A Silvered Tongue
The Herstals know how to throw a party, with music, grand food, plenty of attractive, beautiful people. Beautiful people from all over, including the Archadian Empire. Talking with a crowd of nobles is a very attractive individual, raven's wing hair pulled back into a club with a white ribbon, a sun-kissed face, brilliant smile, and cultured voice. He stands amidst the others, tall, proud, silver-capped cane in his hand as they discuss trade options of the region. The man gives a good-natured grin at a comment, "Well, Lord Tanvish, I'm certain the merchants of the Great Houses of Archades would be more than happy to acquire goods from the Emberstrand area if the price were negotiated properly."
Not all of the attractive, beautiful people are visitors at this party, of course; many of them are Herstals. One might note that all of the Herstals present are resplendent; most notably the ladies, for while the men are all appropriately dressed, it is the women who wear the colorful evening gowns. Moving with a small group of her fellows is one young woman, of slender figure and elegant poise; her shoulder-less emerald green dress matches her eyes, and gold jewelry glitters against porcelain skin. She laughs at a joke that her group giggles at, lifting a gloved hand to cover her mouth. Her eyes sparkle, as she turns to look over the men discussing trade. She's close enough to join the discussion, and yet she does not; merely looks at the participants, and at one raven haired man with the well mannered smile.
The raven haired man spots the group of women, particularly the one in the emerald dress. "If my lords will excuse me, I believe I hear the music calling me. And such beautiful women must be allowed to dance at least once tonight." He gives polite half-bows before approaching the band of women, sweeping a courtly bow in front of the emerald blossom of a noblewoman. "Please, my Lady, permit me the opportunity for a dance tonight."
The group of girls draws up short, finding the raven haired man before them. The recipient of the dancing request blushes ever so softly, and looks about to shake her head and deny the request; when another girl, a somewhat more plump, pink-clad woman leans close. "Go on," she urges, feigning a whisper. "You've only a week left, enjoy these pleasures while you still can!" This only causes the woman with the emerald dress to blush more deeply. She squares her back and composes herself, before offering a proper nod and a curtsy. "Of course, my Lord," she replies. "It will be my pleasure."
A charming smile lights up the raven haired man's face as he offers his hand to her. "Such an honor, my lady. Please, let me introduce myself. May I have the name of the loveliest woman of the ball?" His charm seems almost overwhelming, easily able to seep in and make one follow whatever he might ask or say. The woman lets her hand alight atop the raven haired man's, and she falls into place alongside him, awaiting his step towards the dance floor. "Well, my Lord" she replies, bemusedly. "That would be Lady Ellera, in the blue dress over there. ...Unless if you like animal kin, in which case it would be Lady Mercy." She pauses, not entirely able to keep the smile from creeping over her lips. "But, if you want my name, my Lord... it is Abigail."
"Such a celestial name," he responds as he leads her toward the dance floor. "Lady Abigail, permit me to introduce myself. Lord Tyrion, of Archades." He sounds very cosmopolitan, Archadian accent strong. Dark eyes look over the young noblewoman appraisingly before he brings her hand to his lips for a chaste kiss.
Abigail allows her hand to be lifted, and she gazes past at it the eyes of the man who kisses her. The dance floor is well populated tonight, and the second group of musicians are in full swing; but the noblewoman seems quite content to wait for Tyrion to lead. "Thank you, Lord Tyrion," she replies, as she shifts her other hand to the man's shoulder. Her voice is smooth, almost honeyed; even pitched and pleasant as she speaks. "I have never been to Archades... but long have I yearned to travel. Pray tell me, of your journey?"
Tyrion leads the young noblewoman into the careful steps of the dance being played, his feet sure. "I arrived by airship in order to negotiate trade treaties for the Emperor. While here, I spent time examining your wonderful city, and came across some rather ... interesting individuals. Lord Tanvish asked me to the party tonight in order to meet a few of the other heads of families. And that was when I saw your delightful form, Lady Abigail." The charm is rather thick.
with one hand on Tyrion's shoulder and the other on his waist, Abigail holds herself close to her dance partner and allows herself to be led, in tune with the slow, pleasant music. She looks past the ringlets of rich brown hair that have tumbled in front of her eyes, looking up to hold Tyrion's gaze. "Lord Tanvish is a superb judge of character," she observes, as she moves her feet to follow Tyrion's step. "I hope your negotiations are going well, hmm?" She laughs pleasantly before adding, "And... how long are you staying, might I ask?"
