lighter skirt bellow, this one too embroidered with gold-threaded images of roses and winged figures. Both cover to her ankles, draping her lower body but not concealing it entirely. At each side, slits are cut to allow the gown to flow around her and flash peeks of shapely calf as she walks.
Selina de Windia: For a moment, Selina remembers what the Vestal had said when she first met her. When she realized she wanted Selina, and wanted no one else to touch her. Selina had felt that moment, too, the intensity of it radiating off of the other deathknight like searing heat. That echo finally makes itself known in her mind as she looks at Vorpal now.
MINE
She clenches one hand into a fist with a creak of leather gloves and smiles, razored, fangs flashing for a moment before disappearing. Her pupils slit to the barest lines as she feels the fire welling up inside her. Surprising, so she still had it after all this time. And that stokes it to a bonfire, an almost palpable wave of desire.
"If anyone else touches you," She growls, deep, throaty, sultry and hungrily. A faint undertone of the Dragon's rumble stirs the air along with it. "I shall paint a picture of jealousy in their heart's blood, and throw their souls into Oblivion."
Vorpal: In stories, it is at this point that valiant knights, stunned by the beauty of their true loves, kneel and proclaim their utter devotion.
It might be because of the sheer intensity of the emotion, a passion powerful enough to be felt against the skin like a wave of heat. It might be that being out of her armor and clad in a courtly dress is affecting her unconscious behavior, making her slide smoothly and flawlessly from the role of a general into that of a court lady. It might be even both, but whatever it is, the fact remains that the force of Selina's declaration makes Vorpal back up a pace.
It is like taking a step out the real world and into a dream. A dream shaped and fueled by all those tales she has read, only viewed through a cracked and stained mirror. The Dark Angel is no noble knight. Vorpal herself is no beautiful and infinitely helpless damsel in distress. And while the proclamation does fulfill the hallmarks of devotion, it is not exactly the most orthodox sort you would expect in a story like this one.
However, it does make her heart leap. Perhaps with fear, perhaps with elation - yes, perhaps with elation, to know that this beautiful, beautiful creature wants Vorpal to be hers - no.
One of her hands rise, white fingers in stark contrast against the black velvet, and touches her chest lightly. It is a reflection of the original story - only dark, macabre, the purity of its love eternally contaminated by forbidden lust. But the black reflection is also just as beautiful as the sunny version - perhaps even more so.
It flies straight down into Vorpal's very being, seeking out that single, lost chord with deadly accuracy, and strikes it.
For it is beautiful... and thrilling.
The smile that creeps up her lips is a strange one - it is ready, eager... and not entirely sane. "I would be disappointed with anything less", she responds.
Iria: "Cynthia." Chill and commanding, an officer again, the Captain calls to her seamstress. Iria’s voice cuts through the black lust passing between the two women like an icy wind. Her eyes are locked on Vorpal, she can’t help but stare at someone so beautiful, but her mind is still it’s own. And she’s voices like those before. "Leave the room. Quickly."
As the elderly seamstress sets aside arguments just this once and quickly hobbles from the bedroom, Iria’s fingers squeeze tightly against her arms. Squeezing until it hurts. There is a fluttering in her stomach, a redness to her face she can’t control. Their desire is almost palpable, a burning miasma flooding the room. Threatening to flood her as well. But it’s the way the two women look at each other that chills her spine enough to keep her grounded. They were the eyes of animals, dark and hungry, not people. She’d seen the power of the Exalted only too recently not to be troubled by it, seen what they could be like in their madness.
I should leave too…
But she didn’t. Nor would she. She would not be chased from her own home anymore than she would from her city.
"Now I see why you go everywhere expecting a battle Aine," she speaks again, a husky softness in her throat. "Because you go everywhere intending to start one."
A battle, of course, did not have to mean bloodshed.
Her eyes, pools of ice within the warmth of her skin, flickered back and forth between them. "I’ll ask you both to remember you are guests in my household at the moment. There is a time and place for these things. This is not it."
Selina de Windia: Selina turns those blazing turquoise eyes with their reptilian slit pupils on Iria, in turn. The possessiveness still radiates off of her body like waves of heat, but her hand stops clenching, though her wings remain tense behind her. When she speaks, the dragon rumbles beneath her voice, though the latter's tone is almost bewildered. "No, the fight is not for here, Lady Iria. Did you not mark what I said?"
