[ The Twelve reign throughout the year, with one month corresponding to each of the deities, and the first month of the new year belongs to none other than the Lady of Grace herself, Sealticge. With a dance of bells ringing upon her hips, ankles, and wrists, it is said that she bids farewell to the old in one turn and welcomes the new in the next, representing the ever-turning earth and the ever-flowing cycle of time.
With the main square's lamps primed with oil to last the night and banners of gold-trimmed crimson lining houses and merchant stands alike, the capital appears every bit prepared to honor the next steps Sealticge's dance with a grand one of their own. To stave off the crisp night of winter, stones set with fire enchantments are set about the streets, inviting with their amber glow and allowing men and women to keep their furs or cloaks at home. To aid the festivities, mulled cider and mead are generously served into overflowing mugs from stands set up outside the tavern, and traveling merchants boast elaborate masks for sale, decorated with exotic plumage from beasts of the deep woods or feathered serpents of the far south.
For every year, from evening to midnight, both the nobles and commoners of Atlasdam alike celebrate this new year by joining in on this dance. The tradition remains that at midnight, only then may one reveal their face to greet the new year, and just with who one may have been sharing a dance for the final hour of the fleeting year...
With finger strained from a day's (and evening, and well-into-the-night's) worth of research and cuffs stained with ink, Cyrus Albright does not look the least bit prepared to join in the festivities. It had been at the behest of his colleagues that he had been pulled from this study at all, and luckily one of them had been kind enough to provide a simple black mask. Of course he had been delighted. He had studied the origin of this tradition since he was a child! And yes, please, let him tell you all about it...
He's already pushing away a few dance-hopeful company from his presence the more he talks. By the end of his tale, there is no one around him. Does this diminish his mood? Not in the slightest; however, he finds his throat parched from speaking so much already. Perhaps some wine might soothe the soreness left behind. After all, who knows who else might be interested in the oh-so-intricate and detailed reason for why this celebration exists at all!
Placing a coin down upon the edge of the cart, he's handed a goblet of heated wine, whereupon he turns in an attempt to find a table or place to rest and-- ]
Ah, pardon, many pardons... I did not notice you there! [ --he's just bumped into someone! A young woman, in fact, although she's one he does not recognize just yet. That does not diminish the concern in his voice as he looks over her. ] Are you unharmed?
on the first day of the month of sealticge, my true love gave to me
[ The moment Ophilia spied his coattails billowing from across the way, she knew it was him.
Not that Professor Albright is especially hard to pick from a crowd. She loses him in a sea of masks every so often, but what she can’t see, she can certainly hear. From where she is, she can’t quite catch all of it. She can catch enough of it, though, to work out his little routine: he takes a minute to introduce himself, his company another to ask him about his work, three for a throng of eligible women to flock around, and four for the same crowd to suddenly and inexplicably disperse.
After his third try (and his third failure, she notes with a frown), Ophilia seems content to let him go about the night’s festivities unsupervised. … oh, but another look couldn’t possibly hurt! She steals one last furtive glance in his direction—is this what Therion feels like when he makes off with a coinpurse?—then throws herself into a conversation with one of the cartkeepers. May the Flame light his way, guide him true… and keep him out of trouble for more than ten minutes.
She hardly expects to be made his next victim, let alone for him to venture over to her end of the square. Neither does he, apparently—not if the look on his face and the note in his voice are anything to go by. How best to reassure him, she wonders… ]
Goodness! I’m alright, yes, but…
[ Would that she could say the same of her dress. Her bodice, once pristine white with a golden trim, is now a deep, dark burgundy and reeks of fermented grape. She looks down to assess the damage, then back up to flash the culprit a sheepish smile. Let it never be said that Professor Albright doesn’t know how to make a big—not necessarily good, but big—first impression. ]
[ She sounds familiar. Very familiar. Yet for all of the familiarity, there remains a gaping disconnect between the voice of this woman and what she's wearing-- this dress, this mask, is so very different from the individual of which he's reminded. That person he strongly associates with clerical garb, which is considerably different from what she is wearing now...
No matter. At present, he's slighted this woman, albeit accidentally. His eyes sweep downward, then up. That stain upon her bodice will not be easy to be rid of, and he knows how precious white cloth is to those who are not among the nobility. The poor girl could very well have been wearing her finest for this festival, and it guilts him to suspect he might have damaged it permanently.
All of these thoughts occur within the span of a second, finally concluding to one: he must repay her! To Ophilia, she might only see a pause before he responds, and with a shake of his head, he replies: ] Lady fair, it is I who should be undoing this wrong. Allow me to purchase your drink instead... and, mayhap, one of these festive shawls for you to conceal the blight of wine upon your dress.
[ Blight of wine, indeed. Getting this stain out’ll be no small task, she’s sure, but that’s a problem for Future Ophilia to worry about.
