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junker-town · 7 years ago

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2018 World Juniors rosters and key players to watch

The tournament begins Tuesday in Buffalo.

If you needed a warmup to get into international hockey before the 2018 Winter Olympics, the best young players in the world will have you covered at the 2018 World Junior Championship tournament. The United States will be looking to defend its title on home ice in Buffalo after a thrilling victory in Montreal a year ago.

The World Juniors is an annual under-20 tournament featuring junior national teams full of top prospects. It’s a great chance to watch some extremely gifted players in an intense competition as they represent their countries. Even if it’s not quite star-studded like an NHL-backed Olympic tournament would be, the talent level will be high.

And for NHL fans, the tournament is always a stellar opportunity to keep up with the future of the game. Many of the players in Buffalo will go on to become NHL stars. If you want to get a leg up on your friends when discussing the 2018 draft, then following the World Juniors is a good place to start.

With that in mind, here’s a quick look at every team competing in the 2018 World Juniors, along with a key player to watch on each roster. NHL rights are included in parenthesis.

United States

Roster

Forwards: Ryan Poehling (MTL), Brady Tkachuk, Josh Norris (SJS), Casey Mittelstadt (BUF), Joey Anderson (NJD), Kailer Yamamoto (EDM), Patrick Harper (NSH), Logan Brown (OTT), Kieffer Bellows (NYI), Riley Tufte (DAL), Trent Frederic (BOS), Max Jones (ANA)

Defensemen: Ryan Lindgren (BOS), Quinn Hughes, Adam Fox (CGY), Dylan Samberg (WPG), Scott Perunovich, Andrew Peeke (CBJ), Mikey Anderson (LAK)

Goaltenders: Jake Oettinger (DAL), Joseph Woll (TOR), Jeremy Swayman (BOS)

Key player to watch: Quinn Hughes

There are a lot of must-see talents on Team USA, including Mittelstadt, Norris, and Yamamoto, but Hughes stands out because you’ve probably never seen him before. The University of Michigan star is a top prospect for the 2018 NHL Draft, and projects as a possible top-five pick. He’s undersized but makes up for it with amazing skating and puck handling. This will be the first chance for a lot of fans to see him up close, which should be exciting.

Canada

Roster

Forwards: Dillon Dube (CGY), Jonah Gadjovich (VAN), Boris Katchouk (TBL), Maxime Comtois (ANA), Taylor Raddysh (TBL), Tyler Steenbergen (ARI), Drake Batherson (OTT), Michael McLeod (NJD), Brett Howden (TBL), Sam Steel (ANA), Alex Formenton (OTT), Jordan Kyrou (STL), Robert Thomas (STL)

Defensemen: Jake Bean (CAR), Conor Timmins (COL), Cal Foote (TBL), Cale Makar (COL), Dante Fabbro (NSH), Kale Clague (LAK), Victor Mete (MTL)

Goaltenders: Carter Hart (PHI), Colton Point (DAL)

Key player to watch: Robert Thomas

Team Canada lacks the usual star power you’d expect from the world’s biggest hockey powerhouse, but it’s still a solid roster full of top prospects. Thomas, the No. 20 overall pick in the 2017 draft, stands out given his scorching start in the OHL. The versatile center has 46 points in 27 games for the London Knights after averaging a point per game last season.

Sweden

Roster

Forwards: Marcus Davidsson (BUF), Tim Soderlund (CHI), Glenn Gustafsson, Elias Pettersson (VAN), Linus Lindstrom (CGY), Fredrik Karlstrom (DAL), Alexander Nylander (BUF), Isac Lundestrom, Jesper Boqvist (NJD), Axel Jonsson Fjallby (WAS), Lias Andersson (NYR), Fabian Zetterlund (NJD), Oskar Steen (BOS)

Defensemen: Rasmus Dahlin, Erik Brannstrom (VGK), Timothy Liljegren (TOR), Linus Hogberg (PHI), Gustav Lindstrom (DET), Jesper Sellgren, Jacob Moverare (LAK)

Goaltenders: Filip Gustavsson (PIT), Filip Larsson (DET), Olle Eriksson Ek (ANA)

Key player to watch: Rasmus Dahlin

Get ready to hear his name over and over. Rasmus Dahlin. It’s a great name for a prospect so talented he’s like the Connor McDavid of defensemen. Dahlin already has a treasure trove of ridiculous highlights on YouTube and he doesn’t turn 18 until April. The consensus projected No. 1 overall pick for the 2018 NHL Draft is a special prospect, and he’ll be a leader for Sweden despite being one of the youngest players on the team. Expect this to be a fun precursor to his leading role in Pyeongchang before he makes his NHL debut next fall.

Russia

Roster

Forwards: Vitali Abramov (CBJ), Andrei Altybarmakan (CHI), Georgi Ivanov, Artur Kayumov (CHI), Klim Kostin (STL), Mikhail Maltsev (NJD), Artyom Manukyan, Alexei Polodyan, German Rubtsov (PHI), Marsel Sholokhov, Dmitri Sokolov (MIN), Andrei Svechnikov

Defensemen: Nikolai Knyzhov, Nikita Makeyev, Artyom Minulin, Dmitri Samorukov (EDM), Alexander Shepelev, Vladislav Syomin, Anatoli Yelizarov, Yegor Zaitev (NJD)

Goaltenders: Vladislav Sukhachyov, Mikhail Berdin (WPG), Alexei Melnichuk

Key player to watch: Andrei Svechnikov

There’s little doubt who will be the star player for Russia in Buffalo. Svechnikov is widely expected to be the first forward selected in the 2018 NHL Draft. The 18-year-old has 14 goals in 16 games with the OHL’s Barrie Colts this season, and could be a prime contender to lead the tournament in scoring if Russia can make a deep run. Between Dahlin, Svechnikov, and Hughes, you’ll potentially be able to see the top three draft picks for next year.

Finland

Roster

Forwards: Juha Jaaska, Janne Kuokkanen (CAR), Otto Koivula (NYI), Kristian Vesalainen (WPG), Joona Koppanen (BOS), Eetu Tuulola (CGY), Eeli Tolvanen (NSH), Markus Nurmi (OTT), Aapeli Rasanen (EDM), Joni Ikonen (MTL), Aleksi Heponiemi (FLA), Jere Innala, Rasmus Kupari

Defensemen: Miro Heiskanen (DAL), Robin Salo (NYI), Eemeli Rasanen (TOR), Juuso Valimaki (CGY), Olli Juolevi (VAN), Urho Vaakanainen (BOS), Henri Jokiharju (CHI), Kasper Kotkansalo (DET)

Goaltenders: Ukko-Pekka Luukkonen (BUF), Lassi Lehtinen, Niilo Halonen

Key player to watch: Miro Heiskanen

The Heiskanen hype train rolls into Buffalo this week. The Stars’ 2017 first-round pick is already playing a starring role in Finland’s top league at age 18 and will likely be the country’s top defenseman for the 2018 Winter Olympics in February. Heiskanen has elite-level NHL upside, and this will be his first chance to put it all on display for a North American audience.

Czech Republic

Roster

Forwards: Filip Chytil (NYR), Filip Helt (STL), Martin Kaut, Krystof Hrabik, Petr Kodytek, Daniel Kurovsky, Jakub Lauko, Albert Michnac, Martin Necas (CAR), Radovan Pavlik, Kristian Reichel, Ostap Safin (EDM), Marek Zachar, Filip Zadina

Defensemen: Vojtech Budik (BUF), Jakub Galvas (CHI), Libor Hajek (TBL), Filip Kral, Radim Salda, Ondrej Vala (DAL)

Goaltenders: Milan Kloucek, Josef Korenar (SJS), Jakub Skarek

Key player to watch: Filip Zadina

The Czech Republic boasts a pair of 2017 first-round picks in Chytil and Necas, but its best player may be Zadina, the 2018 draft-eligible prospect who projects as a potential top-five pick. He’s been adjusting to the North American game this season with 46 points in 32 games in the QMJHL, and NHL.com gives him a (likely unreasonable) comparison to Patrick Kane. This could be a breakout opportunity for the 18-year-old.

Denmark

Roster

Forwards: Jacob Schmidt-Svejstrup, Valdemar Ahlberg, Christian Mathiasen-Wejse, Jonas Rondbjerg (VGK), Lucas Andersen, Nikolaj Krag (STL), Joachim Blichfeld (SJS), Daniel Nielsen, Andreas Grundtvig, David Madsen, Magnus Molge, Phillip Schultz, Christoffer Gath

Defensemen: Oliver Larsen, Malte Setkov (DET), Christian Larsen, Jakob Jessen, Jeppe Mogensen, Rasmus Heine, Lasse Mortensen

Goaltenders: Emil Gransoe, Mads Soegaard, Kasper Krog

Key player to watch: Jonas Rondbjerg

One of just two Golden Knights prospects in the tournament, Rondbjerg will also likely be Denmark’s best player. The 2017 third-round pick is already playing a steady role with the Vaxjo Lakers in the SHL, Sweden’s top league, as an 18-year-old. He has seven points in 25 games this season.

Slovakia

Roster

Forwards: Erik Smolka, Samuel Bucek, Viliam Cacho, Filip Krivosik, Milos Kelemen, Adam Liska, Marian Studenic (NJD), Peter Kundrik, Adam Ruzicka (CGY), Samuel Solensky, Alex Tamasi, Milos Roman

Defensemen: Tomas Hedera, Martin Bodak, Martin Fehervary, Marek Korencik, David Matejovic, Michal Ivan, Vojtech Zelenak, Samuel Fereta

Goaltenders: David Hrenak, Jakub Kostelny, Roman Durny

Key player to watch: Adam Ruzicka

Part of the dying breed of big-bodied power forwards, Ruzicka might’ve gone higher than No. 109 overall in the 2017 draft if he had been playing this well a year ago. The 6’4, 203-pound winger has a team-leading 20 goals and 142 shots on goal in 34 games for the OHL’s Sarnia Sting. He’ll be leaned on heavily on the power play for a team looking to improve upon last year’s eighth-place finish.

Belarus

Roster

Forwards: Viktor Bovbel, Vladislav Ryadchenko, Alexander Lukashevich, Igor Martynov, Arseni Astashevich, Sergei Pishuk, Yegor Sharangovich, Ivan Drozdov, Vladislav Mikhalchuk, Maxim Sushko (PHI), Artyom Anisimov, Ilya Litvinov, Dmitri Grinkevich

Defensemen: Andrei Gostev, Vladislav Sokolovski, Dmitri Deryabin, Vladislav Martynyuk, Vladislav Yeryomenko, Dmitri Burovtsev, Vladislav Gabrus

Goaltenders: Dmitri Rodik, Andrei Grishenko, Vikita Tolopilo

Key player to watch: Maxim Sushko

Belarus only has one player whose rights are held by an NHL team, so it’s not difficult to pick which player to focus on. Sushko, the Flyers’ 2017 fourth-round pick, is a talented winger with 16 goals in 28 games for the OHL’s Owen Sound Attack this season. He’s not going to get much help in Buffalo, but he’s worth keeping an eye on.