"For the next week before I return," Tyrion answers in kind. He smiles slowly, canting his head down to catch scent of her perfume. "My negotiations go well. Perhaps before too long, Archadian silk will makes its way into Emberstrander hands." He continues, one hand breaking free from her waist long enough to brush away the errant brown hair from her eyes. Skin touches skin, and Tyrion's appears to be warm, like the remnants of a whiskey shot that has hit one's stomach and causes tingling all over.
Abigail mmms, "And onto Emberstrand ladies, perhaps?" She smiles pleasantly, tilting her head as her hair is tamed. Her scent is a medley of desert flowers, recognizable to some as those that grow near Emberstrand. "Is there a solution found to the Nalbina Tax, my Lord?" She pauses, and shakes her head slowly; while in the background, the musicians change their tune, to something more... energetic. "And now I'm bringing business to the dance floor... Forgive my curiosity."
A rich, velvety chuckle comes from the nobleman. "I believe it is being discussed by the Emberstrand ambassador in the Emperor's court, my sweet Lady." His thumb caresses the back of her hand as he moves into the steps of the more energetic dance. "I must admit, the thought of Archadian silk on Emberstrander women is rather appealing. Delicate flowers of the desert draped in silk."
Abigail's hand encircles Tyrion's waist more tightly, and she presses herself closer to the man's chest in the swifter step. "You just missed the worst of the rainy season," she breathes, "Which is beautiful in its way, but it's hard to enjoy the sweet evening air like we can tonight." She perks an eyebrow as she chuckles softly. "After the rains, all the flowers come out... of... either variety." She pauses, letting the music infuse the conversation, while her emerald colored skirts billow about her legs, and the firelight gleams off her jewelry. "I am sure that many desert flowers would love for you to stay, hmm? But then those in Archades would feel robbed."
"I'm certain they will live without me while I am here," Tyrion replies as his thumb continues to rub circles on the back of her hand. "Perhaps I will have to return during the rainy season, and you will have to show me the blossoming desert flowers hidden under the verdant green." His dark eyes look down to the young noblewoman's, glancing briefly at her decolletage.
The lady certainly doesn't miss the glance. She mmms softly, perhaps not quite so positive an answer as Tyrion might've been hoping for. "There would be many beautiful blossoms to choose from, I am sure," she replies, her voice pleasant as ever. "I am sure within a week or two, there will be plenty of flowers blossoming and beautiful... perfect for the honeymoon I shall be enjoying by then." Her eyes, hovering on Tyrion's chin as she speaks, glance upwards as she lets the significance sink in. "But for now... Well."
The nobleman's lips pull into a slow, almost secretive smile. "Like the hummingbird, I should like to drink of the honeyed nectar this delicate bloom presents to me." Slowly, he leads the pair of them toward the edge of the dance floor, still keeping time with the music. "My jealousy wounds me, to hear you will be taken from the beautiful flower garden, pruned, and be bearing fruit without much delay from being plucked from the stalk."
Abigail's smile never quite leaves her lips, and the twinkle in her eye does nothing to diminish as she's led to the edge of the floor. "Not all flowers must wither and die to bear fruit," she replies, "Some remain just as beautiful as ever." She shifts her hands, dropping her touch from Tyrion's waist and shoulder, and merely clasping her hand politely with his. "...Are you an artist, by chance?" she asks, the impulsiveness of the question hinted in her voice. "Do you paint, or... draw, perhaps? It is popular of late, in Emberstrand, though I am not sure of Archades."
"As a matter of fact, I do draw," Tyrion says as he tucks her hand into the crook of her elbow. "My father was not pleased that I took up drawing, but I ever so enjoy drawing live still art." He leans down carefully to whisper softly in her ear, breath stirring on her skin. "I would love the opportunity to draw such a wonderful blossom before it is plucked."
