#af.taken

[anneesfollesrpg]

                                     「ODETTE ALARIE」

                   34  •  PERFORMER  •  TAKEN BY EVE

DIRECT FROM LE PETIT JOURNAL:

The lady Odette Alarie may be less of an angel than she likes to make herself seem. Though her clothes and airs might have you thinking she’s of the highest class, rumors are buzzing about that the dances she performs at Le Ciel are far from what you might see at Palais Garnier - especially in the costumes she chooses to wear while performing. And, even more shocking, there’s even talk that her company isn’t earned by title or connections, but instead what you might be willing to offer for a private performance. Despite such talk circulating, Mme Alarie seems far from shamed - instead, she carries on with her head held high through the streets of Paris and is often seen in the company of the likewise scandalous John Reuel Kerr Lambton. Perhaps they’re a match made in le ciel itself?

ABOUT:

It was always so dependent on control. Her mother wanted her to be the perfect daughter, to curtsey just so, to know exactly the right thing to say, to be able to remember the smallest detail in order to bring it up in a later conversation, to follow every little thing her instructors showed. Show she’d been paying attention, that she cared. Her father, on the other hand, wanted a sweet and obedient daughter to be able to show off. A living and breathing doll, filled with kind words, pretty songs, or perfect dancing if needed.

The moment she was released from them, however, Odette loved the freedom - loved to test her own limits, to climb trees simply because her parents told her that ladies didn’t do such things. She was always very careful, however, not to let any trace of her little freedoms ever be noticeable - if a rip was torn into her skirt from the climb, well, sometimes the maids were kind enough to sew it quickly or provide another dress. Kindness, Odette learned, often allowed for kindness in return - so she would learn each of their names, the names of their family, what treats they liked, etc.

As she got older, the kinds of boundaries she pushed grew along with her - dirty songs were a particular favorite to learn, trips to a bar in town, dancing that was decidedly unladylike, books that had to be stashed away under a loose floorboard that no one knew about, kisses from the stable boy… rebellions that continued to grow and escalate, especially with her partner in crime. Her childhood friend was a companion in her escapades, as often as they were brought together - something Odette always appreciated, having someone else to help provide cover and excuses, while enjoying these glimpses of freedom from the tops of trees or in less rich clothing at a bar in town. It peaked in the one time Odette was decidedly less than careful with her partner in crime, being caught in the arms of one Jack Reuel with her legs around his waist and her undergarments about a foot away.

She didn’t hold any illusions of everlasting love or marriage - which, really, seemed to only cement the disappointment from her parents. In truth, Odette was very curious to experience some of the things her books described, or that the barmaids in town whispered about to her. So far as she was concerned, there was no need to tell her parents about the fact that it was far from the first time they’d been together. Might very well give her poor father a heart attack.

Her parents considered her a disgrace, a failure, despite the fact that she was still that perfectly poised woman they’d managed to mould. Just a little more… flawed, perhaps, than they’d intended in her. More human than doll, she liked to think. But with her parents paying such close attention, it was hard to slip from their grasp and do what she wanted - she was kept close, instead. Which worked well enough for Odette, as being close just meant it would be easier to play at being that perfect doll long enough to regain their trust.

And slip back through the bars of the cage they liked to keep their prize in as soon as she had the opportunity. As soon as she managed to convince them that of course her indiscretions had long since been forgotten - and really, it was Paris! She would be far from the only woman there who had such rumors floating about in her past.

Once in Paris, the letters could simply… taper off. Certain details she thought they couldn’t possibly need to know, as Odette pushed her boundaries further and further, attending salons and clubs and dancing, the dancing here was even better than what she’d learned. She fell headlong into the nightlife of Paris, entranced by everything she saw. Especially the women - those who were so much of what she longed to be, who seemed in control of who they were and what they wanted. Who demanded respect, especially from all the men who couldn’t take their eyes off of them. There was freedom in that, there was power in it.

The bigger surprise, really, was how happily the nightlife of Paris embraced Odette in return. And she relished in it, stepping into one of the headline acts of Le Ciel for her singing and the dances she would perform. She earned money for herself, enough so that when her parents inevitably found out about her profession, Odette could still keep herself afloat with the gifts from her patrons and the money she made.

Perhaps some of the whispers were right, that she had long since fallen from grace and should feel nothing but shame. But Odette preferred to think of it in less narrow terms - she liked to think she was flying unfettered, exactly where she chose to be.

CONNECTIONS:

The Ballerina: You knew her back in your younger years, sharing an obsession with dance. You were shocked to see her come into Le Ciel, and as much as it fills you with nostalgia to see an old friend, you’re slightly ambivalent about your past and present colliding like this.

The Austere: You have sympathy for someone like them, who fell from grace so suddenly and unexpectedly - after all, you took time to prepare for your fall, to build yourself wings. You have less sympathy for their attitude, the unwillingness to look beyond what they’ve lost to see what they have the potential to gain, to see everything that Paris could offer. But you're willing to at least try to lend a sympathetic ear.

The Sycophant: Something about them gets to you - perhaps the fact that they’ve attempted to surround themselves with so much attention, with no apparent talent. You’ve been brought along to many of their parties recently, and you can’t help catching a look, wondering how all that spark works, and what may – or may not – lie beneath it.

Faceclaim & Pronouns: Gemma Chan, she/her

The Angel is taken by Eve, she/her.

[anneesfollesrpg]

                                     「NICOLAS PICOU」

                   28  •  PERFORMER  •  TAKEN BY TASHA

DIRECT FROM LE PETIT JOURNAL:

A charming smile, a silver microphone, and a voice like silk: it seems this was all it took for Nicolas Picou win the hearts of Paris. Mr. Picou has done us the kindness of returning, seven years after he served in the war with the Harlem Hellfighters, who brought his favoured form of jazz to France. If you have yet to hear him sing, you better hurry: tickets sell fast, and lineups go right out the door. Once you find your way in, you will surely be delighted by a mix of vibrant dance tunes, and sentimental melodies. When he is on stage, it is as if the audience knows exactly who he is – but in reality, there is little he has revealed about himself. Surely, someone so smooth must have secrets… and secrets are hard to keep in our city. Whether he brings you to your feet, or a tear to your eye, we are absolutely fascinated with this singer from the West.

ABOUT:

When Nicolas was a child, it was never called jazz. It was rag, and it was what he was raised on. With his parents both being musicians, and skilled ones at that, it was no wonder he showed musical talent. He started learning piano at a young age, and classical theory from his mother to go along with it. As his ambitions grew, his parents warned him as a child how difficult the life of a professional musician could be, and tried to steer him in other directions. Despite their efforts, it seemed he was in love.

The Picou family lived modestly. Despite being well-respected musicians of the community, they weren’t rolling in money. They could put food on the table, but they were grateful they only had one child to feed. Money was always a worry when Nicolas was growing up, so when he was a teenager, he proposed that he drop out of school to help. His parents were adamant that he would finish school as planned, but he found a way around that. He’d grown up in the clubs, watching the bands play, so he went to the owner and asked if he could help out somehow. Set up for the bands, clean up afterwards, and get something in return to bring home. He did this job for a while, before a band’s pianist was sick for the night, and he jumped in to help out. It became a common occurrence for him to play with bands when they needed an extra hand, and, when he was nineteen, he was invited to join one of the local groups for their tour.

It was during this tour that the United States made the decision to join the Great War. As soon as he was able to, Nicolas enlisted. However, instead of being sent back to Louisiana to join a regiment there, he and his band were sent to North Carolina with the New Yorkers. The training was hard work, harder labour than Nicolas ever had to do, but it was nothing compared to the war itself.

Nicolas’ unit was assigned to the French army in 1918, and his unit fought well. Men of Bronze, the French called them. The only reliefs he had were playing in the military band in the unit’s downtime, and writing letters home. After spending 191 days in the trenches, Nicolas was the only band member left of his New York tour.

It was bittersweet, returning home. The other soldiers in his unit were primarily from New York, they were already home; but he needed to return to New Orleans. Thankfully, his family was all safe, and Nicolas appeared to be relatively unharmed as well. However, he was haunted with everything he’d seen, sleep becoming hard to come by when he first arrived at home.