Switzerland

Roster

Forwards: Nicolas Muller, Guillaume Maillard, Marco Miranda, Justin Sigrist, Ken Jager, Valentin Nussbaumer, Axel Simic, Sven Leuenberger, Nando Eggenberger, Philipp Kurashev, Andre Heim, Marco Cavalleri, Dario Rohrbach

Defensemen: Simon le Coultre, Davyd Barandun, Tobias Geisser, Nico Gross, Elia Riva, Tim Berni, Dominik Egli

Goaltenders: Matteo Ritz, Akira Schmid, Philip Wuthrich

Key player to watch: Tobias Geisser

Switzerland is a candidate for relegation by the end of this tournament, and its lack of potential NHL talent is a bit reason why. Nico Hischier is no longer around to carry this group, which finished seventh a year ago. The one guy who stands out is Geisser, a 2017 fourth-round pick by the Capitals who brings a ton of size (6’4, 201 pounds) and a big shot to the table.

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toutmontbeliard-com · 8 months ago

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Equi Axone à l’Axone de Montbéliard

L’association Equi Axone vous donne rendez-vous à l’Axone de Montbéliard du samedi 18 mai 2024 au lundi 20 mai 2024 pour 3 jours de spectacles équestres époustouflants. Vous aurez le plaisir de retrouver, lors de plusieurs représentations, Guillaume Mauvais - Les Comtois en Folie, originaires de Maîche (25) et la Compagnie Christophe et Max Hasta Luego tout droit venue de Nîmes (30). Des voltigeurs intrépides aux cascades à couper le souffle, en passant par des démonstrations de dressage combinées à l’art du théâtre, ne manquez pas ces rendez-vous magiques Equi Axone à l’Axone de Montbéliard du samedi 18 mai 2024 au lundi 20 mai 2024. infos > www.axone-montbeliard.fr Read the full article

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toutmontbeliard-com · 11 months ago

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Equi Axone annoncé à l’Axone de Montbéliard

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ellebeebee · 8 years ago

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Guillaume Comtois, Revairan diplomat, spends a day fixing the mistake of an underling. Unfortunately, this day has more significance for him than he generally allows himself to acknowledge.

5213 words, various pairings referenced (m/m and f/m), mild warning for language

Lord Guillaume Comtois, Under-Ambassador at the Revairan Embassy in management of domestic affairs, was just putting in his left cufflink when his butler Yates knocked on his bedroom door.

“Come in,” Guillaume stated. His manservant Henri hovered at his shoulder, holding up his coat for the day with his clean white gloves. The black silk had been carefully brushed and held not even the smallest speck of lint.

Yates cracked the door open. He’d worked under the previous butler for fifteen years. The previous butler had worked for the Comtois house for nearly sixty. Nobility and their servants tended toward lifelong affairs with one another.

“Sir,” Yates said quietly. “A Mister Morel from the embassy to see you. He says it’s urgent.”

Guillaume frowned at him.

“Did he say what about?”

“No, sir.”

“Sun’s barely up, and he’s already pushing a new crisis on me?”

“Shall I send him away?”

“No,” Guillaume stated. He gestured to Henri and let him help him with his coat. “Human life presever happens to be my chief responsibility.”

Yates followed him out the door and down the dark-carpeted hall lined the portraits of all the Comtois lords and ladies from the ages, human layers down to the depths of the Great Wars. Some of them shared the dark sepia skin, the broad and pronounced cheekbones, and the lush lips that he had inherited. As Guillaume climbed down his grand stairway with sharp, quick taps from his hard heels, Morel at the bottom stared up at him uneasily.

“What is it now?” Guillaume said, his voice echoing in the wide and high foyer.

Morel coughed nervously, fiddling with his hat in his hands. A few years younger than Guillaume, but from the sort of family that had been ingrained into the diplomatic service for aeons. And had the good sense to adapt quickly to changing policies, changing regimes. Morel, nervous and blatantly ginger-haired, had hung on to his position and stumbled up promotions by din of his people skills. In other words, he didn’t mind being the butt of the jokes of foreign dignitaries and letting them outdrink him.

“Ah, sir,” Morel said. “There was-- well, I was at the-- the thing is--”

“You were at the Starre last night, playing nursemaid to that Fetti-- Fettiman person-- That Arlish pompous bootlicker.”

“Lord Fettiplace. And I was at the Starre with him. And the Corbet brothers, and--”

“Get to the point, Morel.”

The younger man did that jerky nervous cough again. “Okay, well. You know how I’ve been using that Bathurst grandson-- the one with the doctorate, because Fettiman-- Fettiplace fancies himself some sort of trade genius.”

“Yes, and Jon Bathurst had strict instructions to dumb it down for the man,” Guillaume said. His tone was getting more and more clipped and polite, in the way that meant his inner ire was growing.

Morel licked his lips. “Yes, well. We all got a little-- well, a lot drunk and forgot to keep Bathurst from getting drunk, and then he and Fettiplace got into it--”

Guillaume raised a hand, and Morel shut up, the whites of his eyes gone broad.

“Just tell me how bad it is,” Guillaume stated.

“Ah,” Morel started. “We may have all begun chanting at him, ‘Revairan mores for Arlish whores’ at one point. Or maybe it was Revairan whores. I don’t quite, um, remember.”

Guillaume closed his eyes and exhaled. All in all, it was far too early in the morning to have such a tension headache coming on. When he reopened his eyes, Morel was staring at him anxiously.

His jaw shifting, he said, low and calm, “I will fix this. I want you to go home. In fact, I want you to go home for the next two weeks until Lord Fettiplace gets back on a boat to whatever dull hole he crawled from. And you had better pray that it’s still two weeks from now, and not this afternoon.”

Morel opened and closed his mouth. Finally, he nodded.

“Yes, sir,” he said.

He made a sort of half bow. Henri had reappeared with his hat, which Guillaume took.

Putting on his own, Morel gestured to the door as the doorman opened it. “I’m going toward the embassy, shall I walk you part way?”

Guillaume stopped on the threshold to stare back at the man. The freckles on Morel’s neck seemed to scatter and contract as his adam’s apple bobbed.

“Or I can take the scenic route,” Morel stated, slightly pitchy.

“That would be advisable,” Guilluame answered with a hard smile.

Despite Yates’s polite reminder (read: admonition) that he hadn’t had breakfast, Guillaume left his city manor for the quiet lane his family had spent decades and decades of social seasons on. The sky still held that delicate touch of violet and canary yellow of the early hours of morning, which belonged to the laundresses carrying large sacks of their livelihood on their hips. The hours that belonged to the manservants taking gaggles of white yipping lapdogs out of their mistresses’ hair. It would be hours yet before the nobility took to the parks or the shops.

Guillaume crossed two streets over and passed a few blocks of well-to-do white cake-topper mansions. He stopped at the Namaire manor.

“Darling, it is far too early in the morning for such angry requests,” Sabine stated.

She was seated in her sunny morning room, tawny with dark curls half-up and wearing a dressing coat too elaborate for so early in the day. But she was never one to be told there was a certain protocol for overwrought embroidery. The baroness stared at him over a steaming teacup. Guillaume sighed and unbuttoned the bottom button of his coat as he sat across from her.

“It was not an angry request,” he said.

He waved away a servant when he tried to give him a setting for the breakfast array on the table. Sabine beckoned the servant back.

“Your face says otherwise,” she stated. “Eat. You clearly need the sustenance.”

“If it’s too much of an imposition--”

“I didn’t say that,” Sabine said. “It’s just that I had all these lovely little plans today. I’d like more details if I’m going to cancel them.”

Guillaume accepted a cup of tea and a slice of delicious smelling quiche. This gesture of obedience seemed to please her, as the baroness smiled for once. He gave her back the false smile that she always knew was false but also made light of his inner wrath. She laughed.

He took a sip of tea. “Really, it doesn’t have to be anything elaborate. You know Jan Allard, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she said. “Through Didier. You want me to invite him?”

“Allard, yes. Didier, no,” Guillaume said. “I need Jan Allard, a casual affair-- not a full dinner or anything too obvious, and you and all your charming glory.”

She gave raised a brow at him. “Outright flattery. You’re really giving it the hard sell. Either that or this person we’re wooing has somehow beguiled you shamelessly.”

“It’s not that sort of wooing,” he stated. “It’s more along the lines of ‘you could take your trade agreement to Corval because some idiot minor diplomat here insulted you, but look-- something shiny, woo.’”

He made appropriate finger motions at the sound effect. Sabine laughed, falling to the back of her chair.

“You really are in a state today,” she said, giggling. “Fine. Who is this mystery man of the hour?”

“Lord Nealson Fettiplace, of Arland. Member of the Arlish royal secretariat, liason between the treasury and various embassies. I say ‘various’ because it seems that his self-righteous pontificating on things he has little understanding of gets him politely shoved off into the pools of some other unsuspecting diplomatic corps with alarming regularity.”

“Arlish?” Sabine said. “Are you sure about this? They’re terrified of widows over there. Think we’re all soul-sucking harpies or something.”

“That or they’re banking on it,” Guillaume said drily.

She put down her teacup and frowned at him. “No need to be so crude. It’s morning.”

“You brought it up,” he returned.

Sabine gave him a look. He gazed back placidly. And then they both couldn’t help snorting and grinning at each other.

“Trust me,” Guillaume stated. “He’s the type to think he’s being worldly or something by gracing your home.”

“Charming,” Sabine said. She shook her head with exaggerated primness. “Alright. A little gathering just thrown together-- my, aren’t you a fascinating person, Lord Fettiworth--”

“Fettiplace.”

“Fettiplace,” she agreed solemnly.

Guillaume stood and rebuttoned his jacket. He rounded the table to her chair, and bent to kiss her on the cheek.

“Thank you,” he told her.

She gazed up at him. Something passed in her eyes, and she took his hand in one of hers.

“Guillaume...” she hesitated. “Today is…”

He lightly squeezed her hand. He didn’t exactly warn her with his eyes, but she must have understood all the same. She smiled in a thin way.

She exhaled. “Well. You may as well go on. I have an impromptu run-in with Allard on my itinerary and other arrangements to make.”

Guillaume nodded and left the Namaire city manor for the slightly busier lane. The Lorraine manse faced directly across the way, but Hugo Lorraine was out playing polo and failing at hunting out in the countryside for about a week. Hugo never got up before noon, anyway. And Guillaume had better uses of his time than having his ear chattered off by the ninny-headed prat. Why were they friends again?

Pulling his hat more snugly against his close-cropped scalp, Guillaume went on. It was a bit more of a walk to the embassy from Sabine’s than from his own street, and he spent the time ruminating about all that he had to do.

The Royal Embassy of Revaire resided in a relatively new building compound, only two centuries old, that had been built after that particularly nasty Corvali invasion which reached as far inland as the capital. The previous embassy had been burned and pillaged, and the new one sprawled across nearly an entire block that was a stone’s throw from the royal palace. No one could be mistaken about the Crown’s shadow eternally falling on the business of diplomatic relations.

Guillaume climbed rapidly up the broad expanse of steps into the embassy, nodding to the men and women he knew. At this hour, most were the commoners at assistance jobs and the more minor secretary positions; the nobles who held the majority of the higher ranks rarely came in before the lunch hour. He made it all the way across the over-large and over-decorated foyer that nearly defeaned you with echoes during the busiest hours (read: end of the day rush out), up the stairs to his floor, and half-way down the dark-purple south wing that held the domestic Revairan ambassadors before he was stopped for a conversation.

“Lord Comtois,” said the Skaltan man exiting a door to his left.

“Secretary Urel,” Guillaume returned with a practised smile.

Urel of Skalt had not actually returned to his homeland in nearly a decade. His father was an Arlish merchant’s son that had gotten “kidnapped” by a Hisean captain and after a few years at sea deposited in Skalt rather than returned to Arland. A Skaltan warrior had married him, and subsequently “divorced” (as their country did allow) when the relationship soured. Urel, the product of this relationship, ended up taking diplomatic positions for his tribe at quite a young age. He’d spent eight years in Corval and the last eighteen months in Revaire.