Abigail's breath catches in her throat, and she bites her bottom lip as Tyrion whispers in her ear. She clasps her hands behind her back, and tilts her head to glance over her shoulder, as if checking to see who might be watching. "Come upstairs," she whispers with sudden urgency. "Second floor from the top... down the hall on the right, the last door. I'll be waiting for you." The noblewoman backs away a step, and gazes into Tyrion's eyes for a lasting moment. She appears about to say something else, before she turns and retreats, at a hurried pace, while managing to retain a noble and elegant air, moving more or less straight for the stairs herself.
The nobleman watches her retreat with another secretive smile. He waits a while longer before discreetly retreating from the party, snagging a glass of wine from a passing tray. 'Tyrion's' steps take him toward the edge of the party and to the staircase. He passes a few along the way who are more interested in necking at said party, and takes the hallway on the right of the second floor, and comes to the last door. There's a pause from him, a nasty smile coming to his lips before the nastiness is replaced with the secretive smile once more as he opens the door.
The oaken door opens silently on well oiled hinges, revealing a bedroom of considerable luxury. Polished gold is present just enough to glimmer in the moonlight that shines through breaks in the clouds, and the open windows. Gauzy silk curtains flutter in the light wind, almost ghostlike, but for the light from a few candles on a dresser, beyond the four-posted bed that dominates the room. Standing before the dresser is Abigail; her back is turned, and her gloves are draped across the nearby chair. Arrayed in front of her are two opened cases full of jewelry. "Come in," she murmurs, as if it needed saying, after looking over her shoulder. "I am just... deciding. Or perhaps you would like to decide? Which would look best on me, for your drawing?"
Tyrion sets the wineglass upon the dresser next to the young noblewoman. His secretive smile remains as his fingers reach to run against the length of her arm. "Most of the drawings I do are of items in their natural state," he murmurs, Archadian accent clipped. "Perhaps it would be best if we both get comfortable?" His well manicured hands move to remove the buttons of his overcoat, dark eyes taking on a smoldering quality as he looks over the younger lady.
The noblewoman chuckles softly, and shakes her head. "That was what I was expecting," she replies. "I only thought, a piece or two..." she gestures towards the jewelry, "but if you would prefer not?" She reaches up behind her neck, and unclasps her necklace. The chain is tossed on the dresser, before she turns to face away from Tyrion. "The laces for the corset are hard to reach, behind my back," she murmurs. "Would you help me with them?"
"It would be most ungentlemanly of me to answer that question, Lady Abigail," Tyrion says, voice tinged with hints of arousal. His fingers move to delicately free the younger noblewoman's hair from its pins and clips, the skin of his hands warm against her skin. Leaning in, Tyrion whispers against her ear, breath warm and inviting, "I admit some trepidation at drawing such a candlelit flower. I couldn't possibly capture all your beauty with a few strokes of a pencil."
"Yes..." Abigail whispers, "It was improper to ask." She sighs audibly, and tilts her head to one side, baring ear and neck on the side where Tyrion leans close to her. The noblewoman's hands push her dress down over her hips, leaving it to slowly crumple around her feet. Her arms hug herself about her bosom as she exhales, and her gaze shifts, to look at herself in the mirror and the man standing behind her. "Someone once told me... that the wisest artists never quite do true justice to the beauty they capture, such that the true privilege of seeing always belongs to them, alone; and their audience must be content to imagine."
"Indeed," he whispers against her skin, his lips daring to take the smallest of kisses against her exposed neck. Dark eyes look back from Tyrion to the woman in the mirror, his hands moving from the last pin, letting her tresses tumble down against silken skin. "A delicate bud, poised to blossom into the flower of glorious beauty. Skin as white as driven snow, hair the color of burnished honey, and eyes candlelit gems plucked from the sky," he whispers against her skin.