Sitting at a piano again took a long time, and even longer to get back on a stage. In the meantime, he worked as a labourer, or sometimes waited tables. Between being out of practice, and the guilt of leaving his fellow musicians behind in France, it took Nicolas nearly two years to perform again – but when he did, it was different. Instead of sticking to the piano, he began taking the microphone and singing as well, earning his share of head turns and nods of approval from the audience. His mother always told him he had a good voice, he took after her that way, you see, but it wasn’t until he started singing in the clubs that he realized it was more than a mother’s compliments.

People wanted distractions, that had always been Nicolas’ theory. It was certainly part of what kept him up there, flashing smiles at the audience and distracting even himself with what was now called jazz. In the years following, he became quite the name in New Orleans. One night after a show, a man flagged him down and told him he should go to Paris. It was a strange idea, one he was hesitant to consider – until it happened a second time, this time by a Frenchman who promised he could get Nicolas a few gigs in one of the Parisian jazz clubs.

Despite the war itself, Nicolas had fond memories of Paris. It was where he went after the battles ended, while they waiting to be sent home: it wasn’t so bad. Convinced it would be an adventure, Nicolas packed his bags. Almost exactly seven years since Armistice, Nicolas stepped back onto French soil.

CONNECTIONS:

The Sailor: You’ve played some rowdier places around Paris, and they seem to be a regular in such corners. You’re grateful for that, too - they’re clearly a fan, have a way of stopping trouble before it starts, and make for pretty swell company. They even helped you get a bit of work on the side, down on the quays, when you first arrived and times were tough. Maybe that makes you friends? Even if you’re not so sure about some of theirs...

The Sycophant: You’re a rising star, these days, and everyone wants to catch some of that shine. This new acquaintance has been hovering ever closer, lately; perhaps they and their whole society set can be a little much at times, but... hopefully their attention, and money, will help you hit ever bigger, brighter stages. This business, it’s all about who you know. There’s worse people to rub elbows with, you guess. 

The Critic: They haven’t graced one of your performances with their presence - yet. Still, it’s easy to see why most of the artistic types in town are scared stiff of this one. Most. Not you. Not really. Okay, maybe a little, but they don’t need to know that. You’ve got what it takes, to make it here, to make it anywhere. Doesn’t matter what anyone says. Right? 

Faceclaim & Pronouns: Lucien Laviscount, he/him

The Crooner is taken by Tasha, she/her.

[anneesfollesrpg]

            「ARTHUR CAMNIEL "CAM" KERR LAMBTON 」

                   40  •  SOCIETY  •  TAKEN BY GRAY

TRIGGER WARNINGS: Mentions of death, war, homophobia, and ableism

DIRECT FROM LE PETIT JOURNAL:

Once, the Viscount Lambton came to France to fight, to lead, to bleed for the liberty of Europe; now, we welcome him as a true hero of La Grande Guerre, bedecked in honours and the gallant scars of battle. Surely, with all those horrors behind us, he’ll be pleased to settle in and relish the splendour of Paris, more-than-restored to glory after the bombardments of the Boche. Bienvenue, Major-General! Keep those medals buffed and your most splendid war stories at the ready.

ABOUT:

Arthur Camniel Kerr Lambton, born a viscount, one day, an earl. In between now and then? Naturally, he’d join the army, be made an officer, serve honourably, then retire to the seat his father left behind, in Westminster. Oh, yes. Cam would make them so very, very proud. It would be easy, too. After all, he was meant for this. His governesses flourished praise, as did his riding and fencing masters: a clever boy, strong, tenacious. The social set adored him. Such a polite, refined child. Such a charming, driven young man. With such a sense of duty, chaining it all in place. Everything one could have hoped for, from an heir.

Of course, he was also supposed to be his brother’s keeper. Little Jack. It was no hardship, when they were children. Nice to have a playmate on that quiet estate. Perhaps Jack could be fanciful, but he’d grow out of it, surely. And… well, when they were out roaming, his brother’s ghostly legends and fairy tales simply became a part of the landscape. Hiking the North Pennines and the Durham coast, tarrying by the River Wear, Cam could leave all - or most, at least - of his many responsibilities behind, wandering through Jack’s fictions and the English countryside.

But it was childish, to keep illustrating those stories they’d shared as he was shipped off to boarding school; his classmates let him know so, quickly. That was nonsense, now. The sort he clearly didn’t have time for. Not with examinations coming up. And once he’d passed out first from Eton - with honours, of course - on to Sandhurst. From there, Cam was eager to join his colleagues on maneuvers, observing war games across the Empire, studying the future of their field. So very eager that he hardly had time to settle down and have heirs of his own. Not that there weren’t plenty of lovely girls, just lovely, hawking for his hand. He was too busy, that’s all. Until he wasn’t - by order of his mother. It was as simple as that. An order, given for his own good as much as the family’s.

So, as he was meant to be, Cam found himself well-married. And, obviously, content. Such a handsome couple. With a beautiful baby boy, so soon - an heir for the heir. But by the time his spare arrived, Cam had been in France for months, serving king and country. While his more modern tactics and youth rankled hidebound superiors, he quickly demonstrated his genuine talents for strategy and leadership. Not that he was any more popular with the rank and file. Even if they were quietly grateful to be serving under his direction, few tommies enjoyed his rather aristocratic company. Not that being loved was important, in such a time and place.

Mentioned in despatches and pushed up the ranks, Cam soon had an entire division to command - twelve thousand men, including, apparently, Jack. Again, after years of bristling back-and-forth estrangement, as his brother became ever more troublesome. Why did he have to be so bloody difficult? Why was he even there, anyway? Too feckless. Too clever for his own good. Too young, too breakable, too close. And so Jack was transferred, as far from the sharp end as Cam could get him without raising eyebrows. Jack could hate his big brother all he wanted, so long as he survived to do it.

He did. Mostly. The news was gutting; his baby brother, chewed apart by a German offensive, shipped home. And still, a war to win. So Cam soldiered on, more hollow by the day. Until he was headed back to Blighty himself, unseamed shins-to-ears by machine-gunfire during the Hundred Days. After years of war, he was going home - to a family that had to look after him, to children he hardly knew, to an honourable discharge he didn’t want. As soon as he could Cam was limping into the War Office, desperate for anything that could feel like a purpose, frantic to be more than the disappointment he was so dreadfully certain he’d become.

And so he was trotted out, their new poster boy: a general officer, wounded on the battlefield. A hero, they called him. Did it matter that he didn’t feel like one? That it ached, in all sorts of ways, to be sent around “inspiring” men who, far as he could see, had every reason to despise him? Of course not. Because he was meant for this, too. Wasn’t he? Just as he was meant to climb ever higher at the Office, to London. Then, to Paris, ready to serve the ambassador - and his family’s interests, his own, in preventing his brother’s most recent and disastrously shameful novel from ever emerging. God; he was meant to be great. How did it come to this?

CONNECTIONS:

The Hophead: Perhaps you don’t see things the same way - you’ve never been the artistic, dreamy sort, obviously - but when the guns of history won’t quit blazing, and the bright lights of Parisian high society start to burn, you’ve been known to step away and share a pipe. After all, misery loves a… friend?

The Savior: You led, and they followed, once upon a time; a time neither of you want to remember, that the world won’t let either of you forget. Part of you wants to reach out. The rest recoils, sure they’d blame you for the worst of the suffering you shared. Why wouldn’t they? You do.

The Sycophant: Their grasping ambition and frivolous excess sums up everything about this age that rings hollow, for you - everything that makes you wonder what so many died in the name of. Is that their fault? No. Still. You find them tiresome, at best. Too bad that doesn’t seem to discourage their attempts to worm into your good graces.

Faceclaim & Pronouns: Matthew Goode, he/him

The General is taken by Gray, they/them.

[anneesfollesrpg]

                  「JOHN "JACK" REUEL KERR LAMBTON 」

                   34  •  ARTIST  •  TAKEN BY LIL

TRIGGER WARNINGS: Mentions of death, war, homophobia

DIRECT FROM LE PETIT JOURNAL:

What can we say? Le Honorable John Reuel Kerr Lambton (ah choo!)’s reputation precedes him. Not whispers but roars. A supposed scholar who leaves ruined society women and ballerinas in his wake, a frequenter of both Le Clair de Lune and Le Ciel. His bestseller is called The Patient Man, but he seems to be the most impatient one we’ve ever seen. Rumor is his most recent literary effort is not so popular with the British War Office and is to be translated to be released here in the city of scandal instead. But will we take London’s cast offs? How long until mummy has to leave her latest benefit to clean up little Jack’s mess? Or will she call in the big guns with the war hero elder brother too? 