Urel wore traditional tattoos across his hands, a fine Corvali cloak over a somewhat unusual Revairan suit, and a full head of mahogany curls.

“Early bird gets the worm?” Urel smiled, his gray eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Something along those lines,” Guillaume stated drily. “You’ve done well, I heard. Handling the treasury and the exchange rates.”

“Well for my country or yours?” he returned, teeth flashing.

“That remains to be seen, doesn’t it? Promises of fine knowledge and miraculous remedies is one thing, but producing realities…”

“That is the kicker, isn’t it?” Urel laughed lightly. “Well, certainly makes my negotiated rate all the more impressive, no?”

“Certainly.”

“In fact,” Urel continued with his eyes narrowing and that particular dancing smile flitting about his well-featured face. “I was thinking of you during the talks.”

Guillaume did not register a bit of surprise in his expression, did not look around to see if others were listening. You learned long ago not to draw attention at these moments; either that or suffer suspicion and ridicule stemming from your own ineptitudes. The hall was broad and empty, anyway; only their reflections across the polished marble floor kept them company.

Guillaume’s jaw shifted. “Really? And here I thought I had left your regard completely.”

Urel tilted his head slightly with an apologetic and charming smile. “On the contrary. Nothing could be further from the truth. I’ve always admired your negotiation skills.”

“I don’t know,” Guillaume said carefully. “Your experience in these matters seem much more useful than any skill I could claim.”

The Skaltan diplomat chuckled as he took a step closer. “Either way, I’ve enjoyed my time here and I’m planning to stay longer. In the future, I hope I can count on your friendship.”

Guillaume smiled, aware of Urel’s proximity and all the things it brought with it (scent and that unbearable unseen pressure). Like a warm lake, deep and dark.

“Of course,” he returned instead with all due protocol.

“Are you free for lunch?” Urel asked lightly.

Guillaume paused. Behind them, a pair of under-secretaries passed down the hall with ringing heels and a quiet conversation. Guillaume took his own step forward, as if he were going to pass the other man by completely, but stopped to turn his head until they were nearly bumping noses.

He whispered, “If you want to screw, you don’t have to act like you’re courting me. You don’t have to ask me to lunch, or to tea, or the club. And no, I’m unavailable today.”

Urel considered him.

They’d met, over a year ago now, not long after Urel had first arrived in Revaire. It had begun rather quickly; an invitation to the club, the next week an invitation back home for a nightcap. And then the ridiculous circus of highs and lows, suddenly waxing and waning interest. It was understandable in a way; they did not have the luxury of freedom from social judgment, and to have an interest at all outside of marriage vows had opprobriums. But still.

Guillaume did not appreciate being toyed with.

“Perhaps next week,” Urel stated.

“We’ll see,” Guillaume returned.

They tipped hats to one another and went on their ways.

At his section’s office, he gave his cloak and hat to an assistant and knocked on the open doorframe of Baron Savagn’s personal office. The older man, with a terra-cotta swarthiness and a frame given to bulk, glanced up at his entrance through little gold rimmed round spectacles. He slapped down the sheaf of papers to his desk’s ink-stained green felt blotter.

“Morel went to you?” the baron asked.

“The most charming of wake-up calls,” Guillaume answered. “I’ll handle it.”

“Good,” Savagn stated.

That was a dismissal. Baron Savagn ran his section of Revairan domestic diplomats with a hands-off policy that tended to weed out complete incompetents. If you couldn’t at least float in this pool of piranhas, then you were quickly rid of by the brunt of your own mistakes. It suited Guillaume quite well; he could take his own prerogatives rather than have some nepotistic fool who’s forefathers had been bumbling through the exact some job for generations breathing down his neck.

Guillaume spent the rest of the morning riffling through Morel’s notes on Fettiplace for all the good that did him (read: they did no good at all). And he sent a note to an acquaintance among the Arlish envoy that owed him a favor: instructions to stop Fettiplace in the foyer at day’s end by whatever means necessary (note: the sort of triteness that passed for conversation with the man).

Around noon, a messenger delivered a card from Sabine:

Cards. I hope the man is good at winning, because we are very good at losing, aren’t we, dear? Light repast at the game table, wine yes or no? Lovely Jan sends his regards.

He told her yes to the wine, but to keep it pale and innocent-looking; rieslings and chardonnays.

In the afternoon, Guillaume wandered to the Covali wing (which overlooked the embassy’s one garden, the rich bastards), to ostensibly check up on some gossip. In reality, he was feeling the waters on the subject of the one crucial trade agreement Fettiplace had his grubby little hands on. The verdict: Corvali opinions were obtuse, useless, and mildly threatening. As usual.

Four candlemarks past noon, and the ambassadors and secretaries began filing out of their offices to linger in the halls and community areas for those end of the day conversations which mattered as much as the day’s work at times. Guillaume gave his apologies to the men and women in his section, and calmly strode through the maze of corridors for the embassy’s main foyer.

“Fanny Luyten,” Guillaume called when he spotted his target.

The Arlish under-secretary looked up at his greeting. Fanny Luyten occupied a position in which she was decidedly outnumbered. Arland maintained a definite baseline for their ambassadors: noble, rich, conservative, and male. Fanny had the disadvantage of being none of these and the great mystery of having overcome all of them. Guillaume was curious about her story but knew only half of it and doubted anyone would ever know the full of it.

“Lord Comtois, good evening,” Fanny Luyten smiled and curtsied at his approach. Her skin shone golden against black hair, her dress formal, clean-lined, and high-collared. She turned to her companion beside her. “Lord Fettiplace, may I introduce Lord Guillaume Comtois, Revairan Under-Ambassador. Lord Comtois, Lord Nealson Fettiplace of Arland’s royal secretariat.”

The gentlemen exchanged bows.

“Lord Fettiplace, your reputation proceeds you,” Guillaume said, flashing a white smile.

“Mmm, I’m afraid you have the better of me then, sir,” the Arlish dignitary said. He had a way of standing, with his large and rather poofed red cravat, his chest thrust forward and one hand tucked into the interior of his waistcoat, that reminded one of some sort of bird. The complex and singular curl laying across his forehead did little to repair this image.

“That is often the case, sir,” Fanny interjected. “Lord Comtois seems to know all occupants of the room no matter the occasion. He is quite--”

“Yes, Revairans do seem to know a lot, don’t they,” Fettiplace interrupted with a bit more force than the light conversation called for. When Guillaume and Fanny smiled politely at him during the pause, he added, “About things. All sorts, it would seem.”

“Well!” Fanny said brightly, ignoring the awkwardness entirely. “You said you had a carriage waiting, Lord Comtois?”

“Yes, the baroness was kind enough to send one,” Guillaume replied. He turned back to Fettiplace. “Are you engaged this evening, my lord? I have heard you have fascinating views on international trade and would love to hear more. My friend, the Baroness of Namaire, is having a small gathering tonight and invited myself and Miss Luyten here. Cards, I think, and a light dinner. You are welcome to join.”

“Who?” Fettiplace all but demanded of Fanny beside him.

“The Baroness of Namaire. Earlier, Countess Ylda and Lord Farrow were discussing a gala she held not long ago.”

Fettiplace tapped his elaborately topped walking cane with two decided knocks. “Oh yes, the widow.”

Guillaume smiled over his own inner bristling. “I think Jan Allard will be there. Do you know of his work, my lord?”

Fettiplace sputtered a bit, Of course-- everyone in my field knows Jan Allard and The Seven Components of Controlled Trade, and without much further prompting he followed them to the carriage Sabine had sent. Many exclamations were made over how honored they all were to have such a guest as Fettiplace among them. Thank heavens the trip to the Namaire mansion was short, as the Arlish dignitaries puffing up as Guillaume and Fanny ooh’d over his circuitous expounding on market forces became an entirely untenable charade.

Of course, as they were ushered into one of her lounges, Sabine dazzled them with her usual charm and warmth. And Guillaume’s opinion of Fettiplace solidified as he watched the Arlish dignitary be completely spellbound by Sabine’s long lashes and the pretty figure she cut. The man pretended to be immune and cool-headed about her smiles and sweet comments that greased the wheels of their conversation -- but it was obvious. Guillaume rather wanted to backhand the idiot.

Jan Allard seemed amused by the whole affair. The economist and writer had a square jaw and boyish freckles dancing across his masculine nose. Sabine must have primed Allard before their arrival, because he required little prompting to expound eloquently on his own theories, twisting them even to somehow feature Arland as a paragon of a judicious economic and political power.

“For example,” Allard was saying, “I’m sure Arland would never permit the humiliations to the institution of the crown as they do here in Revaire.”

“Here, here!” Fettiplace harrumphed. He was a little red from all the white wine and the winnings he’d pried from the card table.

“Just the other day, I was passing the Grand Square-- right in the center of our fair city-- where they were burning the latest pamphlet of that scoundrel Fox Foxley. You know him, my lord?”

“Rebellious firebrand of some sort, no?” Fettiplace sniffed.

Allard raised his glass in salute. “The very same, sir. Shameful stuff, sir. Just shameful. Spreading dissent and dissatisfaction in this sensitive time.”

“They ought to catch him and string him up!” Fettiplace barked.

Sabine brought a hand to her cheek and her face became the very picture of maidenly dismay. “Really, gentlemen, I appreciate such manly passion. But there are ladies present.”

Fettiplace coughed. “I apologize for offending your more delicate sensibilities, my lady.”

Sabine smiled at him with those sparkling blue eyes of hers. Fettiplace practically preened.

To Guillaume’s right, Fanny Luyten was trying to stifle a giggle. She leaned into the card table with a conspiratorial whisper.

“I’ve seen one of those pamphlets, sirs. And the man can write.”

Guillaume threw down his hand. “I’m out.” No one was really playing anymore, anyway. He continued, “Then it’s all the more shameful that such talents should be wasted.”

Jan Allard began chuckling. “Well, wasted talent or not-- it is bound to be dead talent soon enough. The Crown will run that Fox Foxley down with their dogs soon enough.”

Sabine interjected, her tone raised, “I believe that’s enough of such dreary talk, gentlemen. Lord Fettiplace, do you play the pianoforte? Come, we shall have music.”

Fettiplace stumbled along in the hostess’s wake to an adjacent music room. Fanny tagged along, altogether too amused by the spectacle of the Arlish man’s ponderous interpretation of a light Revairan ditty and Sabine’s whimsical singing, wandering from note to note with undue confidence.

Allard, still seated at the table with Guillaume, watched the scene down the long room and through a broad arch. The writer wore a half-smile. And the half-smile incrementally widened when Sabine glanced up at them from her position standing beside the seated Fettiplace.

Ah.

Allard turned back to Guillaume, getting up to take a seat directly next to him.

“You are shameless,” Guillaume told him, amused.

Allard raised a brow.

Guillaume shook his head. “It’s alright. She’s very careful. We won’t be overheard.” He waved vaguely around the candlelit room, the darkness outside having come creeping in to nurture the interior shadows. Guillaume grinned. “What was it? The Crown’s dogs will run you down?”

Allard laughed. “Did I sell it too hard?”

“Your head is going to roll for such stunts,” Guillaume told him, reaching for the wine and two glasses.

Allard accepted the offering. “I’m surprised it hasn’t already. Nice to hear that I actually have talent to waste, though.”

