Round 2- The First Impression

[Kagerus]

Bonfires, poetry, and livin' life right and there's
Beaches, boats, sailing, togetherness
The feelin' like you're smilin' even brighter when the weather's shit

Her morning does not begin with a dream of elsewhere - indeed, her sleep had been of a black, notionless nature. Her snap to reality begins at the light tinkling of bells by her bedside, and at once, her heart starts into its beating. The ebony lashes which encase her nutmeg eyes shimmer in the unfiltered sunlight, but she does not blink - today, of all days, is the one in which she must be the image of utter, radiant confidence.

She does not blink.

Raising herself to sitting in one graceful movement, Kagerus surveys her living quarters quietly, although the activity around her bustles. A dozen servants or more have entered her chambers since the initial tinkling of bells; many smile cheerily at her, and she offers a solemn nod in return. They are not the one she is here to impress.

“Miss Rou!” It is Sir Rhaego come to her aid once more, mustache just so atop his thin lips, suit shimmering splendidly in the summer sun. “I am surprised to see you already awake; but all the better! You have quite the day ahead of you.” Kagerus’s lips do part in an effervescent smile at this man’s entrance; since the tour he had given her the night before, Rou has taken a shine to the valet. His gentle nature appealed to the quiet farm-girl inside of Kagerus, and she allowed herself to blossom to him.

“Is breakfast to be soon?” The young woman asks, resplendent in her own reserved, mysterious way. Many locks of the deepest auburn hair frolic from the updo she wore to sleep, and while perhaps unbecoming to some, Rhaego couldn’t help but appreciate her outré beauty.

“Why of course, darling. Come this way, if you will.” Rising from the plush mattress which expands immediately upon being freed of the small weight of her, Kagerus brushed her hands over her plain undergarments, almost feeling cowed by the simplicity of her garb - but she stops herself from the dreary self pity, and strides alongside her valet, eager for the break of her fast.

That said meal turns out to be an extravagant feast, and Kagerus cannot help but feel just a pinch of self-pity when forced to face it. At a grumble from her tummy, she forgets anything about her melancholy thoughts, and lays into the grub.

The brain may lead, but the stomach rules.

As a last crumb slips discreetly into the Zon mouth, all of the chatty servants have vacated the premise, Rhaego last of all, with a helpful gesture as to where she might refresh herself. Patting her lips with a napkin finer than all the garments in her closet at home, Kagerus rises, emboldened by the filing of her stomach - yes, she is ready for anything the day might throw at her.

After this sinfully lovely bath, of course.

Despite being one of modesty and reservation, Kagerus cannot contain the animalistic moan of pleasure as she slips beneath the steaming, perfumed waters of the bathtub. She had barely taken into account the size and grandeur of the bathroom itself upon entering it - all she had eyes for were the bathtub of immense proportions. And, ah, yes, she reflects, it is glorious.

Shaking her head to clear herself of the ecstatic stupor,. Rou sets to scrubbing herself thoroughly from head to toe with an extravagant sponge provided just for this use. Her tan skin gleams like newly cut grain as the suds dribble from her toned appendages into the glistening murk of blue-purple water below her. Perhaps she hadn’t needed so much soap, but ah, considering that she might be on her way back home tomorrow, she figures a little sinful pleasure now cannot truly harm her in the way of pride, gluttony and sloth.

Leaning into the marble back of the tub, Kagerus falls into something of a daydream - just behind her eyes, an image of the heir is recalled. She smiles softly, playing into the wildness of her imagination for just a moment. Perhaps there would be a spark between them, a fairytale, even. He, Francis, is, in fact, a prince. And should she capture his affections, well, that would make her… Well, it would make her someone, to say the least.

The now cool water glubs unhappily at her starting, for she realizes that her moment of fantastical thought has turned into one very long hour. Cursing her other-world mind, Kagerus lifts her slender frame from the marble bath, and slips a leg over its edge; one, then the other. Deftly lifting the plush robe to rest atop her tapering shoulders, Kagerus strides into her main chamber, and sets to work.

Just as the woman deems herself acceptable, another team of servants burst into the room. Her cupid lips part, a question playing upon the tip of her tongue - but she needn’t ask, for she understands upon seeing the reams of fabric brought in.