ABOUT:

Jack Lambton simply refused to grow up. He was too “soft” to go hunting with his father and older brother Cam, so he stayed at home with his mother, reading with her and to her, and sometimes, if he was lucky, she’d read to him right back. He loved stories and continued to love them all the way to Oxford. This bookishness was an allowed quirk of second son of the British gentry, especially when the oldest was already in the military. But Jack did love one more thing. Well, two things. 

It began at Eton. So very accomplished, his teachers said. But he and young Master Swinburne are just a bit too familiar. Do look into that, Lady Lambton, if you don’t mind. And she did and she fretted. Jack getting caught in flagrante with his childhood friend, a society lady-to-be, during the family Christmas party should have perhaps been a comfort. But the boy seemed to be choosing from both sides and continued to do so. Worse, he was almost puckish about it. Pushing limits as he always did. Telling tales.  

Uni certainly didn’t help on that front. His friends were artists and academics and he loved them in whatever way they allowed. Jack’s closest friend, Reginald Edwards, was a Welsh surgeon in training. He was a scientist, but he loved stories as much as Jack did. Sure they kissed sometimes, but the friendship was what mattered. Then came the war. 

Jack’s older brother was already high ranked, and Jack was technically exempt. Greatest minds of Britain, future professor of Anglo-Saxon poetry, etc. But Reg was going to go, and where Reg went, Jack went. Their friends followed suit. Jack was a Second Lieutenant by virtue of his pedigree, so he pulled some strings to get them stationed together. It was supposed to be easy. Quick.  

But it wasn’t.  

Jack lost people. Everyone, really, except Thomas Brannon, his new American friend, brothers bred in foxholes. He saw Reg when he could, but a man with Reg’s skills belonged at the field hospital not the front. Their time became more and more precious until eventually, Jack found himself quite despondent if he didn’t see him. When Jack and Thomas were pinned down together, he handed Thomas a letter to give to Reg. Words of almost-love from a man who loved words. 

After a tense exchange with his brother (and now commanding officer), Jack found himself sent away from Reg due to troop movements. Technically away from danger. But something felt punitive. Personal. He kept his head down. He did the bloody work and told his men fairy and ghost stories to keep their spirits up. One day he went over, and he didn’t come back. It was in the last push, and Thomas assured himself that if Jack was still alive, he would be recovered. But the Germans were routed and the armistice signed without word. 

Jack lay in the mud a long time, pinned by the weight of stone and barbed wire. When he woke, his right arm was gone below the bicep. Well, he said to the pretty nurse with a slightly pained smirk. I write with my left anyway. His brother Cam was not so lucky. They were both sent back to the ancestral estate to recover, where Jack found out that Reg had been killed by chlorine gas on the last day of the war. Jack insisted he was fine but his stump itched and so did his head. More and more he couldn’t stand the way his family talked about his mourning of his “friend.” He told them he’d loved Reg and then stormed off to Paris, supposedly to write a book. 

Instead, he met a soloist at the Palais Garnier named Nadja Babineaux. She loved stories too and he loved her profoundly. His very relieved mother gave him one of the lesser family jewels to propose with, and Jack had every intention. Then Nadja had her first starring role in Giselle, and he realized that much like inconstant Albrecht, he had promised himself to two people: one living, one dead. He knew that like Giselle, Nadja would forgive him. But he didn’t deserve it. So he left. 

He holed up in Edinburgh and did write the book. It had adventure and romance and just the slightest bit of magic. It went to print and did well. Well enough to garner a French translation, which Jack stubbornly handled himself. It was a good break from his magnum opus, an angry, frightening and more than slightly queer little fantasy horror novel that was a clear indictment of the war. 

Which Cam and the British high command didn’t appreciate. Publication was quashed. Jack was devastated. Until his French publisher told him Paris was so lovely in spring…

CONNECTIONS:

The Savior: Even if you’re not sure why they put up with you and your tumbling moods, you’re grateful they do. You often find yourself hovering around their commissariat at the end of the night, hoping they’ll be free to dally over a quiet drink.

The Hammer: Many forget the service of such as she - you certainly can’t. You worry for her, working so hard. And you appreciate her aid, when you find yourself in need. Honestly, a good friend can be a kind of medicine all its own.

The Poet: Their work touched you, more than anything you’d read in years; there’s such hope there, and humanity. You’ve heard they’re in Paris, these days, and it would be such an honour to make their acquaintance. 

Faceclaim & Pronouns: Jamie Bell, he/him

The Novelist is taken by Lil, they/them.

[anneesfollesrpg]

                            「OCTAVIA KERR LAMBTON」

                   61  •  SOCIETY  •  TAKEN BY KYLEE

TRIGGER WARNINGS: Mentions of miscarriages

DIRECT FROM LE PETIT JOURNAL:

Artisans and courtesans, dilettantes and debutantes, un bienfaiteur has arrived in our fair city! Lady Octavia Kerr Lambton, grande dame of London society and financial champion of the arts, is newly arrived for the season. Was she drawn to our unparalleled culture, our museums, our dance? Or was her most opportune arrival heralded by her children, already grinding our machine à rumeurs? Be sure to prepare your portfolios and pitches—should you encounter Our Lady, you may chance upon a rather generous patron.

ABOUT:

Those who cannot do, teach. Octavia Kerr could do neither. 

As a young girl, art was the only passion she was allowed to indulge in. The only outlet she had in which to feel. Upper class society did not hold with emotional displays, and she adhered accordingly, stiffening her upper lip and resolving to keep her joy, her suffering, beneath the surface. She attempted instead to dance. To write. But she was too stiff to dance, a victim of posturing and sitting up straight. Starched and ironed to an extent that wrinkles, bends, folds felt unnatural. Sadly, too, was she too locked down to write. Put to page, words were emotion, action, description…and even as a girl, she didn’t dare open that box. Was unable to delve too deeply into that which she held so close, so private. Her heart was her own, never to be shared on paper. 

She could paint, as most could. Brush to canvas, bold strokes and quiet contemplation until something emerged, at last, from her subconscious. But with each attempt, the product was…unsightly. It did not appeal, aesthetically, to anyone, particularly to her mother, but it was alright that she could not succeed. A refined lady, her mother said, needs only a core grasp of the fine arts. Anything beyond is simply vanity. 

And so she forced down her disappointment at her own lack of artistic prowess and turned her attention instead to her destiny. The fate which had befallen her mother and grandmother before her—matrimony. An arranged marriage, as it were—an advantageous match. A storied family such as hers joining forces with another, with the goal of securing the finances of her Kerr lineage with Lambton coin, and lending additional prestige to her husband to-be. 

Arthur Lambton was a welcome surprise. He was not coarse or rude. He drank, but never to excess. And in spite of herself, Octavia found herself very taken with her bridegroom…and he with her. The very heart she had deigned never to be shared on paper was now, somewhat helplessly, shared with another. It didn’t take long to announce her pregnancy, and in short order, their eldest son was born. Their heir, their pride and joy…Cam, her darling boy. A few too many years on, after several subsequent heartbreaks and disappointments, another finally joined them. Her baby, her youngest, her precious Jack. And so she set to work raising her children and running the household, ensuring it was a proud reflection of her dear husband. So, too, did Arthur’s success lend itself to indulging his wife. She had long since confessed to him her love for the arts, and he had responded accordingly, gifting her with the funds to patron those causes which she held most dear. Plays. Exhibitions. Concerts. She could finally, in a sense, help bring art into being…and she relished every moment. 

And then came the years that nearly tore her apart, as they did her sons. The Great War. Her sons went to serve for King and Country, her pride matched only by her worry. Well-founded worries, as both of her children returned to her with pieces missing, personalities altered, having given the cause all but their lives. Yet they were still her sons, her dear boys…and so she weathered on. The war ended and life resumed much as it had before…or as best an imitation as it could muster. 

While Arthur remains at home for work, Octavia has joined her sons in Paris for the season. A nice holiday, reconnecting with her legacy while basking in all of the high culture that the Continent has to offer. Send forth your screenplays, drawings, performances, and novels…Octavia Kerr Lambton has a keen eye and money to burn.