Guillaume considered him. “I suspect there was another pair of lips you’d rather have heard that from,” he said over his wine glass.

Allard, having had one eye on the scene in the other room and one ear on their conversation, turned fully to Guillaume at this.

“Look, I don’t want to step on any toes,” the writer said, low and apologetic. “I know she’s doing all this for you, and--”

Guillaume raised a hand to stop him. “Relax. It’s not like that between us.”

Allard’s broad shoulders visibly loosened. “Oh. It’s just you’re always something of a pair at social events--”

“We’re friends. We help each other out,” Guillaume smiled.

Pausing, the writer grinned slowly. He leaned in with twinkling (read: twinkling) eyes. “So? What do you think?”

Guillaume shook his head; they were all clearly feeling the wine. “She likes a brooding intellectual.”

Allard chuckled. “Well, I’m up a shit creek, then, pardon my Old Revairan, as I am clearly neither of those.”

The evening ended better than expected with Fettiplace sufficiently pampered and flattered. Guillaume did not approach the subject of the trade agreement; that wasn’t how this worked and he was comfortably assured that the man wasn’t running off on the next outbound ship for Corval. He would drop by the Arlish envoy in the morning to check on Fanny, say a brief hello to Fettiplace, and invite him to lunch later this week. One needed a certain amount of coyness, after all. Negotiation was a game of finding who needed the other more.

It was always obvious which was the loser in the end.

After the guests had been shuffled off in one of her coaches, Sabine tiredly dragged herself to her room. She lost her shoes at the foot of the first flight of stairs; someone would get them eventually. They were used to it, her dear staff. She was pulling her long earrings out when she pushed open her room’s door, and found Guillaume half-sprawled on a settee. She jumped, and dropped the lacey diamonds in her hand.

“Heavens, you startled me,” she scolded him as she bent to scoop up the earring.

Guillaume straightened a bit, looking owlish and tired and a bit crumpled. His collar hung loose and he’d also kicked his shoes off.

“Sorry,” he said. “Victoire let me in.”

“I thought you wandered away a while ago.”

He shrugged. She turned away to wet a cloth at her wash basin and wipe away at her makeup. He watched her: these simple domestic actions so rarely seen.

She was pulling pins out of her curls when he said, “Sabine.”

She looked at him. At his gesture she approached his settee and sat.

He leaned into her.

“Allard likes you,” he told her.

She sighed and curled her feet up underneath her, and made a bed of silk and tulle with her skirts that whispered and protested as Guillaume leaned into them.

“I know,” she said. “I know, and I shouldn’t. The Summit isn’t too far now.”

He glanced at her. At his look, she couldn’t help cracking a grin.

“I really shouldn’t.”

He snorted as she giggled softly.

Their laughter subsided into quiet. This had been the room she’d shared with the baron; she’d never changed rooms, even after his death. Guillaume had been to this house many times but could count on one hand the times he’d entered this room. He should feel like an intruder, an interloper. But he didn’t. Just like the nature of her marriage had changed through the years, the meaning and significance of this room, those portraits, and that bed had changed as well.

“It’s been six years,” Guillaume finally said. “Six years since his death this day.”

Sabine shifted. She put an arm around his shoulders.

“I thought--” she said slowly, pausing. “You’ve never wanted to talk about this before.”

Guillaume shrugged. “A mistake, I think. Do you mind?”

“No, of course not--” she stated. Her arm tightened around him and he closed his eyes.

“I spent years running after someone who was never going to give me what I needed,” Guillaume said. “It wasn’t much, I told myself. He’ll come around. I was too young and--”

He stumbled. “I was too young and in love to see that I needed to move on. I was foolish and blind, and it made me permissive to the way he treated me. I could blame him entirely, but in hindsight I know I should have been more honest about what I wanted. To him, and most of all to myself.”

He leaned further into her shoulder, and she rested her cheek against his temple.

“Oh, darling,” she whispered.

“I just needed a few words,” Guillaume continued. “That’s all. I didn’t need a promise or some grand gesture. I see now I was actually asking for the hardest thing. But he didn’t have to make it so difficult for me to let go--”

He faltered. “He didn’t have to keep reaching for me.” He paused. “Well. I suppose I didn’t have to keep reaching back, either.”

He snorted humorlessly.

“And then he had the nerve to die on me. And even after all these years, I will suddenly look up and miss him-- miss him like someone beating me bloody. Like someone stabbing me again and again. I don’t know how many times I’ve thought, fine, it would be fine if he kept using me, just please let him come back, if he were just here--”

He stopped. She’d begun crying, or was that him? He was very, very tired.

And it was all so difficult.

He woke to dim early morning sunbeams toying with those inexplicable dust motes silhouetted like little lives adrift in the cosmos.

They’d fallen asleep on the settee, clothed and rumpled, with her arm around him and him tucked into her chest. He sat up, sighing, and tried not to disturb her. But she still stirred and brought up a hand over her eyes, making a soft little unhappy grunt.

He scooted away, planting his feet back onto terra firma and leaning into his palms, elbows resting on his knees. He finally looked up to meet her gaze. He reached out, and she took his hand. Their fingers squeezed, reassuring in the pressure and realness.

“I love you,” she told him. “Nothing will ever mean more to me than your friendship.”

He gave her a look. “Knock on wood. You’ll make a liar of yourself one of these days.”

She returned to him her own pointed look. “I mean it. I love you.”

He smiled. “Thank you. I love you, too, Sabine.”

Their palms grew warm.

“Do you think Victoire could spirit me out of here? Unseen?”

“Embarrassed, are you? Very well, come along.”

“You know I didn’t mean--”

“Oh, I know what you meant, Guillaume Comtois--” she laughed.

He left the Namaire manse, not even dreading the sight of Lord Fettiplace later on that day.

#7kpp #fanfiction #my writing #guillaume comtois #alcohol tw

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ellebeebee · 8 years ago

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Lord Guillaume Comtois || The lord did nothing as uncouth as to shrug, but the gesture was in his tone all the same.

So, I’ve been thinking about my OC, Guillaume. More about him under the cut.

Thirty-one years old at the time of the game.

His father was the Revairan Lord Enzo Comtois, his mother half Jiyelean, half Corvali. Lady Hiyfa Comtois’s Jiyelean family are largely government officials, and her Corvali side are shareholders of the largest bank in Corval. After meeting at a summit, they had a distant if peaceful enough marriage, and two children: an elder daughter, Sidonie, and the younger son, Guillaume.

After the heir was born, Lord Enzo and Lady Hiyfa agreed to largely stay out of each others’ ways, and Guillaume’s childhood was spent at times in Revaire on the Comtois estate and alternately travelling with his mother. He has spent a few summers in Jiyel observing the strictures of the Jiyelean political system, and some winters in Corval listening to his relative’s heated discussions on finances.

One of his most significant childhood memories is that of a sudden epidemic in Jiyel, his family’s hasty retreat to the countryside and the quarantine of all ports that prevented his mother’s flee from the country. It gave him some dread concerning any and all illness, and concern for cleanliness.

Eventually, the personal tutors were dispensed with and Guillaume was sent to finish a formal education at a boarding school in Revaire for sons of nobility. There, he met Hugo Lorraine and Alain Namaire. The three later accompanied one another to the royal university in Revaire’s capital. Their youth was spent as would be expected of young men of means and position: running half-wild and getting into troubles that their parents cleaned up.

During this time, Alain and Guillaume became particularly close, both having dissatisfactory relationships with their fathers and both harboring notions of making more of their world than the previous generation had. Alain wished to change things by compassion and goodwill, as the Baron of Namaire was notoriously cool-natured. Guillaume wanted to organize the world, push it into greater heights by the power of intellect, intuition, and decisive action. Lord Comtois never impacted the world of politics or economics in any significant way, and completely lacked a capacity for creativity. Guillaume, truthfully, never saw much of himself in his father.

Alain and Guillaume began a relationship, but Alain could not bring himself to make any lasting commitment to an entanglement that could not lead anywhere. Guillaume would have been fine with this, if Alain had not insisted on going to him on every rebound and every night of drunken poor decision making.

When the Baron of Namaire, exasperated with his son, presented a fiancee to him, Alain accepted it quietly. When the girl’s paramour tried to blackmail Namaire lest the girl’s secret (and quickly stifled) elopement become public, the baron laughed in the man’s face. The paramour challenged Alain publicly to a duel, and killed him.

At this time, Guillaume’s father had just died of a heart attack, but it was Alain’s death that devastated him. They had known each other best, and had been dear friends before lovers.

Since Alain’s death, Guillaume became friends with the new Baroness of Namaire, Sabine. The Crown also awarded him a position within the Revairan embassy. The job is a headache at times, but his connections both at home and abroad make it an interesting challenge. After his father’s death, his mother went back to Jiyel to retire permanently, as his sister Sidonie had long since attended university and obtained a government position there.

He despises untidiness, possesses impeccable manners, and has no patience for incompetence. Politically, he leans toward conservatism and maintaining balance. He secretly harbors great compassion for others and a somewhat romantic heart. He is bisexual but largely prefers men. He has few true friends, but is incredibly loyal to the ones he does have. He prefers music above all the arts, with opera a close second.

#7kpp #OC #my writing #guillaume comtois

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ellebeebee · 8 years ago

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Past

Woo, 7kpp Week~ I’m looking forward to seeing all the stuff~

A tale from my ethical widow’s past. It’s from her past, but I don’t think it’s technically her story. It deals with a character the game only touches on briefly: the Baron of Namaire’s son who died in a duel. I wanted to flesh him a little bit, and created characters who mourned him, and wrote about what they thought of the widow.

Abt 3.5k words, widow x namaire, original characters, general rating

“Well, saying nothing of the man’s taste,” Hugo murmured amusedly, “He certainly spares no expense. I think those horses are wearing more gold in their hair than my sisters do.”

Across the room, sprawled out in a wingback in the manner only the idlest of young noblemen can manage, Guillaume ignored his friend.

Hugo leaned a bit further out the window and watched the scene below and across the way. A carriage had clattered up the lane and stopped at the door of the manor on the other side. The early afternoon light, even filtered as it was through the density of the capital’s structures, still glittered on the gilded edges of the four-horse coach. The winding and overbright ornamentation danced over the carriage until it resolved into the coat of arms of Namaire.

Various stablehands and coachmen spilled out into the lane and swarmed the great, hulking thing now occupying the street. A door popped open on the other side, out of sight, and Hugo strained to catch a glimpse of impeccably white gloved hands being proffered to whatever emerged from inside of the vehicle.

“Aren’t you the least bit curious?” Hugo asked.

Behind him, Guillaume grunted noncommittally.

Another small flurry of servants, and the master of that grand city manor emerged into view. The baron was as gray-haired and thin as ever. Namaire ran a cursory and flinty look over the area, and then smoothed a hand over his thinning scalp before donning his hat. He turned back to the coach and offered a hand to the new lady of the house.

Hugo whistled.

“I take it back about his taste,” he said.

A soft rustling preceded Guillaume as he leaned beside Hugo out of the window.

“I thought you weren’t curious,” Hugo said smugly.

“Shut it,” Guillaume finally said.

For all that she was purportedly hired on for her youth (all of a grand old seventeen) and the width of her birthing hips, the Baroness of Namaire turned out prettier than expected. Who knew a pig farmer’s child, or whatever her people were, could wear a blush and a strawberry pout as well as she did? And a glossy, high-piled style to her dark curls that could have come from any of the finest parlors in the capitol.

“So that’s what a man’s life is worth,” Guillaume said quietly.

