World: Castle D'Image
Scene: The Royal Gardens, March, 4282.
Players: Marguerite = Abby; Bradley = Diana
The garden here is a bit wilder than the section immediately to the east, and it looks even wilder in the moonlight. The trees and plants provide a character very different from the sedate, domestic quality of the rest of the gardens. The forest bordering it to the west gives the area a wild, almost untamed look to it. The body of the royal gardens lies to the east, while a forest of trees lies to the west, enclosed by the stretching wings of The Castle. A set of glass doors to the north leads into the D'Image family hall, while another, smaller pair in the south lead into the private apartment of Princess Kalinne.
Marguerite is slight and almost startlingly pale, with fine, silvery-fair hair pulled back in a long silky tail, and the lily-petal skin only a great lady can cultivate. Pensive light blue eyes seem almost lashless, and are often cast down. Her features are delicate, regular, even pleasing, but she is by no means beautiful. She looks to be in her early twenties. She is dressed in quite a simple gown of white, strewn all over with embroidered forget-me-nots, the short puffed sleeves adorned with demure ribbon bows of the same deep blue. A blue ribbon is bound about her hair. A simple strand of blue beads is fastened at her throat. Drawn about her shoulders is a soft white shawl of llama's wool, light and fine but evidently warm, embroidered with tiny daisies along its edges. She is carrying a silver ring, a pouch and a charm bracelet.
Marguerite is sitting on the rim of the fountain, with a cluster of ferns she's found in the woods, trailing a frond in the water.
The Fountain: This is an eight-foot-tall fountain made out of clear, brilliant crystal. There is just a faintest tint of blue in the sparkling crystal, although that might just be the water that burbles upwards from the center of the font. The fountain is apparently not connected to any normal source of water, yet water sprays up from the delicate crystal flowers which surround the sculpture of a magnificent unicorn. Drops of water glint with rainbow light, sparkling on its sprialing horn. Somehow, the artist has even managed to depict a flowing mane, blowing in the wind. The water sprays up in a complicated criss-cross pattern, showering the unicorn with millions of tiny droplets of water. The water at the bottom of the fountain's pool is clean, pure, and sparkling; you wonder what force has conjured this liquid that brings shame to even the clearest of mountain springs. At the base of the fountain is carved, "From Amberyl to Princess Rachael and Baron Jaxen, this day the First of May, with the best of wishes. May your love last as long as the waters of this eternal font."
Bradley wanders through the mist-enshrouded eve, his feet generating their own random path as he does so. Eventually his quiet steps seem to angle towards the fountain and, right as he reaches it, he looks at you and makes some soft sound of surprise, squinting at you in the starlight before he comments with a total lack of formality, "I think that some epic poem starts with a lady trailing flowers through water, Countess."
A man of unyielding pride and fierce determination, the King D'Image has a precision to his bearing and a set to his jaw that evidences those qualities as an integral part of his personage. Black, curling hair is cut short to frame his clean-shavenface, the ebony ties of the solemn patch that covers one eye stretching through those locks. His other eye, however, blazes like flaming ice, gaze intent and probing wherever his frozen regard might settle. There is an aura of bemusement to him at the moment, his fever-bright gaze going unfocused occasionally and his pallor marked. Bradley is clothed in twilight- a deep violet shirt of the finest linen has black pearl buttons at his wrists and up the front. A charcoal sash shot through with threads of silver is wrapped around his waist and knotted at the side, its sheer ends brushing his leg as he walks. Black trousers fit his legs snugly and tuck into high, black boots polished to a glossy hue.
Marguerite gasps and looks up, the fern slipping from her fingers to float off on the ripples. "Oh! I-- Good evening, your majesty." She manages to go from a seat to a curtsey with relatively little fumbling.
Bradley waves an absent hand at the curtsy, shaking his head. "I thank you for the honor, but I am not... feeling very formal tonight," he says, perhaps apologetically. "I was merely wondering what brought you here, like some maiden from a tale of enchantment sitting at the edge of the magical fountain."
Marguerite breaks into a giggle at that. "Hardly that, majesty. ...I was out for a walk, only the fog came up and I quite lost track of the hour. And I did not want to go in just yet, somehow."
"I can well understand that," Bradley says, drawing one knee up to lean on the fountain and looking at it for long moments. "I seem to remember trying to drown my sibling in here once, when I was young. Or was it Princess Juliet?" He shakes his head, musingly. "My mother used to sit here, I think. I can barely remember."
Marguerite giggles again at the drowning speech, and reaches down to retrieve the dripping fern frond. Straightening, she nods thoughtfully. "It seems likely, does it not?" She indicates the inscription with a slippered foot.
Bradley's gaze seems fixed on the dance of moonlight on water for a moment before he blinks and looks down, nodding. "She was quite fond of it. I think she drew sketches and did paintings here, even. I usually avoid it now." The last is a quieter admission that draws forth a brief pause before he says with a stab at cheer, "And how have you been of late?"
Marguerite watches him with a gentle expression. "Well enough, majesty. It is good not to be traveling."
"As it is good that you grace us with your presence again, Countess," Bradley says softly, looking sideways at you with a smile. "I dare say that court is a dimmer place without you. How is Southcoast this time of year, though?"