CONNECTIONS:

The Émigré: You trust them enough to help you direct your many investments. They might not be your usual sort of company, but that’s no slight; they’re a breath of fresh air, and have an unusual eye for talent. Maybe the rest of your social milieu looks down their noses at this new friend of yours, but you’re above being bothered by such things. Aren’t you?

The Artificer: They’re a lovely stage manager, but even someone of their talents could do with a bit of direction sometimes. Every time, you meet resistance. It’s exhausting. You are bankrolling these not-so-little productions – why shouldn’t you have final say?

The Muse: While others sweep by their works, you stop, linger, and love. Such talent! It’s hard to help being jealous of someone so wholly artistic, and tragically easy to see why they’re being left to languish. Success isn’t just a matter of talent, after all.

Faceclaim & Pronouns: Fiona Shaw, she/her.

The Benefactor is taken by Kylee, she/her.

[anneesfollesrpg]

                                           「THOMAS BRANNON 」

                   41  •  PUBLIC  •  TAKEN BY KYLEE

TRIGGER WARNINGS: Mentions of death, parental death, war

DIRECT FROM LE PETIT JOURNAL:

Mes lecteurs, mes amis, what is becoming of Paris, our beloved grande dame? We can do nothing but watch as her ways are threatened, put at risk by the new arrivals littering her streets. Look to the Police nationale and their newly hired officer Thomas Brannon. Un Americain! Un immigré, investigating Parisian business! What of this man, tasked with enforcing the law? Is he merely a cowboy renégat seeking his own pleasures, or a puritanical Inquisitor seeking to undermine our culture and customs? It may yet be both. Sources tell me that Inspecteur Brannon is living in our city not with a wife, but with a sister. A man of middle-age, residing with his soeur célibataire? Perhaps he is here to test the limits of the very openness and liberté that France affords her people. 

ABOUT:

Before Hell, Thomas Brannon was adrift. The oldest of four, heir-apparent to a case of Irish whiskey, mom’s good porcelain bowls, and a stack of waterlogged books. Centuries before, they’d have called him a Renaissance man. A jack of all trades, flirting with jobs as he flirted with women. And as with women, none could hold his attention for too long. 

Then the war came. Crashing into the country like an errant wave, building for years as everyone watched, silent and somber, until it finally broke and swept them all under. The Great War, they’d said, eyes gleaming with something he couldn’t quite place. But for Tom, it was the answer to a question he hadn’t thought to ask—what was his calling? His point? His purpose? 

Duty, his father told him. Honor. Save yourself, son, by saving others. 

A year later, he was sitting behind some wire, staring across an empty field. 30-some years old, in a uniform that somehow felt more like home than anyplace he’d ever been. Routine and rules. Method and order, occasionally punctured by explosions and gas. By pulling friends out of the mud, tearing bandages, wiping blood. War was one hell of a god, but for Thomas, soldiering was communion. 

He remembered the day the letter came, more destructive to him than any shell he’d seen before or since. They were dying, his father wrote. Neighbors. Relatives. Anyone and everyone, being snatched out of their lives as ruthlessly as a sniper’s targets. But their killer was silent. Unknowable, until it was too late. A factory fire had long since taken his mother…but it was the disease that took his sister. One by one, like the uniformed boys beside him, his family crumpled. His brother was next. Missing In Action, the telegram had said. And then his father, determined to ease his suffering by taking things into his own hands, making damn sure he beat his other children to the grave. 

When the Armistice was signed, Thomas was sent home. A soldier without a war, tasked with cleaning up what remained of the homefront he’d left behind. And all that remained was Cora. The baby, or so she’d always seemed to him. The youngest sibling and the eldest, the last ones standing, tattered bookends of a once promising story. To her credit, the baby was gone, replaced instead by an elegant, educated artist. Someone, he realized, who would be worth knowing, even if their blood didn’t force them into it. Slowly but surely, they learned to get by… together. 

No longer aimless, unable to stand still, he threw himself into another war–a new fight that helped him continue to serve the world in the only way that made sense. Thomas became a cop. His sister took another path, but they were already bound by what they shared, a bond forged by what they had in common rather than the stark differences of their day jobs. And as the years went by, they harbored the same delusion, silent and unspoken, even to each other: their missing brother, Henry, presumed dead. It started one day as a random suggestion, a casual conversation as they ate. 

Let’s move to Paris. 

Dead or alive, France was where he’d been. France was where they should go. 

So they did.  

CONNECTIONS:

The Novelist:  One of the only people still in your life who understands what it was like in the throes of battle. They know you in a way that no one else does, the way only a fellow from the Front could; in an age where many simply want to forget the war, our twist its legacy to suit their purposes, you’re grateful you have a real comrade in arms to talk to.

The Fiend: While others celebrate their titanic industry and brilliant business acumen, you squint, a bad taste in your mouth. Maybe it's the soldier in you, roiling at the thought of someone turning a fortune off the horrors of war. But it's not as if they've broken the law. Right?

The Spiritualist: What a phony. You see through their little act - who could be so heartless as to defraud the widowed, the orphaned, the grieving? They're a faker, and one day, you'll prove it. Somehow...

Faceclaim & Pronouns: Josh Hartnett, he/him

The Savior is taken by Kylee, she/her.

[anneesfollesrpg]

                                           「CORA BRANNON 」

                   35  •  ROGUE  •  TAKEN BY EVE

TRIGGER WARNINGS: Mentions of parental death

DIRECT FROM LE PETIT JOURNAL:

So many of these Americans flooding our lovely Paris are so very… well, American, no? Brash and rude, trodding all over the customs and traditions as much as they trudge along our cobblestones. And yet, sometimes, a rare gem appears among them - even an unusual one, such as Mademoiselle Brannon. Quick witted and well versed in art, Mlle Brannon makes for excellent company, though perhaps less refined than one might expect of a woman her age. Indeed, many might expect her to have or be looking for a husband at her age, yet she seems perfectly content to live with her brother and spend her days painting at L'Académie de la Grande Chaumière.  

ABOUT:

For some, being the youngest brings the privilege of being the baby of the family well into adolescence and even adulthood. Being the one coddled most by parents, given special exceptions and attention. Being the favorite, the one who gets away with anything and everything simply by existing and being loved. For some, that might be true. For Cora Brannon, it mostly meant being forgotten, being ignored and left to her own devices. Being the youngest meant that her parents were tired, that her siblings thought her too little to be much fun. For Cora, being the youngest allowed her freedom in how little attention she was paid.  

She made the most of it. Learned to relish it. But that took time.  

As a child, Cora learned quickly that she was not expected to make much of herself - fourth child, second daughter, most of the paths had been carved out already. Thomas, the oldest, was the golden son. Expectations placed on him as their mother’s darling, their father’s heir. Henry and Maggie had the shine of being both twins as well as the spare and first daughter. Distinct in their own ways, rounding out their little family. Except, apparently, not quite - Cora herself was born as the last of the family, a second daughter. And who needed a spare one of those?  

Thomas was the perfect one, Henry the idealist, Maggie the darling… so where did that leave her? Somewhere in between, somewhere walking behind the rest. Cora was never particularly close with any of her siblings, at least to start. Certainly they were family, family was important, but most of them were busy in their own ways. Thomas, however, was the most likely to be stuck with Cora when her parents were too tired to care - and, for a while, Cora was delighted to think she had a friend. Someone she would look up to, would trail after like a little duckling while the twins were off in their own little world. Someone who, at least for the most part, tolerate her with some bemusement as she drew pictures and insisted on showing him. Time, however, had them growing apart over time - Tom had school, had better things to do than keep watching his kid sister. And Cora, well, Cora found other things to occupy herself, preferring books on history and seeing rare pictures of things other people could create.  

What always made Cora special was her charm - didn’t work at home, perhaps, too overshadowed there, but at school, in town? Cora was charming, excellent at picking up on the people around her, what she might be able to use to worm her way into what she needed from them. Art was a hobby, something she loved learning about and loved to create even more - getting the supplies was more difficult, but manageable with honeyed words and a quick wit that delighted adults. Even better, she learned over time, was that she could mimic some of the art she had a chance to see on rare occasion. Good recall and an excellent attention to detail, so that when she’d seen something she really liked, she could manage to recreate it. Something for her, something she could hide in her room and remember later, so she didn’t have to let something so pretty go even long after the page or piece was gone.  