“Oh come now,” Hugo chided. “Be a good sport. Alain would’ve--”

“You didn’t know him,” Guillaume retorted sharply. “Not really.”

Hugo turned to frown at his friend. “Bit below the belt, don’t you think?”

Guillaume glanced at him and then away.

“Sorry.”

Hugo patted him on the shoulder, leaning back out the window. The girl had taken her husband’s arm, and he had led her to the broad marbled steps of their city manor. For a moment-- just a moment-- the baroness paused to look over her shoulder. Guillaume and Hugo stared at her and her bright gaze, the arch of her brow and the fullness of her lip. Then they disappeared into the depths of the house.

“I think she saw us,” Hugo murmured.

Shrugging in a most ungentlemanlike fashion, Guillaume pushed away from the window and retreated to the interior of the room -- a study belonging to the Lorraine family and used in recent years by Hugo. The crenelated glass of a bar set chimed and tinked as Guillaume poured himself something brown. Hugo accepted his own glass from his friend and plopped down into a leather chaise.

“That,” Guillaume stated, waving at the window, “could pass some time, I should think.”

Hugo considered him, smiling a small, mischievous smile. “Hmm. A young and vibrant girl-- a shepherdess even-- stuffed into corsets and manners and just waiting for the moment her decrepit husband creakily turns his eye away. Bursting at the seams to have fun.”

Guillaume considered his glass. “A girl preyed on by someone beyond her age and station. Living in regret and despair. Bemoaning her fate, she waits for someone to distract her.”

“You,” Hugo pointed at him, “have been reading too many sentimental novels.”

“And you’ve been reading too many tawdry ones. Shepherdess, indeed.”

“A butter-churner’s hands. Wonder what that’s like,” Hugo said dreamily.

Guillaume ignored him and approached the window again. The carriage had been moved into the coach house and only a few servants moved outside the house, fetching luggage and personal effects into the house.

“You’ll tell me when the baron goes out?”

“With my swiftest little messenger pigeon,” Hugo said, smiling.

“Lord Hugo Lorraine and Lord Guillaume Comtois. To pay their respects to her Ladyship.”

The many windows of the east drawing room of the Namaire manor opened onto a neat little garden full of the great springtime blossoms: hyacinth, lavender, peonies, and lillies of the valley. Warm and prettily scented breezes floated through some of the tall, thin windows propped open for the purpose. Light washed the delicate and pale furniture, the feathery drapes, and the shimmering silks. At a sitting area, Baroness Namaire stood from her seat.

She wore a blue day dress, setting off the startlingly pale blue of her eyes. The dress was about as expected: expensive with as much taste as a rich man can afford. But the other day their eyes did not catch what lay beneath her traveling cloak: a figure most generous indeed, and laced and draped in a way that did, so to say, draw the eye.

Hugo cleared his throat and stepped forward, bowing the proper depth. Guillaume followed suit. The girl curtsied in return.

“Forgive our sudden intrusion,” Hugo said smiling. “But since I live just across the way, I thought myself and my chaperone here should extend a welcome to the new lady of the house.”

“A most welcome welcome, Lord Hugo,” the Baroness returned with a charming sparkle to her eye. “It is my first season in town and I have met few lords and ladies as of yet.”

“We shall have to rectify that,” Hugo said.

“Please sit, gentlemen,” she said with a gesture toward the other seats. “Will you take tea?”

Giving their assent as the young men took their seats, the Baroness then turned to her butler standing quietly to the side.

“Please have tea sent up. Thank you, Felix.”

There was a pause as they settled down in their velvety, silken seats and considered one another with polite society smiles. What did this girl, with her proud little posture and her knowing little nose, think of them? Hugo -- a count’s son with a pleasant smile and an eye that was too obvious to call anything other than roaming. And Guillaume -- already in power of his own estate and tall, dark, brooding, and any other adjective likely to describe a penny novel hero.

“You’ll be making it to the Concourse, won’t you?” Hugo asked.

The Baroness idly smoothed out her dress across her lap. “Of course. It opens the season, doesn’t it?”

“Three hours of preening and judging, all for a minute of dizzying activity. And that’s not even getting to the horses,” Hugo grinned.

“I’m afraid I don’t know much about horseflesh,” she said lightly. “But from the stories they’re really the sideshow. Now, preening -- I may know a thing or two about that.”

She batted her eyes, the darling. Hugo’s grin widened as Guillaume shifted in his seat.

“I confess,” she said, “Lady Villeaux’s ball next week sounds much more to my taste.”

Hugo laughed. “You are new to town, aren’t you? Lady Villeaux--”

They gossiped for a few minutes more about upcoming events before tea was served in fine china and accompanied by a fair little mountain of cakes and finger sandwiches. Lady Villeaux’s bad habits with naive debutantes was discussed, along with all the teas and soirees that should and shouldn’t be attended. Hugo advised her to have a portrait done by the latest artist of the moment -- he would no doubt be already booked for years, but one look at Namaire’s new bride and he’d drop it all for her. And imagine the looks on all those women’s faces when the Baroness is the star of the Salon (one of the most important events for artists, their noble patrons, and other bloodthirsty animals.)

Finally, she placed her cup and saucer down with a soft little clink. She considered them.

“You’ve been quiet, Lord Guillaume,” she said, cocking her head. “In fact, I don’t think you’ve spoken a word. Were my cakes that poor?”

She smiled at the man in question. He stared at her for a moment, and then placed his own little cup down.

“Perhaps it’s just been a long while since I’ve been in this house,” Guillaume said quietly. “Or maybe it hasn’t been nearly long enough.”

“Guillaume,” Hugo warned.

“Well, as you can see, I haven’t thrown the portraits in the attic or smashed the heirloom tea set,” the Baroness said.

She held amusement in her gaze as she met Guillaume’s pointedly disinterested stare.

“Look, I know you two knew Alain,” she said. “And I can tell you’re here on some dare or whatever it is you rich boys get up to. I see no reason why we can’t all be friends.”

She smiled at them slowly, in a way that said she knew exactly how pretty she looked doing so. With her dark glossy curls and her strawberry pout.

Guillaume stood and carefully adjusted his cuffs to a respectable appearance. His hooded and arch gaze leisurely roved until it landed back on the Baroness.

“You are a child. A woman of the court would have known to merely insinuate for at least three more teas.”

He bowed perfunctorily.

“Good afternoon, my lady.”

He turned, and did not see her expression drop in anger and disbelief-- proof of her inexperience to lose propriety so quickly over so little. Hugo made his own hasty farewells, begging forgiveness for his friend’s rudeness, and retreated after Guillaume. They grabbed their hats and cloaks, threw them on, and stood outside in the quiet lane.

“Really, you are too much sometimes,” Hugo scolded.

“Please,” Guillaume snorted. “The eyelashes? Every time you choose someone to flirt with, I respect you less and less.”

“What if she tells Namaire? I live across the street, you know.”

“So what. Did you see old Felix? He didn’t even bat an eye at us.”

Hugo shrugged. “What can he do? Blink twice for help? He’s a butler. One master is just like any other.”

Guillaume made a noncommittal noise and stared up at the marbled and gilded facade of the Namaire manor, ignoring the buzz of his friend’s irritated chatter.

The weeks passed. The Concourse, Lady Villeaux’s ball, and several other balls and teas and luncheons and dinners came and went. Hugo did not give up his candid little friendship with the girl, and the smallness of court forced Guillaume to join his friend in accompanying the Baroness of Namaire. In the casual daytime gatherings and the more opulent nightime revels, Guillaume trailed after Hugo’s giggling coterie of old schoolmates and their paramours. He protested illness, as well, when he could get away with it.

He could not, however, avoid Hugo and court events forever. It wasn’t good for his reputation, and it wasn’t good for the business of his hold. At the Montforts’ masquerade, for example, Guillaume was doing his best to afford his friend enough attention to maintain their relationship, while getting away from the crowds of young nobles (and the pretty pale blue eyes peering through a silvery mask) whenever he could.

Guillaume slinked through the Montfort mansion, his dark costume cape fluttering along the marbled halls. The clamor of the party reached even these far reaches of the house, with smaller parties breaking away to loiter in different parlors and sitting rooms. A loudly laughing group of his peers were occupying the large library and playing some sort of drinking game with the billiards table. Finally, Guillaume found the small library, and the click of the door behind him sealed the room in a sudden rush of silence.

As he looked around, though, he found he was not alone.

Across the room, past the leather chairs and the golden bar and the busts of Revairan luminaries, the Baron of Namaire gazed at Guillaume. He had not realized the baron was in attendance; Namaire rarely attended events, allowing his young bride to be tended on by her growing coterie of fans and friends. The older man stood tall and thin, a lean figure that spoke of a gravity beyond Guillaume’s years or, frankly, capabilities. Namaire’s lack of costume, his ascetic neatness, somehow shocked him more than any of the most ostentatious or revealing outfits swirling around the masquerade.

“Lord Comtois,” the man said, placing down the wine glass he’d been holding with a soft click.

“Baron Namaire,” Guillaume returned, bowing.

Namaire did not bow. He continued to study the younger man.

“You and I have a matter to discuss,”the baron stated.

Guillaume collected himself. He raised a brow. “Do we, my lord?”

Namaire stepped closer, his moves measured and his polished black shoes clipping at the parquet. At a few paces away, he stopped. The man really was quite tall, and his back surprisingly straight for all the white peppering his temples and his beard. The baron’s sharp eyes, like a dagger just slightly pulled from its sheath, ran over Guillaume with an experienced detachment.

“You resent me,” Namaire said shortly. He raised a hand when Guillaume attempted to protest. “None of that. I have allowed this to go on long enough. The time for intrigue and flirtation is over. Now we speak as men.”

Guillaume bent his head. “If that is your desire, my lord.”

The baron snorted. “Did I not speak clearly? Very well. Keep your artifice for as long as you can.”

Namaire tilted his head back and hardened his gaze. “You resent me. You blame me for my son’s-- your friend’s -- death. You resent my marrying so soon, to replace him. And you are taking it out on my wife.”

Guillaume swallowed. Anger was rising in his gut, overriding all of his ingrained instinct to maintain his guile.

“Replace him,” Guillaume choked out, laughing. “You shock me, sir. I merely believed you heartless before. Now I know it for truth.”

“You aren’t going to shame me with the taunts of a little boy,” Namaire shot back coolly.

“Alain was your son,” Guillaume said, his volume rising. “He was a good man. Better than all of us. And you did nothing to stop that senseless duel. Nothing.”

He laughed again, losing even the desire to regain composure. “I suppose it’s not that surprising in the end. You never did care for him, did you? He was never good enough for you--”

“Enough,” Namaire barked. “You will not lecture me on my own son.” His voice slipped low and dangerous, a rumble in its depths.

Guillaume breathed deep and tried to recover himself. It was bad form, all around, to enter a yelling match with a respected, older nobleman. But it had surprised him, the intensity of the anger he had held in for so many months.

He shook his head. “You practically wore your wedding suit to the funeral.” But his tone was cooler now, if no less venomous.

The baron snorted and turned his back on the younger man. He crossed the room to the bar. “You are barely a year into your formal position as lord of the Comtois house. You will learn soon enough that what you want in life has little to do with the demands of your position. But I didn’t come here for a morality lesson.”

While Namaire spoke, he poured out generous splashes of liquor. He slowly returned with two glasses, handing one to Guillaume. His eyes were again flinty and hard on the younger man.