Down!
She pushes it down, and the rumble underlying her breathing diminishes, the hiss which denotes a large land predator with each breath fades. Her pupils widen back to normal. She doesn't look at Vorpal again, not yet. Not until it is suppressed fully once more.
"Please, do not mistake me."
Iria: It took all Iria had to hold that gaze. Amaranthine protect her, but it was hard. Not to flinch. Not to look away. Not to let her face twist or her breath come faster. It was like a physical force pushing down upon her, trying to drop her to her knees. It was like a hand touching somewhere dark and sensual inside of her.
But she remained standing and when Selina's eyes finally returned to that of a mortals, Iria kept how shaken it left her hidden well inside.
So, this is a true Prince of the Earth. This is one of the god-kings lauded in Whiteshields history.
Once, Iria had desired that power. She had dreamt of what she could accomplish with it. The power to protect her family and home from anything and everything. But it had only taken one moment to change that.
... Heaven save us all.
"I will not." Iria conceded evenly, dropping her arms from her chest, only too aware suddenly of how it made her chest heave. "But I will not stand by without asking you attempt to restrain yourselves for now, if you are able."
Vorpal: Vorpal allows her hand to drop.
That action alone seems to launch the relaxation of her body. She exhales, slowly, as if purging something from her being. Her mien settles down into a mask of icy tranquility, the flame in her eyes diminishes into a glimmering spark. When she speaks, it is with the cold, calm tone of a woman who knows she is in control: "Yes. Let us enjoy this evening in peace. There is no need for us to exaggerate. Not here, not now."
The story is over for now. Time to return to the reality. But when she turns and steps away to give room to the others, there is an unconscious sweep to her movements, grace befitting a noblewoman of her rank. Majesty of an Elegant Tyrant.
Selina de Windia: "As I have already done." She looks to Vorpal again, with the fires banked this time, and a watchful inner eye on the burners. That can wait for...a better time. Yes. Maybe. "We are not foolish people."
The Windian relaxes more fully now, her gaze going back to Iria. "I suppose I should try this on, then."
Iria: "Thank you then." The Captain nodded to Vorpal, then Selina in turn. "Both of you."
Part of her though still wondered and dreamed. What would it have looked like, if they had not been so restrained? Distant eyes focusing at the sound of Selina’s voice, Iria smiled politely and nodded her head. "Yes, why don't you?"
She did not, however, call the seamstress back in. Not yet. Not until she was in better control of herself. Iria raised an arm towards the screen Vorpal had just exited from. "If you’re so inclined?"
Selina de Windia: Selina nods and moves inside the screen, and takes off her greatcoat, then moves for the rest. Wondering, perhaps, whether she will inspire the same reaction. And wondering, also, if the seamstress will freak out at the sight of that red scar-rune.
Vorpal: While the other Abyssal is being taken care of, Vorpal leans her back against a wall and folds her arms over her chest - a familiar enough posture for her, if not exactly ladylike. But then again, she has always occasionally broken some rules - both consciously and unconsciously.
Iria: Breathing a little easier as Selina vanishes behind the screen, though watching for a moment as the rumpled layers of shadow refine themselves into a more defined female shape. She quickly looked away however, irritated at herself for even looking. Iria turned a smile towards Vorpal instead, eyeing the gown and woman admirably. "You’ve worn such as this before, haven’t you?"
It was hardly unknown but always surprising when military women such as themselves carried ballroom experience on their shoulders. Iria had not heard enough of the Pale Angel’s past to know where the albino woman would have earned hers though. She held out a hand for her to come closer. "Walk in it a little. See how it moves."
Vorpal: Vorpal smiles slightly at the other woman's comment, and this time, is seems to be genuine. "I'm Haslanti", she responds, pushing herself off the wall and taking some experimental steps, as advised. "I know they say some wild things about me, but I did wear dresses in the court... occasionally."
Iranor has always been much more practical about court costumes than many others of the Haslanti city-states, but even their nobility followed the dangerous tides of fashion, each lord and lady striving to outshine the others in taste, elegance and sheer wealth. Such was the way of courts everywhere across Creation, and even the Pale Angel had followed the suit... once in a while, gleefully, maliciously, playing by the rules only for long enough to figure out how she could break them in the most shocking fashion.