She did manage to convince her parents into allowing her to attend university - easy enough, after Maggie laid some of the ground work the years before, though Maggie’s aim in trying to find a husband was radically different than Cora’s own. Cora wasn’t there to find a husband, that seemed like a waste - far more interesting, to her, was to learn more about art and the history behind it. But, just because she wasn’t interested didn’t mean that romance didn’t find her. She fell, fast and hard, for a man older than her. A man who tried to convince her, in her last year at the university, to run away with him as soon as she graduated. That she didn’t care much for her family, they didn’t care much for her… she could just start over somewhere else, with him. He even promised that he’d leave his wife for her. Cora was far more tempted than she ever would admit aloud to anyone else. And then the letter of her mother burning in the factory arrived. She privately wondered if it was her punishment, for ever even considering leaving her family behind. The way things ended with her lover had been… painful, to say the least, and Cora returned home heartbroken in more ways than one.  

Cora did what she could, in the time after their mother’s death, as they all waited with bated breath for the letters Maggie would get from Henry and, occasionally, Tom. At least, until Maggie got sick and the letters crawled to a stop. Even as a younger sister, Cora tried desperately to try and help Maggie, wanting to do anything that might save her - during the panic, even so far as to learn to forge the local doctor’s signature in order to get anything that was even rumored to potentially help her older sister. Nothing worked, and she died before Cora and her father’s eyes. Her father wasn’t far behind, killing himself to join her mother and sister rather than bother to not leave Cora alone. Like he even forgot she was still there, still trying to be there to help him.  

So she did the only thing she could think of and wrote Thomas and Henry, waited as patiently as she could for them to come home. Filled her time by doing odd jobs around the city, as people whispered that she might be able to help write prescriptions for them and bypass even needing to see a doctor. Wrote notes for people to be able to travel more freely, forged signatures and documents with increasing skill and used her charm to slide out of any suspicion that happened to point her way.  

Thomas was the only one to come home - the only one to actually find her, who seemed to want to cling onto her, even if it was simply because she was the last one left. Cora chose to believe that it was because he actually wanted her. She fell back into step beside him, following his lead so much as it suited her - even to Paris, so they could try and find Henry. Hold onto that last bit of hope, for as long as they could manage to.   

CONNECTIONS:

The Smuggler: You travel similar circles, it seems - illegal ones, that is. You’ve been crossing paths along the quais often enough that you’re starting to see and hear things about what kind of work is really done aboard those boats of theirs, and you’re beginning to wonder if you might be able to do each other a couple mutually beneficial favours.

The Fiend: There’s this job you did, recently - very clandestine, and awfully lucrative. On someone’s behalf, orchestrated by an agent who tried to make light of the whole thing. As if you were some fool! No; you know what you were dealing with, and, now, you want to know who.

The Recluse: Now that’s a challenge. An artist so unique, so beloved, so enigmatic, that every precious piece has a hefty price tag - and a great deal of attention - attached. You’d have to be at the very top of your game, to get away with faking one of their works. Are you?  

Faceclaim & Pronouns: Keira Knightley, she/her

The Forger is taken by Eve, she/her.

[anneesfollesrpg]

                                          「NADJA BABINEAUX 」

                   26  •  PERFORMER  •  TAKEN BY BEE

DIRECT FROM LE PETIT JOURNAL:

Perhaps angels do exist in Paris. It’s easy to believe so when watching Madamoiselle Babineaux perform- it’s as if her feet never touch the ground. This Swedish Ballerina has worked her way through the ranks of the Palais Garnier, and she is every bit the prima in her skills… But rumor has it that this delicate swan has been dipping her pointe shoes in some of the cities more… interesting places. Regardless of where you find her, there is no doubt that the young Nadja Babineaux will dance her way into your heart.

ABOUT:

Human beings could certainly fly. Nadja Babineaux was proof of that. 

Born in Stockholm to French choreographer Victor Babineaux and Swedish ballerina Liselotte Lindström, dancing ran in the girl’s blood. It was almost assumed that Little Nadja would follow in her parents’ footsteps- on her first birthday, she was given a gift of beautiful pointe shoes from one of the teachers at the Royal Swedish Ballet School. She insisted that the couple had a prima on their hands. 

And so, as soon as Nadja could walk, she started taking ballet lessons with her mother. As a result, she never really knew a ‘normal’ childhood. While other four-year-olds were fussing about in nurseries and playing with their toys, the young Nadja Babineaux was learning her positions and how to plié. But Nadja never seemed to mind. She would giggle with glee as soon as her slippers went on and chase after her mother to the barre. 

Nadja caught on fast, proving to be every bit the dancer that her mother and father were. It got to the point where the couple had to have a very honest discussion about the little girl’s future. Ballet in Sweden was very good, yes… but if one wanted to make a career out of it, one went and studied in Paris. One could never dream of dancing at the Palais Garnier without studying ballet in Paris. And so, Victor and Liselotte packed up and moved to the city of lights when Nadja was only seven so she could enter the Paris Opera Ballet and study with the best. 

Montmartre became home to the young ballerina- it was almost as if Paris did not exist outside of its confines. She studied tirelessly as she danced her way to the top. Nadja w up at the barre. She spent hour after grueling hour perfecting each step. She would dance until her slippers gave out and her feet bled. She danced even when she felt like sobbing. She danced until she was granted the honor of going en pointe. She danced until finally, finally, she was offered a contract at the Palais Garnier. It wouldn’t be until just after her 22nd birthday when she was offered her first principal role in Giselle. When the curtains closed on the first act, Le Opera Paris had a new star on their hands. 

The years passed, and Nadja continued to pour her heart and soul into her work. But soon, it began to feel like something wasn’t quite right. The ballerina’s mind and body were in the Palais Garnier, but her heart longed to see Montmartre, longed to see what was beyond the streets that she knew. One night after a performance, rather than heading back to her apartment, she followed the sound of music, her feet aching to move about to the beat. She wound her way into the parts of Paris a prima would not usually dare to go. Something in her heart lit up again, the faintest spark of life, of excitement. There was art here, art and music and beauty and life. It wasn’t built on broken pointe shoes and tears. It was something else entirely. 

Nadja began sneaking out to see the city she had lived in but never known. The world of costumes, pointe shoes, and tears was all she knew… and the world outside the theatre’s walls was calling out for her to join in its beautiful chaos. So the little bird has begun to stretch her wings and see the world, and can’t help but wonder… is this what it’s truly like to fly?

CONNECTIONS:

The Nymph: You saw her dancing once a while back, and you were mesmerized. Sure, she definitely was not up to your typical standards – not in the least – but for the moment, that didn’t matter one bit. She looked so free up there, basking in the attention, not caring if she put a toenail wrong. Ever since that night, you keep coming back, hoping to catch another vicarious glimpse.

The Playboy: They are everything you’ve spent your life being warned against – rakish, reckless… but very alluring all the same. Whenever the two of you cross paths, you feel a rush of intrigue. To you, the life they live seems thrilling, liberating, perfect. You’re beginning to wish for something similar to their existence – your idea of their existence, that is.

The Austere: They’re the only person you’ve met as of late who seems to be on as steep a social learning curve as you are. They remind you of the life that is gradually slipping away, in their sharpness and rigidity. Whenever you cross paths with them, you feel at once vaguely comforted and viscerally turned off by the familiarity of them.

Faceclaim & Pronouns: Alicia Vikander, she/her.

The Ballerina is taken by Bee, she/her.

[anneesfollesrpg]

                                 「LUCIENNE PICOU 」

                   25  •  ROGUE  •  TAKEN BY LIL

TRIGGER WARNINGS: Mentions of racism, lynching, mob violence, murder, sex work, and drugs/addiction

DIRECT FROM LE PETIT JOURNAL:

If you sight Mademoiselle Picou in the audience of the Folies Bergère, you may think that our own beloved Josephine Baker has been putting together a double act, but you’re more likely to find this New Orleans import in her newest acquisition - a darling little bistro in Montmartre. While we know this new socialite comes from a Creole home bathed in le jazz hot, we find ourselves wondering where exactly the sometimes gauche jewels are really coming from. Does the girl have a society benefactor that has somehow escaped our notice? Or are the rumors of gambling in L’Ortolan’s back room true? Either way we must commend her on her enterprising spirit. Oh, Americans! 