“Your behaviour is creating rumours,” the baron said. “Men like Hugo Lorraine are no danger. They are so obvious, it is only to be expected. But the way you behave around her, the way you look at her and speak to her -- is being misconstrued. You are not as subtle as you like to think.”

Guillaume’s cheek tightened. “She is a girl--”

“Yes,” Namaire said. “She is a girl. And none of this has anything to do with her.”

The baron downed his drink and shoved the glass into Guillaume’s chest, forcing him to take it.

“You will leave this room, and you will ask her to dance. You will smile and put on a show for all the prying eyes. You will apologize. And you will behave as courteously as any of those fops out there for the rest of the season.”

With that, Namaire swept past Guillaume and out the door.

It took a moment for Guillaume to regain himself. He supposed the baron was correct. He was usually quite genial with noblewomen, if not as loquacious as Hugo. So it was probably quite true that tongues were wagging over Guillaume’s sudden coolness toward the baroness. And it didn’t help matters that people already liked to smirk over her age and background. It really was a wonder that Namaire hadn’t said something earlier.

He wondered what Alain would have thought about all of this.

He sighed and closed his his eyes. After a long moment, he drank the shot the baron had poured for him, and put down both glasses.

He found her with Hugo and other acolytes of trivial conversation, idle pastimes, and alcohol. The grotesque masks with the flickering lights and the plethora of mirrors in the ballroom came across as macabre to Guillaume. Or perhaps it was his mood.

Inserting himself into the loose circle beside Hugo, he nodded at his acquaintances. The baroness’s eyes, framed by a glittering half-mask, met his. Over the charming smile meant for the prowling young men and women around them, a shift in her eyes told Guillaume that she knew what had just transpired. She turned to the son of a marquis beside her.

“This song is always so lovely to me,” she said lightly. “It reminds me so much of Eteau’s twenty-third.”

“This is a waltz. Isn’t the twenty-third a pavane?” the boy asked, confused.

“God above. I’m too many sheets in the wind for anything faster than a painstaking crawl.” Some girl.

“No, the lady is correct,” Guillaume interjected, smiling easily. “It’s in the counter-melody.”

“Just so,” the baroness nodded.

“If the baroness is so fond of it,” Guillaume said, “may I ask for this dance?”

He offered his hand.

Eyes all around the circle went aslant to each other. Ignoring them, the girl smiled her impeccable smile and accepted, sliding her little silver glove into his. Together, they stepped to the dance floor and seamlessly weaved themselves into the whirling pattern of dance partners.

“You know, I can’t tell if you are smiling through your teeth or not; I suspect it all looks the same on you,” she said with her own smile.

“Give it a few years and you will see we’re all smiling through our teeth,” he said, sweeping her through an arching measure.

“I’m not,” she replied with sparkling eyes. “Or maybe I’m just inexperienced.”

“Don’t flirt with me,” he warned her.

“That’s right. Didn’t my husband tell you to flirt with me?”

He sighed, using the moment to smile vaguely at the room in general. She wasn’t making this easy.

“Did you set this up?”

“Why? So you can call me a little girl that tattles to her big bad husband?”

Guillaume exchanged glances with her.

She laughed suddenly-- a natural and genuine sound that suited her.

“I don’t know why I got so angry over you,” she said lightly. “You are merely far too serious.”

“You think my concerns aren’t serious?” he asked.

Her smile softened. “No, not that.”

In a quick motion that no one other than Guillaume would have noticed, she slipped a hand around her back, somewhere in the vicinity of her great bustle. The hand came back around and pressed something into his hand. Round and hard, Guillaume knew exactly what it was and struggled to maintain his pleasant expression for the crowd.

“His room hasn’t been changed, you know,” she said quietly. “I found this and… Your name is engraved in it. Anything else may take some time for my husband to-- well.”

It was the pocket watch he’d given Alain several years ago. Guillaume dropped it into his inner jacket pocket. He was struggling to find something to say, and the voice to say it with. She saw it in his face and changed the tenor of their dance.

“Well, Lord Comtois,” the baroness said brightly, “Am I progressing? Am I a woman of the court yet?”

“No, not at all,” he said softly. “And you shouldn’t want to be one.”

“And yet I am one. I will need the skills of court. And the friends, too.”

The song came to an end, and the partners on the floor separated to bow and curtsy to one another as applause from the spectators washed over them. Guillaume looked at her. It wasn’t really true that she was just a girl. He had met many her age that were infinitely sillier and empty-headed. He felt this wasn’t the case with the baroness. Not with the way they could meet each other’s eyes now. She was just very young and in the bad habit of relying on her prettiness.

Guillaume drew himself up.

“Baroness,” he began.

“Please,” she smiled. “Call me Sabine.”

#7kpp #7kppweek #7kpp week #fanfiction #widow #my writing

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ellebeebee · 8 years ago

Note

Late to the party, but if you're still doing the post-7KPP week thing... 4, and/or any of these you feel like for anyone (but especially Sabine b/c she's amazing); 16, 19, 20? :D

Under the cut~

4. Siblings - Revaire

LET ME TELL YOU ABOUT CHRETIEN.

Chretien is the second oldest after Sabine. He’s four years younger than her. He is the ‘good guy’ that everyone deserves in their life. He has an easy-going and amiable personality that adapts pretty easily to any situation. He smiles easily, and is an impeccable gentleman. A sweetheart.

Chretien grew up largely protected by Sabine from the worst of his parents’ nonsense. But he’s not a fool, and like his older sister has mixed feelings about their parents. But unlike Sabine, he hates confrontation and generally stood back whenever a fight occurred. He harbors some guilt from this, that he let his sister take on the entire burden of their siblings and the entire responsibility of pushing their parents into occasionally acting like parents.

When Sabine got married, she was able to send him to university. He spent some time studying economics and trade, and then took a job at an investment house despite his sister’s attempts to persuade him otherwise. Chretien is aiming to ultimately pull the Guyenne family up by its bootstraps, and repair the estate and their reputation. However, it puts Chretien himself in a strange spot. Some of his noble friends cannot imagine associating with a person employed in trade. A proper nobleman should be idle, and not work like some merchant’s son.

After Sabine remarries, I imagine Zarad will make many attempts to help Chretien out, but he will refuse of course. So Zarad will find some ways to have proxies invest in Chretien’s company. And his proxies will end up competing with Sabine’s. Chretien himself will be blissfully unaware, just thinking that he’s having a lucky streak finally.

Roselin is the next child in the family. She is altogether too much like her mother, too silly to be as pretty as she is. At eighteen, she’s already run away from home four times. Two times with girlfriends, two others merely because she was told off by Sabine. She doesn’t have a spiteful temperament, but she has a terrible victim complex and thrives on drama. She’s their parent’s favorite.

I’ve mentioned Victoire before in another ask, but Sabine considers a sister as well. She’s a few years older than Sabine, and carefully maintains a mysterious air. She is very good at being a lady’s maid, running a household, and digging up things that people would rather be left buried.

The others are works in progress, but imagine a gaggle of cute puppies with pretty dark curls.

16. Friends - Current

Sabine is generally close to everyone with a special fondness for Ria, Cordelia, and Penn. She can’t help adopting the big sister role with them. Her need to mother people is pretty irresistible. She has had some small conversations with Clarmont about certain writers they are both mutually acquainted with. She pretends to dislike Hamin on principle, since he and Zarad gang up on her. The exchanges with Avalie have been terribly amusing and an enjoyable challenge; she looks forward to what their relationship will become in the following years.

She’s of course exchanging letters with her dear Victoire and Guillaume back home; she’s heartbroken that it may potentially be some time until she sees either again.

Huan let Ana down pretty instantly when they met; she’s planning to live in Jiyel forever. But that just opened the way for them to have a great friendship wherein they try to punch each other a lot. She and Sayra probably haven’t said more than a dozen words to each other, but they can tell just meeting each other’s eyes that they are the same type in many ways. Zarad finds Huan’s actions incredibly amusing/admirable; Huan finds him to be a bit of a pest.

19. Rivalry - Past

Sabine first came into court with few friends. Her now friend Guillaume Comtois hated her, but they resolved their differences. There was a later incident in which Sabine and Guillaume had to confront a ghost of Alain’s (the Baron Namaire’s son’s) past– his once fiancee. It’s one of those things that’s on my long list of things to write.

Huan, as a pretty devout student of the Way of the Sparrowhawk, spent a lot of her childhood getting into fights with rival schools. Her parents would chew her out for these incidents; her grandmother would only half-heartedly scold her. Challenges in the martial world are par-the-course, and the childhood spats are seen as stepping stones. Huan led the other Sparrowhawk children around like a gang of little terrors.

20. Rivalry - Current

Sabine of course has the standard silly thing with Blain, and she enjoys the frenemy-ness between herself and Avalie. She maintains a careful distance from Gisette and Jarrod, and has done her best to keep their attention from herself.

Huan has successfully pissed off Blain, Gisette, and Jarrod. To a lesser extent: Jasper (over her unmanageable behavior), Woodly, Jaslen, and Avalie. I’m half tempted to write some sort of incident between her and Jarrod because I know she would d r a g him. Literally. By his silly little reverse-rattail.

Surprisingly, she dislikes Clarmont. Even if your intentions are good, she intensely disapproves of people who never say what they mean.

Thank youuuuu for the ask~~

#7kpp #replies #meme #revaire!mc #jiyel!mc

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ellebeebee · 8 years ago

Text

An Alternate Meeting

Honestly, I shouldn’t post this yet, but I don’t feel like holding onto it. This is a somewhat long piece where I look at some OCs and how they fit within the 7kpp world and what they do together. Lord Guillaume is a character I created for my Past submission to 7kpp Week, and I wanted to see him do some other things. And then all these other people were like pushing themselves into the story, and here we have this.

Anyway, this is an alternate first meeting for my widow, Sabine, and her LI, Zarad. Zarad, visiting Revaire, finds himself invited to a party at the manor of the infamous lady of Namaire. There’s art appreciation, a dash of politics, and even some romance.

4,800 words (I know, lol, it’s a bit much for something that essentially lacks plot), general rating, Widow/OC, warning for alcohol

“Your Highness,” the man said, bowing gracefully and within perfect protocol.

He was tall, dark-complected and neat in appearance. A trim-fitting suit with understated trimmings and a somewhat somber coloring spoke to good taste, good blood, and a slightly intolerant spirit. Just the type Zarad tended to grate on.

Zarad smiled widely. “Please, ambassador. You are too polite; it’s your coach, after all.”

The man bent his head. “You honor me, Your Highness, but I am merely an under-ambassador. And of course I welcome your company.”

“As I understand, it’s the lady of Namaire’s welcome I should be begging tonight,” Zarad said. “I am intruding, after all.”

At this, under-ambassador Lord Guillaume Comtois finally cracked a wry smile. “Trust me, Highness. She will be delighted at your presence.”

At Zarad’s side, the under-under-ambassador from the Corvali embassy in Revaire Lucre Mantova clapped his hands and grinned.

“Alright,” Lucre said. “Now introductions are out of the way, let’s head out, shall we?”

Zarad was allowed to enter first (rank and beauty before all else, as someone has probably said once somewhere), with Lord Guillaume and Lucre following after. The conversation was soon quickly and cheerfully taken in hand by Lucre, towards the rumour he’d heard that Didier would be present that evening. It was, after all, the main reason Lucre had secretly fudged his prince’s itinerary so that he could fit in a party tonight. Without the pretense of the imperial Prince Zarad wishing very much to meet the playwright Didier, Lucre would probably have not been able to convince Lord Guillaume to bring him along; they knew each other from the diplomatic corps, but were not particularly well-acquainted.