Present Ophilia, on the other hand, has a much-too-eager-to-help Cyrus to deal with. And boy, does he lay it on thick. If he’s calling every woman he passes his ‘lady fair,’ it’s no wonder he has them coming in droves! She has to look away and clear her throat before she can find it in herself to string together a coherent sentence. ]
Oh, no… I couldn’t. I don’t often partake myself, but please, [ she gestures openly towards the wineseller, ] don’t stop yourself on my account.
[ Should he need any further encouragement, Ophilia scoots out of his way, mindful not to bump into the rest of the crowd. ]
If you’d be so kind, though, I, erm… I may well need that shawl.
[ Between acquiring more wine and the shawl, there is no question: it is the shawl for this woman to which he must attend first. Besides, there is enough in his goblet already to last him the short trek to a stand.
One minor time-skip later, they're already at a vendor-- a middle-aged woman wearing a fox-like mask. As soon as she spots the two of them, she immediately notices the stained fabric of Ophilia's bodice and motions them over.
Cryus, despite not wearing the scholar's garb, just looks like he has money. Thus, they're shown the far more pricey shawls. ] Let us see here... Mayhap one of these catches your attention?
[ There seems to be a direct correlation between a garment’s price and how hideously ugly it is, Ophilia’s noticed. The worst offender—a velvet cape dotted with sequins and beads and other allsorts—sits folded on a wooden display, and the shopkeeper won’t go a word without trying to usher them over to that side of the stall. She’s obviously very proud of it. Ophilia is slightly less so. ]
Why, it looks… lovely.
[ And she looks like she’s just tried the swill Alfyn drinks, but still has the manners enough not to spit it out. While Cyrus entertains the masked merchant, Ophilia busies herself at the other end of the stand, where she’s found herself a simpler, cheaper, and more suitable alternative. ]
What do you think about this one? [ She pulls a white cloak from the pile, fastens it over her chest, then showcases it with a little twirl. ] I’ve never been one for finery, but I think I rather like it.
[ His head lifts as the woman calls his attention over-- ah, did he ever ask for her name? how rude of him-- just as she pulls the cloth over her shoulders. The fabric of both the shawl and her skirt rustle with the twirl, a motion so innocent that he likens it to a sylph. ]
Far be it from me to refuse what catches your astute eye.
[ One doubt lingers within his mind, however: is this truly enough to make up for the spilled wine upon her bodice? His gaze drifts to just beyond her shoulder as she secures the fabric, where an array of jewelry hangs from hooks... ]
Ah. And what of this?
[ He'll be approaching her, stepping to her side and lifting a hand to take a raindrop lavender-jade pendant off from the wall. ]
[ Once she’s sure the cape is secure, Ophilia’s eyes flit over to the necklace in question. ]
Oh! It’s so very beautiful…
[ Almost unattainably so. From the chain dangling in Cyrus’s hand to the jewel itself, it’s obviously a work of art. Ophilia doesn’t need to be a goldsmith to see that. Without even thinking, she reaches out to cradle it in her hands…
But this sort of beauty, she thinks, is meant to be admired, not adorned. She jerks her hands away like she’s two wrists deep into the cookie jar. Nobody saw that, right? ]
[ He watches her as her slender fingers lift the jewel to admire it, only for her to retract her hand away as if the Flame itself burned her to daring to touch something so-- oh, he doesn't know, material? elegant? luxurious? He's aware that her order touts the virtue of humility, but he can't help but chuckle. ] Ah, my Lady Ophilia, you're far too humble.
[ Around them, she might just notice that many women have adorned themselves far more ornately. The residents of Atlasdam do so enjoy displaying their wealth. ]
I believe it would be quite fetching upon your collar.
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The first
With the main square's lamps primed with oil to last the night and banners of gold-trimmed crimson lining houses and merchant stands alike, the capital appears every bit prepared to honor the next steps Sealticge's dance with a grand one of their own. To stave off the crisp night of winter, stones set with fire enchantments are set about the streets, inviting with their amber glow and allowing men and women to keep their furs or cloaks at home. To aid the festivities, mulled cider and mead are generously served into overflowing mugs from stands set up outside the tavern, and traveling merchants boast elaborate masks for sale, decorated with exotic plumage from beasts of the deep woods or feathered serpents of the far south.
For every year, from evening to midnight, both the nobles and commoners of Atlasdam alike celebrate this new year by joining in on this dance. The tradition remains that at midnight, only then may one reveal their face to greet the new year, and just with who one may have been sharing a dance for the final hour of the fleeting year...
With finger strained from a day's (and evening, and well-into-the-night's) worth of research and cuffs stained with ink, Cyrus Albright does not look the least bit prepared to join in the festivities. It had been at the behest of his colleagues that he had been pulled from this study at all, and luckily one of them had been kind enough to provide a simple black mask. Of course he had been delighted. He had studied the origin of this tradition since he was a child! And yes, please, let him tell you all about it...
He's already pushing away a few dance-hopeful company from his presence the more he talks. By the end of his tale, there is no one around him. Does this diminish his mood? Not in the slightest; however, he finds his throat parched from speaking so much already. Perhaps some wine might soothe the soreness left behind. After all, who knows who else might be interested in the oh-so-intricate and detailed reason for why this celebration exists at all!