ABOUT:

One might begin by saying that the New Orleans mafia died on March 14, 1891. They’d killed the wrong man, a police commissioner. Arrests were made. Broad and quick ones without much evidence. 19 Italians entered the Parish Prison. All were acquitted or awaiting trial when a mob broke in, dragged 11 of them outside and killed them. One of them was Lucienne’s grandfather. An immigrant. A grocer.  

Her mother fled to Storyville, New Orleans’ legal red light district, a place of music, light, and life. Her father was a Creole of color, a piano player with a touch on the keys so beautiful people would sometimes linger in the parlor of Mahogany Hall rather than going upstairs, just to hear him play (which was impressive, considering the girls Lulu White employed there.) Then Storyville shuttered. A whole culture was dissolved back into a city fighting for a respectability it was far too fun to keep for long.  

But the Axe-Man came shortly after that, terrorizing New Orleans, with a threat to play jazz or die. Lucienne had been 16 and decided to pretend it was fun. She spent the whole night with her father in a club in the Quarter, dancing the night away, and then it was fun. Her mother clung to her tightly that summer. She’d always worried that the world would harm Lucy for the color of her skin and the ancestry of her parents, but now the Italian grocers like her grandfather seemed to have become targets once again, the only shared trait of the Axe-Man’s victims. Rumors swirled that the Matranga family had overcome their fears of mob rule and were looking for protection money.

But, strangely, the demands did not come. Instead, one day, Lucienne came home to find her mother talking in the kitchen with Charles Matranga himself. He was thanking her for her father’s role in helping him flee in 1891. He wanted to offer her a favor.  

Her mother didn’t want it, but Lucienne died. She could sing well enough with her father or work at the bar with her mother, but she wanted something more. She knew she was more. Matranga gave her the side-eye, not believing at first that she was Italian at all. But she countered his arguments so fiercely that he agreed she was family. 

She managed a slot hall first, charming customers into respecting her bit by bit. She was young, and she looked it, but she had a talent for numbers and for entertaining. Most members of the Cosa Nostra didn’t speak French and her acumen with the language allowed her to pitch a little business venture - Paris’ first, honest to goodness, (and highly illegal) public casino. It was an unprecedented idea and more than a little risky. But risky was what they paid her for.  

It’s funny what people will think if you let them. It only takes a few words, Lucienne learned, to let them fill in the blanks. So when a beautiful American arrives on the Paris scene, flush with money and daring fashion choices, the rumors are a better misdirect than she could ever offer. She’s fine with them believing she’s a kept woman or the illegitimate child of some Vanderbuilt or Roosevelt. They can even think she’s frivolous. Until she speaks.  

If you think she’s frivolous then… well, you’ve got another thing coming.   

CONNECTIONS:

The Playboy: They think they know you, your type, your angle. And they couldn’t be more wrong. What a rube - but, at least they’re too busy having a good time to get in your way. In fact, they might be useful, what with all their connections, money, and questionable habits…

The Angel: You often see her entertaining clients in both sides of L’Ortolan, and when she needs an escape you happily provide one. She’s a friend, after all, not just a customer - and full of fascinating stories. The useful kind, occasionally…

The Smuggler: You’ve got an eye on their not-so-little business, and an ear out for the whispers of what they’re capable of. An alliance would open up all sorts of opportunities to expand the mafia’s dirty business and please those big bosses stateside, all while keeping your hands a little cleaner. Wouldn’t that be nice? Here’s hoping they’ll see reason. 

Faceclaim & Pronouns: Zendaya Coleman, she/her

The Malefactor is taken by Lil, they/them.

[anneesfollesrpg]

                             「MAELIE BRINDAMOUR 」

                   32  •  ARTIST  •  TAKEN BY TASHA

DIRECT FROM LE PETIT JOURNAL:

She is Paris’ most sought-after florist and wedding planner, so how apt is it that amour lies in her name? With stars in her eyes, she brings her visions to Earth in heavenly floral décor. Even in the chaos of a wedding, Mademoiselle Brindamour handles any issue with grace, poise, and a contagious smile. Tout en Fleur has grown from being a small flower shop on the edge of Montmartre to being the site of the most sought-after florist and event planner in Paris. However, without a ring on her finger, we at Le Petit Journal are beginning to wonder: with all the time she spends around love, will she ever find it herself? 

ABOUT:

A personal library, a grand dining room, and a garden full of any flower a child could possibly dream up. Yes, the Brindamour children were certainly among the lucky ones, although not all of them saw it that way. No - for the youngest daughter, the silver spoon was shoved down her throat so far, it felt suffocating. As a child, she attended her lessons like her siblings, but her attention was drawn by the rainbow of colours she could see from the window. Her nana, although she passed when Maelie was only ten years old, fostered Maelie’s love for nature, and often encouraged her to help in the garden. 

Through the years, the tension between Maelie and her parents slowly grew. She was their doll, someone to be dressed up and paraded around, but she pushed back. Showing up late to parties, making friends with the wrong people… Her siblings often insisted she got away with it because she was the baby, which Maelie didn’t doubt. It wasn’t until her mother caught her kissing another girl that it suddenly became time for her to settle down. Before long, her parents found a suitor, and he proposed within months of their meeting.  

Maelie was never opposed to marrying a man – however, the man her parents chose was dull, lifeless, and yet, everything he said provoked her. She felt infuriated with every conversation, and while her mother insisted she would warm up to him, Maelie couldn’t bring herself to do it. Feeling like there was no other option, only two weeks before the wedding, Maelie packed a bag and left in the night. 

The years that followed were more difficult than she could have ever imagined, and although she had a family friend in Paris who supported her for a while, Maelie knew she couldn’t stay with them forever. She took whatever job she could get, as a young woman with no work experience, but she learned quickly. Between the crude comments from patrons, and the minimal pay, it certainly wasn’t the best job, but the owner took a liking to her. After about a year, she was promoted to be his assistant, and her pay was raised accordingly.  

Maelie was eager to break out and start something for herself, but she knew she had to keep saving before that could become a reality. The more she worked as his assistant, the seedier the owner of the club became to her, but she needed the money. So, Maelie grit her teeth through her employer’s poor treatment, and continued saving for her own business. Finally, she had earned enough to rent a small shop. She refurbished it as much as she could on her own, stocked it with flowers, and Tout en Fleur opened. 

With her shop bringing in a relatively steady income, Maelie was able to support herself modestly. She happily provided the flowers, and some recommendations on décor, for any event that anyone asked for. She gave men advice when they were arguing with their wives, comforted those who had lost loved ones, and, the thing she enjoyed the most, she carefully crafted bouquets for brides on their wedding days. It was only in 1921 when a friend asked her to help plan her wedding, that she began doing more than just providing flowers. It seemed that her friend knew people in high places, because as soon as it got out that she had organized the wedding, she was getting appointments left and right to organize events. 

There is nothing Maelie enjoys more than seeing the love in a couple’s eyes, as they see each other from down the aisle. Despite the mayhem that can ensue during a wedding, much of it being her responsibility to solve, she often finds that she can’t stop smiling until she leaves at the end of the night. She walks through the door to her little home, her cheeks still aching from the joy and laughter… but that aching is always matched by the panging in her chest, as she wonders: will her eyes ever sparkle with love, or is she destined only to watch?  

CONNECTIONS:

The Smuggler: They’re your go-to whenever a client requests something very, very special. Whether your customers are hoping to see green fairies flit by on their wedding day, a bit of snow to get a stag started, or fine Russian vodka and a spot of caviar to impress friends from the office, you can rely on your friend from the quais.

The Heiress: You used to be a part of their world, once upon a time. Sometimes, you regret leaving it all behind... they remind you of the best of it, and now and then, you enjoy the chance to share a drink and reminisce about the good old days. Over plans for their next soirée, but still.

The Scourge:They can be gruff, intimidating, even. But they’ve been nothing but polite to you, and keep the neighborhood around your shop well patrolled, your bright windows and delicate blooms and cash box comfortably protected. In thanks, you make sure their desk is never without one of your fresh flower arrangements; a small token of your gratitude. 