The twin layers of skirts swaying in the rhythm of her moves, she reaches out with her own hand to take Iria's, then uses it as an axle to take a spinning dancing step, the dress fluttering like black water around her form.
"But to tell you the truth", she admits, looking over her white shoulder at the Captain, "This dress is the finest I have worn in a very, very long time."
Iria: Despite the mood of the room only moments before and the knot of heated anxiety still undoing itself in her belly, Iria couldn't stop a smile and a laugh as Vorpal took her hand and spun about. "I’m glad you approve."
Gripping the hem of her own skirt and crossing one leg over the other, she offered the Pale Angel a formal curtsy and stepped up behind her. Taking Vorpal’s over hand and raising it into the air, Iria guided her into the steps of an old courtly dance. It was something formal and stiffly traditional. A bit of Winlandia culture still clinging to Whiteshield, the distance she kept between them was measured almost perfectly to match the presence of wings that were not there. "I’ve little time for such dress or pleasantries anymore. I have planned on shipping most of these out to my daughters, but I’m happy to see them being put to good use."
"Do you have family, back in Haslanti?"
Selina de Windia: She is waiting now, the garment donned, but not perfectly fitted.
Where is that other woman?
"Um, I'm ready for the seamstress to fit me..."
Vorpal: Ah, dance.
Being a foreigner in Winlandia, she is not fully familiar with all of the movements, but she navigates through most of it with instinct alone. Courtly dances always had a pattern to them, certain moves that are repeated over and over again, and it is often not difficult to guess how one step leads to the other.
It feels like stretching some old, unused muscles to her, dancing like this. It is something she has not done in a long time, either.
"I do not think you can call it a family anymore", Vorpal responds absently as they go through the steps. "As far as I know, I have only one direct blood relative left. And from the rumors I have heard, he is incurably insane."
She lets go of Iria's hand at the sound of Selina's voice - it is not a hasty move, merely a gesture to show that they should not be tarrying around. Inclining with her head slightly, she gives the Captain a little meaningful look. "Perhaps you should help her this time."
Iria: "Mm?" Iria looked back over her shoulder at the screen, the Winlandian's clothing draped over the top. She supposed it was safe enough now. The tension was gone from the room, at least for the moment. "Ah, of course. Cynthia! It's safe to come back in! You can stop spying at the door."
Creaking open almost immediately, the lean faced seamstress glared something awful at Iria and made grumbling noises about not spying as she hobbled widely around the two dancing women and vanished behind the screen with Selina. "A’ite. Lets see what we have to do to make you look decent for once."
Selina de Windia: "For once." Selina says dryly, not bothering to argue with the woman. They never let up, those kinds.
Vorpal: "For once", echoes Vorpal, almost delightedly.
Iria: "It’s better this way," Iria smiled apologetically in answer to Vorpals suggestion, stepping back from her as their movements slowed to a graceful halt. "Unless dear Aine would enjoy being stabbed repeatedly by pins. I traded embroidery for bladework too long ago to be much of a hand with needles and thread. That is why Cynthia is around."
Ira turned deliberately towards the screen, speaking a little louder. "I don't pay the woman for her good company."
"Go get snowed on." The woman growled back as she fussed over the straps of the gown. Iria only looked back at Vorpal, a twinkle in her eye. This was apparently a familiar conversation.
The expression sobered slightly as she went on though. "I am sorry to hear about your relative. Family is a precious thing we should never be forced to loose."
Vorpal: A somewhat dry "Hm" is Vorpal's entre reply for that, accompanied by folding her arms over her chest once again.
If family is something like that, then she never had had a family. Tried as she might, she can not find it in herself to feel love for her father. Pity she could - and pity him she did after hearing the rumors about the poor old man, withered both in body and mind, huddling in his grief in the cold chambers of Schferhund Hall. Chances are that he is already dead by now. If that is so, then Vorpal would be a Countess.
A Countess without vassals, or land, or family for that matter.
But whenever she tried to look for love towards that old man, she had found only cold, hard stone in her heart.
As they wait for the seamstress to finish with Selina's dress, Vorpal cannot help but to let her eyes stray over to Iria. A military woman like herself, with a long career in the army, respected by her underlings. On the top of that, the woman has a home, a family, dresses, servants, daughters, a babbling husband...