A lusty breath escapes painted lips in response to the kiss. Slowly, Abigail turns to face Tyrion, taking a step back; not a retreat, but merely giving space for herself to be seen. Deliberately, her hands drop to her sides, baring her breasts as much as the rest of her. She inclines her head proudly, and rightly so, as she's no shortage of things to be proud of; a confident smile quirks her lips upwards, and she gestures towards the room. A strong breeze briefly picks up, billowing the curtains and blowing her hair,leaving strands out of place but not unattractive. The girl falls silent for the moment, merely watching and waiting, as she allows herself to be seen.
Fingers withdraw from her cheek as the nobleman looks mildly chagrined. "I let my lust get in the way of drawing as I promised," he says after a moment. The signs of lust are still rather evident upon him, but at least he has the decency to offer up a blush as he takes a half-step back.
Abigail mirrors the blush, dropping her hands to clasp in front of herself. "No, no..." she whispers, taking a step to follow Tyrion. "I meant not to accuse..." She gazes down at the nobleman's feet, then back to his eyes. "Draw me, please; I..." She trails off, biting her bottom lip as she turns to gaze at herself in the mirror, unable to deny the flutter in her chest, and the growing, illicit lust in her blood. "Only, be gentle with me afterward," she whispers.
"I will be as gentle as a dew-laden breeze, my Lady," Tyrion whispers throatily. His fingers brush along the delicately blushing cheeks as he motions toward her bed. "Please, let me draw you there."
The noblewoman lingers a moment in Tyrion's presence, and rests a hand lightly on his waist, before she backs away to the bed. She pushes aside the gauzy, transparent silks that surround it, so that when she lies upon it she can be seen, and drawn. She lies on her side, adopting a position that shows herself off beautifully, clad in naught but earrings, without being lewd. She is an excellent model throughout, of course, rarely moving but to breath, and ever so patient until Tyrion is finished. And then, she yet remains; waiting for what must inevitably come next.
The nobleman moves to follow, resting upon the edge of the bed, his hand moving to grasp a charcoal pencil from the inside pocket of his vest. A slow smile spreads across his lips as he begins work upon the outlines of the drawing. He's some skill at it, if only from having practiced drawing before. The outlines of shapely legs, gently curved torso, waterfalls of silken hair, and the delicate shape of Abigail's face take form on the parchment he's also pulled from the inside of his vest pocket, unfolded and working to draw what's before him.
- * *
Soft, golden rays of light from the morning sun illuminate the noblewoman's bedroom, giving the entire room a warm, rich quality. A gentle breeze rustles the curtains through the open windows, and occasionally nudge a drawing left on the dresser an inch or two further along. In the bed, Abigail yet slips, laying on her side, with a light blanket drawn up over her form. She stirs, and slowly opens her eyes, squinting against the light; she remains motionless for the moment, gazing across the room at the dresser, and quietly putting together in her mind all the things that took place the night before.
Upon the dresser is a crisp parchment envelope, wax seal upon it. Resting on the edge of the bed, however, is the man from the night before, lacing his boots--at least it appears to be the man from last night from the backside of him. He's in shirtsleeves yet, not quite properly dressed for a nobleman.
Abigail sits up, shifting one hand to clutch the blanket to her bosom. She brushes her hair back out of her face, and sighs softly, though not unpleasantly. She catches sight of the man lacing his boots, and of course thinks it to be the same as from the night before; and so for the moment the envelope is ignored. "Tyrion," she murmurs. "Must you depart, with the morning sun? You cannot stay, but a few minutes longer?"
The man gives a long, slow smile to himself as he finishes tying the last lace. He's yet to turn around, but his hands move to lace his shirt up. "If I do not leave soon, there may be grave consequences for me," he says. The nobleman's voice sounds a bit more gravelly, as though aged or mere from a parched throat. "A letter was delivered while you were asleep."
Eyebrows rise, and Abigail pauses as she racks her memory, trying to remember if the man's voice had such a quality the night before. Perhaps she'd had too much to drink; or perhaps he had. Eventually she dismisses the thought, as she rises from her bed. She sheds the blanket, and crosses the floor to the dresser, where a light gown awaits, over the back of a chair. She whirls it about herself as she slips her arms through the sleeves, and ties it neatly about her waist. Only then does she pick up the letter, gazing for a moment at the seal before delicately breaking it to reveal the letter within.