Faceclaim & Pronouns: Sarah Gadon, she/her

The Effervescent is taken by Tasha, she/her.

[anneesfollesrpg]

                                          「VIVIENNE MOREAU 」

                  58  •  PUBLIC  •  TAKEN BY AMY

DIRECT FROM LE PETIT JOURNAL:

Vivienne Moreau’s name is one that has frequently graced the pages of the Journal, in many configurations. After years entertaining the theatrically inclined, and even more years smiling on the arms of no less then 4 husbands, news of Madame Moreau adopting anything less than a delightfully lively, scandalous lifestyle would have us wringing our collective hands in distress. If you’re lucky enough to attend one of her soirées, you’ll be in for a wild ride. Paris’ best, brightest, and most bizarre have wandered through her door over the last several decades - you never know who you might see, sipping champagne or reveling in her company.

ABOUT:

From an early age, it seemed that no one in Paris was more destined to be in the public eye than Vivienne Moreau. As a child, she craved nothing more than to follow her father into the theatre, bringing delight to the masses with her sensitive and intelligent performing. How the crowds would clap and cheer! How they would cry! She was bursting with excitement when the opportunity finally came her way, just shy of her 18th birthday. A spark of talent began to show through, and soon enough, the young Ms. Moreau had established a fulfilling career as an actress.

Unfortunately, things were not quite so rosy going forward. As Vivienne’s star rose, her family finances hung by a thread. Her father’s habit of spending his evenings among opium drenched gamblers meant that his wife and daughter were under constant pressure to keep the debt collectors at bay. By the time Vivienne was in her early twenties, things looked very dark indeed. How long, she had thought to herself on many a night, could they possibly go on like this?

The solution to her problem arrived in the form of an old colleague. An unsuccessful supporting player, Richard Jenkins had popped the question to Vivienne when she was 18. She’d turned him down then, but in the intervening years he had grown to be quite the catch. She was married for the first time at 21, and hand in hand, the theatrical couple of the 19th century rose to new heights. Three long runs of Shakespeare with Vivienne onstage and her husband by her side, and the Moreaus financial woes were but a hazy nightmare. All was perfect.

Until, that is, fortune intervened. Soon, the feminine half of the great husband and wife team began to get more and more calls to audition, just as her husband began to feel his wallet become thinner and thinner  – they no longer wanted the great star of Paris. Instead, his wife seemed a much more enticing idea. By the close of 1894, a highly public adultery trial freed the pair from their dysfunctional union. The first of many.

Vivienne’s next brush with romance came during a run as Hermione in A Winter’s Tale –  a man with gleaming teeth and a tremendously full pocket book. Antoine DuBois haunted the stage door, with his money and his stupid, puppyish grin until she was utterly besotted. Before long, his appearances were accompanied by flowers, and then…a proposal. In many ways, she thought it could be a good match. She enjoyed the flattery of his attention, and he seemed enthralled with her.  A love like that must be worth throwing away your whole life for, she was convinced of it.

To say that the resulting union soured and grew loveless would be to make it sound far too exciting. It soon became apparent that there wasn’t much between them that could turn sour or grow loveless. Rather, Antoine realized he was more in love with the heroines he had seen onstage than the woman who played them, and Vivienne threw herself into adjusting to a new life – if only to distract herself from how dreadfully dull she found her new husband.Yet another trial and a few years of recuperation later, Vivienne had all but sworn off of love for a while. Or, to be clear, she had sworn off of marriage. Leftover society parties, highly drunken industry get-togethers and general decadence became her bread and butter. Not that she minded the notoriety in the least.  

If only her darling, uptight actor-manager boss had been as relaxed about it as she was.To keep her out of the tabloids, they concocted a plan: Her good friend and frequent co-star had recently gotten into hot water about his own night life – in particular, who he spent it with – and had been deemed in need of a wife.

Enter Vivienne Moreau.

Marriage number three may not have involved dazzling passion – or even any romance at all, but husband and wife quickly became inseparable, building a near-impenetrable ruse. By 1909, however, her husband set his sights on the world of film – this time, she took the fall for infidelity. One of the best performances of her career, she thought: just her, a cash-strapped colleague and a private detective staging a cracking newspaper story in a dingy hotel.

As always, the now thrice-divorced Vivienne soldiered on, meeting everyone of note their was to find. On her arm for close to 10 years was her longest-serving husband, the great and terrible critic Jean Mercier. A turbulent match, and not always a sunny one. Maybe, she began to think, she just wasn’t destined for love after all.

Since the end of both the Great War and her final marriage, Vivienne has floated between the many worlds she’s acquired keys to – one night in society, then one on the stage, then one in the bowels of Paris nightlife. She always has company in the form of the constantly shifting collection of young bohemians who occupy her many, many guest rooms for the night. Perhaps, if you’re charming enough, you just might get to enter into her wild, ever-shifting orbit, too.

CONNECTIONS:

The Gilded Lily: You knew her what seems like eons ago, when you were both in very, very different places in your lives. You enjoy her company still, you must admit. When you need to forget about the world entirely, she’s there. You do worry about her, just slightly, but you try not to let on very often - it would damage her pride too much.

The Sycophant: You took them under your wing when they needed it most, as you’ve done for plenty of wayward Parisians. Something about them has stayed with you – they have a certain energy, though you can’t be sure whether you enjoy it or not.

The Benefactor: They’ve  bankrolled several of the most recent productions you’ve starred in – and god, have they been terrible. You’re always courteous to them, but their requests and flashes of “genius” have begun to wear on your patience.

Faceclaim & Pronouns: Lesley Manville, she/her.

The Hostess is taken by Amy, she/her.

[anneesfollesrpg]

                                      「FLEUR BISSET 」

                   20  •  ROGUE  •  TAKEN BY ROWAN

TRIGGER WARNINGS: Mentions of parental death, war

DIRECT FROM LE PETIT JOURNAL:

There’s a rumour that certain wealthy gents have “lost” terribly expensive gems and other oddments after dancing with a lovely anonymous guest at one of those ever changing night clubs along Montparnasse. Who’s to say if it’s one particularly bold thief or a horde of petty criminals exploiting the inebriated idle wealthy. The gentlemen in question all seem a little too embarrassed to discuss it. And if one of the beautiful sapphics of Le Monocle is seen wearing a stunning gem? Well, darling, they can do such wonders with paste nowadays. 

ABOUT:

Fluer’s a home grown Parisian. Her life started with tragedy – her mother’s death in child birth – but, while she sensed the grief her father carried, his love and enthusiasm for the child that represented both his wife’s last gift to him and his only remaining way to honour her memory was stronger, and she had a genuinely happy childhood. She grew up secure in the knowledge that her dada, her grandparents, her teachers, and really, everyone she met, loved her. She was a bright, vivacious, energetic, perennially sunny child. Her father’s income as a tailor kept them comfortable and Fleur loved to help him in the shop and as she grew older run deliveries on her bike, though her father insisted that she attend school. 

When Fleur was eight, her father was called to war. At first, Fleur was only upset that she couldn’t go with him on such a grand adventure. She was proud of him, in his dashing uniform, and she looked forward to when he would come marching home. In the interim, staying with her very aged, very religious grandmother was dull but tolerable.  

Her father went missing in action two years into the war, two years later peace came and so did the fateful little envelope, though by then she had already known that he wasn’t coming home – that he was lost to her somewhere, churned into the charnel fields of Europe – even if her grandmother continued to exhort her to pray for him, as if that could save him. Fleur mouthed the words, as her father had taught her to on the holidays that absolutely required them to attend mass; but the combination of his wife’s death, his wide-ranging readings and his friends in the burgeoning communist party, had made her father an atheist and he had raised her to actively question religion, and she certainly found no comfort in the recitations. 

Very shortly after the official notice of her father’s death came, Fleur’s grandmother fell and broke her hip. She was laid up in bed and there was hushed murmuring as doctors and priests came and went and then she was dead. And then the worst shock of all. Her grandmother had bought prayers for herself and her son’s immortal souls with the complete endowment of the entire estate. Fleur was left with nothing but admittance to the good Catholic boarding school her Grandmother had also purchased, all without a word to Fleur or a thought to what Fleur wanted.  