...I envy you.
- "Tch," the seamstress clucked in irritation as she finished pinning the straps properly and hobbled around Selina. Her hands plucked and prodded and tugged experimentally for a few moments, touching Selina in a manner that should have been intimate but felt completely clinical instead. After grunting in satisfaction, she looked up and watery eyes glared up at the Winlandia. "So ya made an old woman walk all this way for what? It’s fine as it is. Damn sight better than what you were wearing coming in."
She punctuated the statement with a firm nod.
Selina de Windia: "I wouldn't wear this for what I usually do, either, to be fair. But in some ways you are correct." Selina replies, looking over herself a bit, then deciding to walk out and find a mirror. However well she sometimes concealed it, the Windian is immensely vain.
And besides, she wants to see what effect she has.
- As Selina is forced to step back into the light, she shimmers. If Vorpal had been divinity in black, Selina emerged an emerald dream. It was sleek and snug, a daring dress inspired by an eastern design. The gown itself one long sinuous length of emerald green silk, embroidered across it’s length with stylishly simple black images of birds in flight. The silk gripped her hips and left a dimpled impression of her navel. A long sash tied around her waist, helping keep the skirt drawn tight over her hips and thighs, while keeping it looser around her torso and calves. The hem around her legs tapered slightly from front to back, showing off her trim ankles from the front and nearly touching the ground behind her. Unlike Vorpals gown, this had no corset nor sleeves, though a short half-coat of matching colors hung in the closet to accompany it. Instead it split into broad straps that covered her ample chest before narrowing at her shoulders, the design leaving no place for a brassier and no need of one as well. The straps instead curled outward around the outside of her breasts and pressed them together slightly in the bare space between, accentuating their fullness.
The two ends joined behind her neck. Two more straps formed crescents down from the neck, curving around her shoulder blades and joining together. It left a triangle of skin bare bellow her neck and just barely missing the roots of her wings as they curved back outwards to rejoin the dress further down, helping keep the gown drawn snug over her belly. It displayed a generous portion of her shapely back, but managed to remain within what was considered the realm of decency in both Winlandia and Whiteshield.
Selina de Windia: Looking across the room at the mirror, she pivots a bit in front of it, inspecting what the dress does as she moves. And out of the corner of her eye, looking to see what reaction she gets. Finally done with the former, Selina murmurs "Needs some high heels." to herself.
Vorpal: She swallows.
If perfection could be further enhanced, this probably would be it. The memory of the desirable succubus on the rooftop is still fresh in her mind, and now the image settles over the lovely vision standing before them now, creating a combination so powerful that she feels an ache deep down in her bowels. That woman is perfect. Too perfect. If she would ever use that power of hers while clad in this costume, the Pale Angel is sure that she would have no choice but to give in, utterly, and with her entire soul.
As it is now, however, she finds herself fighting for control of her feelings with her iron will alone, pushing down the urge to tear apart the entire room and the house around it. It is the same will that she had used to stand up on that battlefield so many years ago and walk away from it unassisted, with a sword thrust through her gut.
To be fully honest, this isn't much easier than that previous feat.
"Don't worry", she says and glances over at Iria. She does her best to make her voice sound light and joking, but at least to her own ears it sounds mostly suffocated. "I won't start a scene."
Selina de Windia: Selina feels the eyes on her, as Vorpal must have done likewise, just a little while ago. But she doesn't turn and look. To make eye contact might start something better left until later.
The real fun question...is what are we going to do at the party?
Iria: I may.
For a moment, the one first moment the Dark Angel reappears from behind the screen, Iria's eyes glow. She tried to tell herself it was the memories. Memories of a warm night making love to her husband after wearing that dress. But it’s a half-truth and she knows it. There is heat within her as her eyes lock themselves to Selina and refuse to move. But the look was calculating as much as it was warm. Considerately sizing up the other woman, intently examining every detail.
"It becomes you …" she concluded slowly, careful to keep her voice calm, despite the excited shiver that sought to escape her.
Iria and her husband had already discussed living out younger, wilder days again at the coming party. A celebration the could allow themselves, at least one more time. To draw another into their bed, to overwhelm the helpless soul between them.
… when Kadel paints my picture again, there will be black wings in it as well.
- - Back to Fifth Movement
- - Back to A Dance of Angels