Upon the seal is the crest of Qel'Anar, and within is the neat, unembellished script of Lord Kevan Qel'Anar. Tyrion, however, has managed to gather his vest and place it on with much care. Soon his overcoat joins atop his vest, and the nobleman stands. Inside the letter, however, is another.
Dear Abigail,
It pains me to hear of events that had unfolded during your family's party last night. I have been informed of your illicit affair with an Archadian nobleman. I will not be cuckolded, and I will not have it be said I married a whore. Our marriage engagement is at an end.
With broken heart,
Kevan Qel'Anar
Resolve. Composure. Control. A few of the most central tenets of how a noblewoman is expected to act, especially in the face of adversity; and yet, at this moment, Abigail cannot help but find that hers is cracking. The script, unmistakable; the words, undeniable. The letter, once read, slips from trembling fingers. The noblewoman's skin takes on a pale hue, and she rests her hands on the dresser before her for support. She bows her head, lest the glisten of tears on her cheeks be seen in reflection, and nods slowly. "Yes, you are probably right," she whispers, doing an admirable job of keeping the rush of emotions from entering her voice. "It would be best for you, my Lord, not to have my family discover you here."
He rises smoothly, hand reaching out to pick up the cane the servants had so thoughtfully left with his overcoat from the party last night. His steps are stately, as though a king rising from bed to meet the morning sun. An ungloved hand moves to gently reach out, softly caressing a shoulder. With her head down, she cannot see his reflection any more than he can see hers.
Abigail remains in her position for some seconds, until it becomes clear that the man touching her shoulder isn't going to go quite so quickly as she had previously surmised. Careful and deliberate fingers fold up the letter once more, and she pushes it underneath the drawing. Her fingers brush almost longingly over the charcoal, though she causes no smudges or mars to the paper. Only then does she glance into the mirror, and the act is punctuated by a sharp gasp. The robe slips as she whirls around, baring one shoulder as she reveals her face, still beautiful in spite of the tears and out of place hair. "But... where is the man I saw last night?" she whispers, the confusion writ plainly on her face. "Where... where is Tyrion? And who are you?"
Agrin draws his fingers back, an imperious brow raising at the young noblewoman's words. His cane dangles loosely in the crook of his elbow. "You cannot recognize your beloved artist?" the nobleman asks in return. He turns toward the window, walking with confidence as though he were the Emperor of Archades. "You were wishing for my ... other self, is that it? The younger, more beautiful 'Tyrion'? Come here, Abigail. I want to show you something." The roughness works itself out of his voice, replaced by a velvety smoothness similar to last night.
Abigail gazes at the man in shock, and her eyes follow him to the window, well before she moves herself. She glides slowly across the floor, coming to just barely within range of the fluttering curtains; close enough that the morning light illuminate her hair, giving her an almost angelic quality, even amidst her sorrow. "I don't understand," she whispers. "How could you look different at night, from how you appear in the morning?" She glances out the window from where she is standing, yet unwilling to come too close, before her gaze returns to the man, awaiting an explanation.
A minor tightness appears at the corners of his eyes as he continues to look upon the cityscape of Emberstrand from the window. The rays of sunlight creep about his form, giving the older nobleman a hint of a darkened sunlight aura, similar to a fallen angelic being. "Perhaps the question you should ask is why would I not choose to remain like 'Tyrion' all the time and instead be myself, Abigail?" He peers at a spot in the distance, his voice still very smooth, compelling. "Stand next to me, Abigail. Watch the sunrise with me."
A hesitation, laden with uncertainty, precedes soft footsteps that carry Abigail further forwards. She comes to stand beside the man who apparently had been Tyrion the night before, and hugs her arms tightly about herself. She gazes out the window, as the increasing sunlight streaming in makes her appear pure and white, beside the man's darkness. She bites her bottom lip, and shakes her head slowly. "I think I would rather ask," she murmurs, "What are you? I fear that might be more important than who, or why."