Placing a coin down upon the edge of the cart, he's handed a goblet of heated wine, whereupon he turns in an attempt to find a table or place to rest and-- ]
Ah, pardon, many pardons... I did not notice you there! [ --he's just bumped into someone! A young woman, in fact, although she's one he does not recognize just yet. That does not diminish the concern in his voice as he looks over her. ] Are you unharmed?
on the first day of the month of sealticge, my true love gave to me
Not that Professor Albright is especially hard to pick from a crowd. She loses him in a sea of masks every so often, but what she can’t see, she can certainly hear. From where she is, she can’t quite catch all of it. She can catch enough of it, though, to work out his little routine: he takes a minute to introduce himself, his company another to ask him about his work, three for a throng of eligible women to flock around, and four for the same crowd to suddenly and inexplicably disperse.
After his third try (and his third failure, she notes with a frown), Ophilia seems content to let him go about the night’s festivities unsupervised. … oh, but another look couldn’t possibly hurt! She steals one last furtive glance in his direction—is this what Therion feels like when he makes off with a coinpurse?—then throws herself into a conversation with one of the cartkeepers. May the Flame light his way, guide him true… and keep him out of trouble for more than ten minutes.
She hardly expects to be made his next victim, let alone for him to venture over to her end of the square. Neither does he, apparently—not if the look on his face and the note in his voice are anything to go by. How best to reassure him, she wonders… ]
Goodness! I’m alright, yes, but…
[ Would that she could say the same of her dress. Her bodice, once pristine white with a golden trim, is now a deep, dark burgundy and reeks of fermented grape. She looks down to assess the damage, then back up to flash the culprit a sheepish smile. Let it never be said that Professor Albright doesn’t know how to make a big—not necessarily good, but big—first impression. ]
… perhaps we should buy you another.
no subject
No matter. At present, he's slighted this woman, albeit accidentally. His eyes sweep downward, then up. That stain upon her bodice will not be easy to be rid of, and he knows how precious white cloth is to those who are not among the nobility. The poor girl could very well have been wearing her finest for this festival, and it guilts him to suspect he might have damaged it permanently.
All of these thoughts occur within the span of a second, finally concluding to one: he must repay her! To Ophilia, she might only see a pause before he responds, and with a shake of his head, he replies: ] Lady fair, it is I who should be undoing this wrong. Allow me to purchase your drink instead... and, mayhap, one of these festive shawls for you to conceal the blight of wine upon your dress.
no subject
Present Ophilia, on the other hand, has a much-too-eager-to-help Cyrus to deal with. And boy, does he lay it on thick. If he’s calling every woman he passes his ‘lady fair,’ it’s no wonder he has them coming in droves! She has to look away and clear her throat before she can find it in herself to string together a coherent sentence. ]
Oh, no… I couldn’t. I don’t often partake myself, but please, [ she gestures openly towards the wineseller, ] don’t stop yourself on my account.
[ Should he need any further encouragement, Ophilia scoots out of his way, mindful not to bump into the rest of the crowd. ]
If you’d be so kind, though, I, erm… I may well need that shawl.
no subject
One minor time-skip later, they're already at a vendor-- a middle-aged woman wearing a fox-like mask. As soon as she spots the two of them, she immediately notices the stained fabric of Ophilia's bodice and motions them over.
Cryus, despite not wearing the scholar's garb, just looks like he has money. Thus, they're shown the far more pricey shawls. ] Let us see here... Mayhap one of these catches your attention?
no subject
Why, it looks… lovely.
[ And she looks like she’s just tried the swill Alfyn drinks, but still has the manners enough not to spit it out. While Cyrus entertains the masked merchant, Ophilia busies herself at the other end of the stand, where she’s found herself a simpler, cheaper, and more suitable alternative. ]
What do you think about this one? [ She pulls a white cloak from the pile, fastens it over her chest, then showcases it with a little twirl. ] I’ve never been one for finery, but I think I rather like it.
no subject
Far be it from me to refuse what catches your astute eye.
[ One doubt lingers within his mind, however: is this truly enough to make up for the spilled wine upon her bodice? His gaze drifts to just beyond her shoulder as she secures the fabric, where an array of jewelry hangs from hooks... ]
Ah. And what of this?
[ He'll be approaching her, stepping to her side and lifting a hand to take a raindrop lavender-jade pendant off from the wall. ]
sorry for being late!
Oh! It’s so very beautiful…
[ Almost unattainably so. From the chain dangling in Cyrus’s hand to the jewel itself, it’s obviously a work of art. Ophilia doesn’t need to be a goldsmith to see that. Without even thinking, she reaches out to cradle it in her hands…
But this sort of beauty, she thinks, is meant to be admired, not adorned. She jerks her hands away like she’s two wrists deep into the cookie jar. Nobody saw that, right? ]
no subject
[ Around them, she might just notice that many women have adorned themselves far more ornately. The residents of Atlasdam do so enjoy displaying their wealth. ]
I believe it would be quite fetching upon your collar.