"Damp," Marguerite confesses. "Though not quite so cold as here."
Bradley chuckles, lightly. "I have always thought that court should move there for the summers. Perhaps it will happen this year. Do you think, perhaps, it would be possible?"
Marguerite blinks in surprise. "Why-- I-- I should think so, your majesty. If you like."
Bradley nods again, though his gaze seems caught by the glinting fountain for several heartbeats before he blinks, rapidly and looks back to you. "Hm? Oh, yes. Southcoast would be lovely in the summer, would it not? I barely remember Ghaistwynn, but I think it could hold the entourage of court for a bit."
Marguerite makes an involuntary face. "I imagine it might," she says, not sounding very enthused.
Bradley studies your features, gaze running over them curiously. "Would that... bother you, Countess? I have no wish to cause trouble for you..."
Marguerite flushes. "Oh no. I only-- Ghaistwynn is somewhat -- in disrepair." And dark and gloomy and nasty, and she lives here in large part to get away from the dreadful old mausoleum. But one can't say that.
Bradley frowns mildly in thoughtfulness, rubbig his chin with the back of a hand. "Well, if we are going to have court there, it is the perfect time to fix it up a bit... yes?"
Marguerite draws a long unhappy breath. "Doubtless, your majesty."
Bradley regards your countenance a few moments before he offers, "Or... we don't have to do so, Countess. Merely an idea."
"I hate Ghaistwynn," she explains in a rush. "It is damp and dark and ugly and full of mice and, and-- and I cannot imagine that anyone else -- There are so many other places in Southcoast, sire." A note of pleading.
The soft request softens Bradley's expression. "You wouldn't be interested in having some remodeling done for this?"
Marguerite says dubiously, "I suppose... I do not know how much can be done for it."
"I am certain that we can channel appropriate funds to assist with any such endeavor, Countess, and have a few architects and craftsmen dedicate themselves to assisting you with the project," Bradley says reassuringly. "Would that not, perhaps, entice you?"
Marguerite studies her ferns for a moment. "If it is your wish, majesty, of course I will see what can be done. I only thought... well."
Bradley looks down at your ferns, the water, and draws his fingers through it, leaving trails within it. "Summer soon," he comments, completely off topic. "I can't wait for truly warm weather again."
"Yes." Marguerite seems relieved to be back at the weather. "It will be pleasant."
"And the garden in my audience continues to be a source of much joy for me, you know," Bradley comments, turning his face slightly to look at you. "Though I am truly anticipatory towards the grand display of the public gardens."
"Oh!" She looks up at him again with a bright smile. "I am so glad you are pleased with that. I was afraid it would be too..." she gestures vaguely.
Bradley echoes your words, "Be too...? No, it is perfect, my dear. I think upon you often and enjoy the very feel it gives to that room."
Marguerite's eyes sparkle like a child's. "I am so glad."
Bradley settles to sit now on the fountain, wrapping his arms around his knee as he draws it up, resting his chin on it with a grin. "You definitely have a gift with horticulture, Countess. Perhaps we should persuade you to look at the gardens off of the salon and lend them your special touch?"
Marguerite pinkens, rearranging the fronds in her hand, tongue-tied.
Bradley ducks his head a bit to try to catch your eyes. "Didn't we play this game a long time ago already, Countess?" he asks with soft humor. "Standing around a credenza?"
Marguerite sputters with laughter. "Oh, Merciful Mother. That credenza! Yes."
Bradley's chuckle is filled with cheer as he reminisces, "Yes, that was a wonderful thing. I wonder where it is now..."
"I wonder," agrees Marguerite, much amused. "In a pawnshop, probably."
"Hmmmm..." Bradley wonders, idly splashing in the water with his fingertips. "I think I should put up a reward for that, and have it sent to your brother's suites."
Marguerite sputters again, rocking with mirth. "Oh, yes. Oh, that would serve him right."
Bradley gets quite a satisfied look about his features, his head rocking on his knee as he nods. "Yes, I think that I must do that... put up an offer of a reward for a missing credenza."
Marguerite giggles, tucking her shawl a little closer around her. "Indeed."
Bradley allows his gaze to trail over you, from slippered toes to shawled shoulders, and though he is not precisely leering, he is indeed admiring. "Ah, Countess, you illuminate the night like one of the moons themselves, but alas I must retire, for I grow weary."
Marguerite blushes a little under this scrutiny. "Of course, your majesty. Rest well." She curtseys gracefully, ferns and all.
Bradley rises in a flowing motion and dips his head to you. "And you, Lady Marguerite. Do not stay out here so long that the magic of the mists steals you off, as they say it does to beautiful ladies." He gives you a gentle, teasing smile.
Marguerite chuckles a bit. "I do not think I am in any danger, majesty."
Bradley's level gaze flares slightly on you as he replies, voice light but expression serious, "On the contrary, my dear, if I were a creature of mist and magic, you would be in desperate trouble being out here, I assure you." He grins then, a bright expression not often seen on his face, and pivots on a heel to move off in the fog.
It takes a minute for that to sink in, and by the time she remembers to blush, he's gone.