There's a small smile that comes to Agrin's lips as he continues to watch the sunrise. "I am merely a man, Abigail. A man of perceptions. People wished to see me as a handsome, well-spoken nobleman, and thus I became. You wished to see me as your beloved artist meant to swoop in and take you on a passionate journey before you married. As to what I am ..." He turns away from the window toward the noblewoman, leaning in to whisper against her ear. "I am a Whisperer, Abigail Herstal." Agrin's full charm pours forth, his breath delightfully warm against skin. His next words seem horribly compelling with all the charm and grace that Tyrion displayed last night. "Perhaps you should jump from the window and meet the sun."
Abigail tilts her head away, letting the self-proclaimed whisperer's voice play across her ear unhindered. She breathes softly, until the suggestion is made of what she ought to do next, and then her attention snaps to the nobleman beside her. "Jump?" she exclaims. "I would not meet the sun, from such a jump; only the ground at the foot of the manor, and it would ill forgive me the trespass!" She shies away from the window, and her eyes scan about the room, noting only how desperately far away the door seems to be. "You mean for me to kill myself? Why?"
"You have dishonored your family, dear Abigail. Offered your maidenhead to a complete stranger, broken a marriage contract between the Herstals and the Qel'Anars. Shamed yourself to be known as a whore," Agrin says charmingly, his voice compelling. "It would be what any sensible noblewoman would do. Unless you intend to give a wonderful encore performance?" He gives a saddened, reassuring smile to the younger woman.
Abigail edges backwards towards the window, or perhaps it is merely that moving away from the man who urges her towards it brings her in that direction. Her hand touches the window sill, and she jumps, clutching one hand to her chest, over her heart. "I..." she tilts her head, looking out the window at the open air beyond, and the almost certainly fatal drop beyond. "I am afraid," she quietly admits, as fresh tears roll down her cheeks, and the fearful tremble intensifies in her muscles.
Agrin steps forward, reaching a warm hand out to the woman's cheek to stroke away at the fresh tears rolling down her cheeks. "I know. The Land of the Dead awaits us all, Abigail." His smile is warm, inviting, charismatic. In another face, it would drive soldiers to follow such a general into battle, or a nation to follow an Emperor. Instead, it is placed upon Agrin. "I will meet you there."
The noblewoman sucks in her breath, looking into Agrin's eyes as he touches her; then she backs up a little further, until her hips rest against the windowsill. She pauses, looking over her shoulder out the window. She bites her bottom lip, as a warm, inviting breeze caresses her skin. She looks back to Agrin, and her eyes wander over his form, before she closes her eyes and bows her head. "Kiss me," she murmurs. "Please. Just once... make me remember Tyrion."
The nobleman leans in, his features softening, his breathing slower as he leans in to take her lips with his. His touch is gentle, the same as last night. A reminder, a remembrance of Tyrion, her artisan. His hand moves to rest over the young woman's heart.
Abigail tilts her head, and clasps one hand to the back of her Tyrion's neck, drawing herself in close as she presses her lips unashamedly to his. She holds the kiss for a length moment; but all too soon, it is time to break it. The noblewoman turns away, not opening her eyes until she faces out the window once more. Her hands brush through her hair, taming it behind her ears, as she approaches the window sill, the only boundary between her and open air. She touches the wood, the lacquered oak behind the curtains. Her breathing quickens; she lifts one bare foot to rest on the window sill, and pauses, gazing at the morning sun. Abigail leans forwards, lifting her other foot to join the first and hurling herself forwards, pushing off with both legs. Her gown comes undone, and flutters behind her like the white wings of an angel on her way swiftly downwards. She doesn't scream or cry out as she plummets, though her jumps brings her far enough to miss the ground, and meet the wall instead that surrounds the house. A tall, wrought-iron spire pierces her abdomen, emerging from her back and rising up above her. Her legs kick urgently for a moment, and then her muscles relax; her limbs go still and she slumps forwards, leaving her blood to trickle down the wall on either side, glistening under the risen sun.
Agrin watches the incident with a detached impassivity. His hands move to finish buttoning his overcoat, ensuring he looks a proper part today: a mourner. He takes up the cane, looking down at the angelic woman on the cap of his cane: The Whisperer. "So the Whispers begin. Your Will be done, my Lady."
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