Zarad didn’t mind too much. Lucre was pleasant and fun, and by all accounts the recently widowed Baroness of Namaire had all sorts of interesting people at her gatherings. And interesting people tended to have interesting talk, and Zarad survived on such snippets of information, misinformation, and blatant lies. He wasn’t particularly curious about Didier, but he could make passing smalltalk about the man’s work.

Which he did, at length, with the two other young noblemen, as the ride lasted for some time; their destination lay in the rolling hills outside the capital, a second estate separate from the city manor and the main chateau in the seat of the Namaire barony. Useful for time spent in the city during the social season when the weather became particularly hot and the streets, as a result, particularly foul.

The sun sat low in the sky by the time the coach clattered to a halt outside a manor nestled into a hillside with a lovely view of a little lake. Coachmen descended upon them, their charge led by a butler, and soon they were released into the warm late afternoon air. The three were about to be ushered across the pebbled front court into the house, when some yelling from the gate behind them stopped them. They turned to watch, curiously, as a single rider careened into the inner yard towards them.

The horse pulled up abruptly, and a young man dismounted, throwing his reigns at a servant. Face splotchy and breath coming hard, the man’s simple and student-ish clothes hung from him crookedly.

Lord Guillaume stepped forward, brow raised. “Caius--”

“Sirs,” the young man said, barely looking at them before striding at a near run into the manor.

Lord Guillaume huffed a little, then glanced at Zarad. He bowed to the prince.

“I’m sorry, Your Highness. That was Caius, a prominent merchant’s son and a student of the law. A friend of the Baroness. He’s usually much more polite.”

“What is our youth for, other than amnesty from protocol on occasion,” Zarad smiled winningly. “The passions of springtime.”

Lord Guillaume’s handsome face did not register a bit of offense at the prince’s words. “As you say, Highness.”

“Shall we go in?” Lucre offered hopefully.

Lord Guillaume gestured them ahead.

A butler led them through the airy halls of the villa, perfumed by the soft scents of an abundance of fresh flowers in every room. Finally, they entered a broad and deep room with sitting areas at the edges occupied with over two dozen lords and ladies. An apparent makeshift stage occupied the distant end of the room, with a semicircle of chairs acting as the empty audience. Chatter, clinking glasses, and light laughter scented the air along with the wafts of cake, champagne, and hors d'oeuvres.

The butler announced them, and retreated quietly. A new wave of whispers and side glances accompanied their entry. Or rather, Zarad’s. He smoldered appropriately for his audience. A thread of giggling wove around the room.

While gesturing for the prince to have a seat at an unoccupied settee, Lord Guillaume frowned around at the room. He was looking for the hostess, apparently, as she had not greeted them. A man in a emerald half-cape with a matching damask cravat caught the Revairan dignitary’s eye. He crossed the room to them.

“My Lord Comtois,” the man said, bowing.

“Maestro,” Lord Guillaume returned the greeting. “Your Highness, this is Mikkel Didier, playwright. Didier, his highness--”

“Come,” Zarad interrupted. “It’s Zarad. If you get started on all those titles, I won’t have near enough time to strongarm the maestro about his newest work.”

Lucre interjected excitedly, “It’s an honor, sir. I’m Lucre Mantova. Aide in the Corvali embassy. I am a huge fan.”

“I am a chronic victim of my own ego, my lords,” Didier said with a smile. “Nothing soothes it like meeting a fan.”

“I suspected we would get along,” Zarad said conspiratorially.

“What is the stage setup for?” Lucre asked, hope beyond hope in his eyes.

“A gift for Sabine-- Baroness Namaire,” Didier said. He glanced at Lord Guillaume. “Who will, I’m sure, be terribly distressed to have been so rude as to miss greeting Your Highness as you came in.”

“Politeness is the last thing I wish from a lovely lady,” Zarad said. “As I have heard she certainly is.”

The playwright nodded. “She is. Quite lovely in every aspect. I am quite grateful to her. One hopes, when starting with starry-eyed romantic notions, that one’s work will be enough to fill seats in the theatre. But without the influence and benevolence of patrons like the Baroness, I would be a mere street hawker and not the wordsmith I pretend to.”

“I find I have more and more in common with you every second,” Zarad laughed. “Without my imperial parents, I find I would be a mere penny illusionist, and not the prince I pretend to.”

Didier chuckled. “Just so.”

They continued on chatting, Zarad and Didier quipping at one another with Lucre poking about for hints about this or that play. All the while, Lord Guillaume remained mostly silent but for a few polite additions. They started on drinks. It was another third of a candlemark before the doors to the room reopened.

“Guillaume Comtois, you are late!”

A young woman stood in the doorway, pointing accusingly at the man. As the rumours said: she was lovely. Dark-haired and tawny, and wearing a gown of a slender yet modest cut that emphasized her figure.

Red velvet.

Lord Guillaume stood, the party’s chatter quieting a bit, and approached her.

“Sabine--”

“No, I don’t want to hear it,” the baroness stated, holding up her hand. “Unpardonable. You can walk right out the way you came in.”

Despite her words, she gave her hand to the under-ambassador to bow over.

She continued, her eyes sparking, “Imagine my agitation, my hurt, as I languished here without you. Unloved and unattended.”

He gave her a severe look. “I highly doubt that is true. Even if Didier wasn’t here, I spotted no less than twenty of those poor souls you’ve bewitched somehow.”

The group laughed and calls went out to ‘set him out on his saddlebags’ and ‘spare no quarter, darling!’ She laughed and traded cheek kisses with Lord Guillaume.

“You and Agnes Rossi-- I don’t know why I even bother,” the Baroness said, taking his arm.

“She’s not here?”

“No,” she said, mock-scandalized, “And she promised me a painting! These days, it’s nothing but cons and thieves.”

“Speaking of,” Zarad commented lightly as they approached him.

“Your Highness, may I introduce you to Baroness Sabine of Namaire. Sabine, Prince Zarad of Corval.”

She curtsied at Lord Guillaume’s introduction, which Zarad returned with an extravagant bow. He took her hand and kissed it with exaggerated tenderness.

“The whole city abounds with songs of your praises, my lady,” Zarad said. “I see now they’re all terribly tone-deaf and can’t even hum half of what is true.”

Smiling, the Baroness eyed him, then said aside to Lord Guillaume, “A Corvali prince? It’s not a painting, but I suppose it’ll do.”

“I’m afraid being a painting is a bit beyond me,” the prince admitted. “But I’m sure I could better tell of your graces than any mirror, my lady.”

She laughed outright. “I look forward to it, Your Highness. But come, I have duties as a hostess, and you are going to help me with them.”

She slipped easily from Lord Guillaume’s arm to Zarad’s. She led him around the room, introducing him to the various nobles and artists and dignitaries drinking her wine and eating her sweetmeats. Revairans were an interesting lot. Nothing kills a Revairan like another Revairan, they say. But underneath those deadly artifices and the rank fear, he sometimes found that there were sparks of desperation for life. A sincere warmth and love just dying for any outlet, any person to project onto. Such were the Baroness’s guests.

But more curious was the student, Caius. Zarad had seen, from the corner of his eye, as the young man entered the room quietly and shortly after the Baroness came in. When she and the prince finally came around to him, silently drinking a glass of wine, the student had the composure to at least look sheepish.

“And this is Caius Agramont, earning his doctorate currently at the royal university. He has a very promising career ahead of him,” the Baroness stated with charm.

“My apologies, Your Highness,” Caius Agramont said. “I was beyond rude earlier.” He bowed.

“You’ve met?” she said, raising a brow.

“In the only way that men of the law should meet others,” Zarad said, with smiling magnanimity. “Briefly, and unlittered with excessive wording.”

The student bowed. “You are too kind.”

Zarad nodded, and allowed the Baroness to hustle him along. Soon, she had him properly acquainted with her entire guest list. When Didier caught her eye and gestured toward her, Zarad found himself deposited in the care of a pretty young pianist whose pretty little fingers had a habit of ghosting across his silken sleeve. Soon, the chime of a spoon against a glass rang out, and the room quieted.

“Thank you,” said the Baroness, standing in the middle of the room and gazing at them all. “Now that I have your attention, I’d like to reveal the little surprise Didier has promised us all tonight. The Chancellor’s Men themselves are here-- yes, ladies, Misters Pentius and Hattier in the flesh--” A waft of giggling arose. “They are here to perform a brand new, never before staged scene from his new play.”

The group immediately began chattering excitedly. Servants herded them all into the little makeshift audience, taking their empty glasses and giving them new ones. Zarad found himself wedged between Lucre and the pianist. Lucre was practically vibrating with his excitement and his rhetorical exclamations about his own excitement. The pianist, between Zarad’s encouraging smolders and her own confidence that she wasn’t making any mistakes, made the mistake of letting slip a few names of interested parties for her sponsorship within the Revairan royal cabal.

Between all this, Didier’s company of actors strode in, decked from head to toe in colorful, elaborate costumes and transformed the room into a faraway land, a faraway time. It was a spin on an old story, that had roots in several countries, in different forms. The familiar characters given flesh and soul through the cadences of Didier’s poetry and the feelings of the actors, bared as they had been by the costumes and the makeup and the pageantry.

When the scene finished, the playwright stood to applause and took centerstage.

“Thank you,” he said amongst the babble of adoration. “Please-- no, I’m afraid that is all tonight, my lord. The full piece shall be played in the usual place within the month, which I’m sure you knew already. No, I must be firm. But-- But,” He held up his hands to quiet them. “As consolation, I’d like to take the stage with a part that I used to play, with my small skills, such as they are.”

“Oh, Mikkel, no,” the Baroness said, cutting the quiet. “Oh, you can’t. My makeup.”

A thread of laughter wound about the little audience.

Zarad worried that Lucre beside him would literally combust. Before writing for the stage, Mikkel Didier once walked the thespians’ planks himself, and the greatest of his parts has always reportedly been that of the tragic hero Janid from the same-titled play from antiquity. Especially that of the final soliloquy wherein he declaims his mistakes and the wrongs he committed against his brother and his country, and resigns himself to a death that he believes a just punishment. It was a piece widely considered the height of Old Revairan literature.

Zarad shifted to pay better attention. There would be no small number of theater fans at home that would abuse him most frightfully if he did not provide every detail of this. A certain aunt, for example.

“Please continue, Maestro,” Zarad called out. “I always find the moved tears of ladies beyond beautiful, even more so when those tears fall upon my shoulder.”

Didier bowed with a flourish. “My apologies, Baroness. Rank and good manners dictate I go on.”

And he did.

It wasn’t just the perfect structure of the stanzas and the beauty of the particular translation from Old Revairan that Didier had chosen. The timing, the quiet force, and the masterful control of Didier’s performance spoke of him as more than just a master of his art; the man would no doubt last through time as a singular genius without rival.

Zarad would not be exaggerating when he later told the story of the night, and described how there were far fewer dry eyes than wet among them. When he glanced down the row he sat in, wedged inbetween the unabashedly sobbing Lucre and the quietly damp-eyed pianist, Zarad saw that the Baroness was indeed ruining her makeup. Her hand hovered with a forgotten handkerchief, her eyes, spilling tears, yet rapt upon the declaiming playwright.