Fleur did not thrive in the severe, punitive and controlling atmosphere. She rebelled, she fought, she grieved her father in a million angry ways. She had been too happy a childhood to resign herself to this fate, to accept the petty injustices and abuses of staff who saw the children under their care as the already damned, the spawn of sin. Ultimately, she quite literally ran away with the circus. Her deft fingers and tailoring knowledge convinced the circus folk that she was useful enough to feed.  

While working with the circus Fleur fell hard and fast for an older girl, the beautiful contortionist. Fleur stole her first purse half by accident, and gave the diamond ring in it to the object of her affection, giddy with the thrill of a risk well rewarded. Soon Fleur was spending every spare moment putting her deft fingers to work learning the trade of the cutpurse. She grew hooked on the excitement and emboldened by her love for the contortionist. 

The other girl had also run to the circus in an attempt to escape her past – an abusive pimp and an impossibly heavy debt to pay to the Milieu for her freedom. The lovebirds saved up every penny Fleur stole and planned to run away together, somewhere so far away – America! – that even the Milieu wouldn’t look for them. Fleur booked them a passage on a boat to the great port in Le Havre. But on the night they were to have left together, it wasn’t the contortionist who met her at the dock as planned. It was the pimp and several of his Milieu boys. Fleur never did find out exactly how they knew the where and how and why of it though the later the fact that the contortionist had already fled with all their savings and left only a note saying “I’m sorry” gave her some clue. She knew they would have killed her for the attempt to steal their property – if a certain river Captain hadn’t intervened. Conor Lynch cut all three of them down as they threatened her.  

So now Fleur is older and wiser and burdened with a life debt. And now, she steals for herself. Oh, she makes extravagant gifts to any number of handsome and beautiful women but only on her own whim. And she does the heart-breaking, and if anyone asks, she’s never had her own heart broken. She doesn’t save and she doesn’t make plans further than what she’s eating today and who she’s taking dancing tonight. Maybe she’s not quite as jaded and cynical and world weary as she fancies herself, but you’d have a hard time finding someone to argue that point. She’s living c’est la belle vie.   

CONNECTIONS:

The Smuggler: They’ve been a genuinely good friend to you, maybe even family - but you know you haven’t seen the worst of what they can do, and you’re not sure you want to. When they say you owe them one, it’s true. You just hope they never collect.

The Effervescent: Their romantic antics and delicate arts should make you laugh. So ridiculous! So fanciful! You thought it must be put-on, a show for their lovelorn customers. But it isn’t. All that joy is genuine, and so is the hurt, beneath it. It’s not often that you feel sorry for anyone, but they’re an exception. Besides, those parties they plan are fantastic places for you to ply your trade…

The Playboy:You were having an off day, and - so embarrassing - they caught you trying to sneak their billfold. But it could’ve gone worse. For some reason, they laughed it off, and, bafflingly, bought you a drink. They seem to enjoy the novelty of your company. You’re not sure if it’s mutual, but, to your own surprise, you’re willing to consider the possibility.  

Faceclaim & Pronouns: Katie Findlay, she/her

The Cutpurse is taken by Rowan, they/them.

[anneesfollesrpg]

                                           「CONOR LYNCH 」

                   36  •  ROGUE  •  TAKEN BY GRAY

DIRECT FROM LE PETIT JOURNAL:

Such strange things washing up on the banks of the Seine, these days! One such scrap of flotsam is our Captain Lynch, drifted all the way from Ireland. That new republic, you understand. New, and blood-soaked - like those fields he braved during la Grande Guerre, to, we hear, fine distinction. Yes, the Captain’s certainly survived his share of tumult, no mistake; but, don’t fret, dear readers. Strife, it seems, has only made Mr. Lynch more appreciative of all the world has to offer, dulling neither his peculiar charms nor his sense for business. We trust that both will continue to flow briskly along the quais of Paris for so long as we enjoy his delightfully droll company and dutiful riverside service. Both are a welcome addition to our lovely scene. 

ABOUT:

It’s hardly any surprise that a boy born to nothing - no name, no family - would fall so fully into the arms of something as seductive as freedom fighting, a battle of great odds, furious rage, and a hope so bright it burned. Such were the campaigns of those fiery nationalists young Conor O’Loingsigh rode beside. At first, it was the Land War; harrying the landlords of rural Ireland, striking back for all those left battered and homeless by the ruthless evictions of the age. Then, as the fight for Home Rule roared through Westminster, his work for the cause became more clandestine. The Irish Volunteers needed to arm themselves, like those boys in Ulster. Conor would be part of the crews sent to secure those arms, running German guns into Irish ports. Then, he’d drill with the rest. War was coming. He’d be ready. 

Only, when it came, it wasn’t the war he and his comrades had been expecting. Europe rode to battle before Ireland did. With Home Rule sitting on the books of Parliament, not-quite tangible, the men Conor had followed for so long told their soldiers to take up for a different cause, proving their dedication, Ireland’s dedication. So he went. But it wasn’t an Irish army he fought for, in the horror of mud and blood that the continent had become. No, Conor trudged through hell, and back, and through and back again, and again, for years, under British command, surviving as his brothers were maimed and killed. As the revolution they’d been waiting for erupted, and failed, at home. As that hideous war dragged on, and on, and finally ended. 

There would be another, though. And another. All of them, he’d fight - for these wars, at least, were truly his. The Irish War of Independence burst ablaze, hoping to succeed where that Easter Rising had stumbled. So much was won, and so much lost - to compromise, Partition. And to the Civil War, that followed. Split and torn, the people Conor had fought alongside and for turned on each other. And at the end… what was there but the great divide? But more of this, to wait for? More Irish blood on Irish hands. Not for Conor. Not anymore.

So, he returned to the water. To France, somehow. He hadn’t planned it. But Paris was a charming old town, and he’d only seen it from the Front. As a simple sailor, Conor put in his hours and made his way. Until some beaux voyous decided to throw their weight around the boatyard. The fleet would do their jobs now, they said. Move their absinthe, a little Turkish opium, some Egyptian hashish. The sort of shipments that could land a man in some rotten gaol for years, or cut open on the quais, if a rival gang realized. It was strangely simple, the answer that occurred to Conor. He liked the work. The river. The only way to keep that, and the rhythm it brought to his days, was to fight for it. So he did. Without warning, mercy, or any officers to answer to. 

Since then, for three years, now, Conor’s kept ahold of an overwhelming share of the illicit trade that chugs along the Seine, all the way to Le Havre, leaning into the tricks he learned running the guns that killed his countrymen. From cognac to caviar to cocaine, and more, besides, his boats have carried all manner of contraband - and while there have been interruptions, as one might expect, his tactics have ensured that such things come to a quick, decisive end. The sort that leaves the Catacombs a little fuller, usually. And so, business booms on with hardly a ripple. 

The good Captain’s in no hurry to retire, either. It’s not that he’s especially ambitious; really, the money seems a bit foreign to him, of distant interest, and many of his tastes remain… rather working class, really. No, he has no grand plans, so far as can be seen. He’s just satisfied to be where he is, knowing what the work demands of him - which just so happens to coincide, rather neatly, with what he’s good for. A fight, that is. The denizens of the city’s darker corners are well aware of the Captain’s reputation, bolstered by as much rumor as brutal fact. As for those who dwell under brighter lights, well. They’re not sure what to make of a foreign riverboat captain who’s come up so far in the world, and so far from home, as Conor has; but, even if they can’t bring themselves to consider him a gentleman, few would deny that he’s an engaging addition to any guest list. Full of surprises, that one. Isn’t he just?  

CONNECTIONS:

The Savior: The way people talk, it’s almost like this one’s different, or something. And not in a way you like. No, you’ve got no use for a good cop, if such a thing exists. They could be trouble, someday...

The Doctor: Hey, who are you to deny what the doctor orders? They do their part to line your pockets, and you don’t judge how they go about their practice. Honestly, they should probably take some of their own “medicine.” Seems a bit jittery, of late.

The Effervescent: Ah, one of your very best customers. And the most respectable. Their sparkling personality is genuinely charming, enough so that you’re willing to go out of your way to secure special orders for the many events they put together. Besides, you meet all sorts of interesting people around those parties. 

Faceclaim & Pronouns: Cillian Murphy, he/him

The Smuggler is taken by Gray, they/them.