For a while, Zarad amused himself by picking out which of the guests were genuinely crying, and which were putting on for their peers around them (he suspected the hostess was not putting on; or she was very skilled indeed). And then Zarad caught, from the corner of his eye, the student Caius a few rows back. While all eyes were pinned to the stage, a single pair stared, transfixed, at the Baroness of Namaire. The young lawyer had something in his face that Zarad had not seen often before, and which he was hardly accustomed to seeing in the faces of those who relied on half-truths and clever turns of phrases to protect themselves. An honesty that Zarad was not sure what to make of.

The soliloquy ended, and applause followed. The Baroness stood, dabbing at her eyes and smiling wetly.

“Bravo, darling,” she said loudly. “Small skills, indeed. Every year you grow more and more shameless with your modesty.”

Didier bowed to her. “I am but a humble entertainer, subject to the whims of the audience.”

“Well. I’m sure we all have much to say on the performances we were just given, but perhaps the conversations would be better served over dinner. Shall we--”

At that moment, a woman dressed in a frock coat and breeches entered with a servant announcing her as the absent Agnes Rossi and the large covered object following her in as the promised painting. A landscape of a purple heath done in a very modern manner, with harsh and hurried strokes of paint and a tumult of vivid feeling. The gathering ooh’d and aah’d appropriately, the Baroness sighing with a smile and forgiving Rossi for her tardiness.

With the addition of the artist, the servants of the manor again herded the party of nobility, artists, and the acting troupe into the dining room. It was a piece of work, that dining room. Lined with windows black with night and warm with infinite candles. The gilding and the mirrors and the crisp creases in the white linens. An under-butler corralled Zarad to his spot, and he found himself seated in the place of honor next to the Baroness to her right, with Lord Guillaume Comtois to her left.

Their conversation began at the soup course with Didier and the Chancellor’s Men, and the Baroness pointed out, with a conspiratorial undertone, that one of the actors had slurred and improvised his way through several lines that she had good authority were completely different on paper. The actor had changed the meaning and tenor of his part, and no doubt would receive a tongue lashing from Didier later.

“I love Didier, but sometimes he is a terrible brown noser with my type, and an absolute beast with his actors. He means well, though,” she said softly.

“He is a man that knows exactly what he wants and how to get it,” Lord Guillaume said.

“He certainly didn’t become the artist he is by being nice,” the Baroness added.

During the fish course, Zarad lamented to the Baroness the competition for the attention of all the pretty ladies of at her table: the actors Pentius and Hattier seemed to be drawing every single feminine eye, with the girls leaning almost indecorously over their plates to catch better looks. He was hinting about their presence itself. It was a rare thing that nobility would consent to break bread with actors, those strange creatures meant to be looked at in these social heights and then shuffled off when the looking was done with.

The Baroness did not take the bait, and merely made comments on the social spheres through which she knew Corvali actors tread.

And then, during the entrée she leaned toward him with another of those enticing conspiratorial whispers.

“Well, Your Highness, have you guessed yet who is the royal friend among my acquaintances?”

Zarad raised a brow. “You assume I’ve been looking?”

“Oh, I know it. For one thing, you haven’t had that look on your face once this evening. Foreign guests always get this particular look when they are curious and wondering which person in any gathering is the most familiar with the royal palace. But you haven’t looked like that. So I think you already know.”

Zarad smiled and bit into another slice of tender venison. “The easy answer would be to say it’s the honorable Lord Comtois right here.”

She laughed, glancing at the under-ambassador. “Yes. Of all the guests, he is indeed the one to receive the most benefits within the shadow of the crown.”

Lord Guillaume ate silently. But his eyes spoke of wry resignation to the accusation.

“But I assure you, everything has been the fruit of his labor. He is intelligent, hard-working, and decisive, and completely deserving of any largesse.”

Lord Guillaume shook his head, smiling. “Alright, Sabine. Your compliment has been noted.”

She smiled back at him. “Good.” She turned again to Zarad, and leaned in again with sparkling eyes. “Shall I just say it? It is Madam Rossi down there. She thinks she is doing it because it amuses her, but she is mistaken. She is sloppy, and I don’t think it will be long before she slips. She isn’t important enough to be any real danger-- to herself or anyone else-- but--”

The Baroness shook her head. “One does hope that artists are little more honest than the usual sort.”

Zarad idly rotated his wine glass on the table. He cleared his throat.

“And what of Lucre?” he said quietly.

The Baroness of Namaire and Lord Comtois both paused. A nearly imperceptible stilling of their silverware and glasses, but Zarad had not imagined it. The two continued on in their meal with all grace.

“We did wonder if you noticed,” she said, smiling. The words were meant for him, the smile for the rest of the table.

“You took a great risk in asking,” Zarad smiled back.

“A risk worth taking, Your Highness,” Lord Guillaume stated. “My job is, after all, to smooth over diplomatic wrinkles. And an uncalled for royal friend in the Corvali embassy?”

The lord did nothing as uncouth as to shrug, but the gesture was in his tone all the same.

Zarad laughed lightly. “The Revairan crown is certainly assertive, is it not?”

The Baroness returned to him another of her lovely, slow smiles. By all rights, Zarad could take the episode as the Baroness and the Lord Comtois currying favor. But he suspected it really was as simple as Lord Guillaume said. Spies in embassies was nothing new. But it was usually the host country’s plants, and not the home country’s diplomats turning against their homelands. Lucre had been clever, but during his stay in Revaire Zarad had sensed something amiss.

In any case, the secret would keep. And the excellent dinner with excellent company continued on. During dessert, the three had a lively conversation about Revairan wine. The best in the world, and Lord Guillaume had just purchased a vineyard and winery and had some interesting stories about his learning the art of vinting.

Post-dinner, more parlors and music rooms were opened, and various guests took turns at a beautiful state-of-the-art pianoforte. Some dancing commenced, with amusing and melodramatic reels from the actors, and a billiards table began turning into a dangerous weapon in the hands of the inebriated guests. It was, all in all, turning into a wonderful night lasting a bit beyond the boundaries of propriety.

Despite his usual care when it came to alcohol, Zarad found himself needing air. Revairan wine was indeed dangerously excellent. He slipped away from the revelers and ventured deeper into the manor, avoiding the eagerly helpful servants along the way.

“Oh? It looks like you know the coolest spot in a house, too.”

The Baroness of Namaire stated this, smiling up at him where he stood on the broad steps down into the wine cellar. Zarad climbed down a bit more and plopped himself into a seat on the steps, quite against the strictest decorum.

“You owe me a favor, my lady,” he stated, his words accompanied by one of his best smolders.

“Do I?” she said archly.

“Yes. You have taken me into your home, accorded me the most gracious welcome, delighted me with the work and performance of a great maestro, fed me an excellent dinner, and plied me with the most delicious wine.”

“Ah,” the Baroness said, nodding sagely. “I see. Of course I should be indebted to you after putting you through such treatment.”

“I’m glad we can agree,” Zarad said. “After all, what will I do when I leave the warmth beside you? You have me, as Lord Guillaume said, bewitched. By your lovely character, and most dangerous of all, by your lovely countenance. I can not imagine that in all the lands ever more I shall find a lady so incomparable.”

“Incomparable because my beauty has magicked away your words, or incomparable because your lies find no foundation to expound on?” she said with mock-severity.

“Ah, now you owe me two favors, my lady Baroness. For surely you know you wound me with your disbelief. I am as sincere as the moon, forever chasing the trailing train of his sun.”

She laughed and shook her head. She changed her tone to become slightly more serious.

“All right. You have honored my parlor and my table with your presence, Your Highness. I suppose I could offer you one favor.”

“Then what if I wanted that favor now? A promise to not get offended if I should say something potentially offensive.”

“Oh? You are planning to offend me? I suppose it is better than being carelessly offensive. Very well.”

Zarad paused. He studied her, and she studied him. He watched as she saw the shift in his expression from the playful smolder to something else.

“I don’t think this is a compliment in this country, but you look very good in red,” he said quietly.

The Baroness did not say anything for a moment. She did not straighten or register outrage in her expression. Her cheeks, over the evening, had become lightly flushed with alcohol, and her lips were painted a pretty rose that suited her. Her tears from earlier had washed away some of her makeup, and a kerchief had done its best to clean up that mess. But it was becoming and casual. That red velvet dress did indeed suit her tawny skin. But her eyes were blue and clear and sharp.

“You’re right. That isn’t a compliment in Revaire,” she said softly.

She sighed and looked over her shoulder, into the dim candlelight of the wine cellar. “It’s almost been a year. Soon I won’t be wearing red at all.”

“But you have found happiness in a year,” Zarad said.

The Baroness glanced at him, and he wasn’t sure if he’d overstepped his bounds. It had not escaped his notice, could not have escaped many eyes truthfully, the way that law student looked at the lady. Or the way the lady kept her eyes away from his.

Zarad continued, “I only comment because it is rare to see such happiness found in our world. It pleases me, and I have no ulterior motives.”

“Is that so. No ulterior motives,” she stated quietly. “I can’t tell if you’re asking for advice in discretion or if you’re asking to kiss me. Either way, I’m afraid I’m going to have to disappoint you.”

He raised his hands placatingly. “Please. I meant no real offense. Truly.”

She studied him. The night rang with quiet. The party and clamor upstairs were as distant as memory, and here they stood in the coolness of the cellar, in a twilight otherworld. The Baroness swept a dark curl from her face and shook her head.

“I see you’re asking me a different sort of question entirely. You know, I love people. I thought you did too, but I suspect I was wrong,” she said, gazing up at him. “I love loving people. I like getting to know them, worrying about what they think of me, feeling all excited and flustered at meeting them anew. Sometimes they disappoint you, or you disappoint them-- that’s often my case.”

She laughed, both sweetly and bitterly.

“Then you fight-- and I love caring enough about my relationships to fight with the other person. It can be terribly messy and hurtful and make you feel awful. But it’s so nice to come out of it wanting to apologize and then you are so much closer afterward. Oh, I just love that.” She sighed with a smile. “Of course… sometimes you fight and… it just ends. Just like that. You cry for a while, and then you pick yourself up, and throw yourself back into the fray. Oh, it’s so wonderfully messy. I do love that. I do.”

Zarad shifted. “So then… Your law student--”

“He’s not my law student. He’s a whole person that can chose to live as he wants. But, no, he isn’t my anything anymore.”

“I see.”

She laughed again. “I see what you mean about my wine. It is quite vicious in its deliciousness, no? I’ve embarrassed myself.”

“No, my lady--”

He stopped and turned. At the top of the stairs, a shadow fell down toward them. Caius Agramont stepped down the flight and stopped some lengths away from them. His gaze locked onto that of the Baroness. Silent, she straightened unconsciously. Her eyelids fluttered with emotion, real emotion, suddenly brought to bear. Her lips parted, but no words came. The law student, too, seemed to have something terrible caught in his clenching throat.

After that long pause, the Baroness of Namaire pushed away from the wall she’d been leaning on and stepped carefully up the stairs. She paused where Zarad sat.

“Good night, Your Highness,” she said.

“My lady,” he said, bending in somewhat of a bow.

She continued on, looking up at Caius Agramont.

“Sabine,” he said.

“There must be something like magic in the air tonight. I was just thinking of you, and here you are. It is lucky, as I am quite drunk, and would appreciate your assistance very much.”

With that, he pulled her into his arms and they climbed back out of the stairwell together. And Zarad heard-- said low and deep as if the phrase had been drawn from a dark and precious well-- the words:

“I missed you.”

#7kpp #fanfiction #zarad #widow #my writing #this is like an extended characterization piece rather than a full story #but it was fun to write #and I think I know my characters a bit better now #tw alcohol

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