Another sip of self-pity, girl, and then back to it.

Laying on the Look (eyes hooded, lips together, teeth apart) for all its worth, Kagerus allows herself to be remade. The servants talk her inside out despite the haughty look, and as they go poking and prodding around the farm-girl’s frame, the frost of her visage has already all but melted off - she silently reflects that not all company is bad.

“No, Rayelle, dear, that high collar simply won’t do at all. Might I have a corset fashioned? A… Bustier, even. Yes, like that, with the lace to spill out. Yes, that will be lovely. But no, don’t bunch that up around my rump like that, I prefer to flaunt my natural frame, as it were. Yes, that red will be lovely for my complexion, especially with those cream flowers, and oh, yes, more lace for the trim. Yes, I do approve.”

The servants giggle and gawk at the hermit’s bold demands in the ways of her first fine gown. The older women in attendance shake their fingers in her angular face; naughty, naughty girl! To think if my daughter asked for a lace bustier! The younger servants are more of a problem, and serve only to further the look Kagerus has asked of them.

As the final stroke of rouge falls across her high cheekbones, Kagerus turns to survey herself in the large seeing glass which has been brought in. A natural blush works itself on to her already cherry face upon taking in the complete sight of it all - the servants coo and simper, but Rou herself has naught to say - only beaming smiles to bestow upon her helpers.

Her long, previously eccentric auburn hair has been tamed into spiralling curls - with the help of a curling iron heated in the hearth - which cascade elegantly down to the small of her back. Her nutmeg eyes are illustrious, though they have maintained their exotic, slanted nature. Her cupid lips sit jauntily atop her chiseled chin, which connects to her slender neck, which extends to the imploring divet of her collar bones - imploring, if not rakish. From there, the first hint of fabric appears in an off-the-shoulder style: the finest of cream lace spills from the bustier cleverly hidden beneath her gown, framing the luxurious curve of her breasts. The short straps are loosely connected to the bodice of the dress, allowing Kagerus movement, and further framing of her figure. Just beneath this, the wine-red dress begins. The firm fabric supports her figure, and the embroidered cream flowers upon it simply glisten. At the peak of her hips the dress loosens, flowing elegantly to the floor, whereupon the hemmed cream lace brushes.

“It is just the thing,” She breathes at long last, but the tone of her voice brings all the hilarity to a momentary halt. “Well, except for one thing…” Leaning precariously atop her perch in all directions, Rou scours the room for a certain fabric she remembers seeing - ah, yes, there.

Pointing to the sheer cream fabric used in the making of illusion dresses, Kagerus instructs the women to attach a length of the filmy fabric to her bustier, and to the tops of her off-the-shoulder straps. The lace of the bustier is sown into the now-illusion neckline, and when she gazes in the mirror once more, Kagerus is truly satisfied. Her various assets no longer seem to be falling out of her top, and are instead coyly hidden beneath the sheer-and-lace fabric.

“There. Wonderful.”

Without further ado, her harem of helpers disappear through wide, arching doorway, and leave in their stead a single letter.

Upon reading its contents, Rou’s mind sets into a flurry of irrational thought. Whatever could they do? She knows how to sail a small boat, but that would show off her masculinity all too boldly; she knows how to host a little picnic, but what are sandwiches to a prince?; she could show him the arts of gardening, but he must have legions of servants bent to that one lonely task already. Her mind races, and races, and races, and -

Yes.
As the plan forms in her mind like spider webs in the night, her harem of helpers return, and she voices her wants to them. Already aware of her demanding nature and obliviousness to common sense, they set to their task, buzzing like the happiest bees one could ever imagine.

With not a moment to spare, a guard arrives to escort her to the heir. The past hours have flown by in a blizzard of activity, and it is only one long, deep breath that Kagerus has time for to steady herself and to sooth her nerves. But it is enough - has she not grown under the watchful eye of Kavi? Has she not mastered the art of calmness?

She has.

He stands at the bottom of the elegant stairs, stairs she expertly maneuvers down. His sandy locks fall lengthy, framing his dynamic face - chiseled, and yet soft, touchable. A light stubble shadows his strong jaw, beneath which a smile blossoms - a delicate smile, cautious; reserved. Upon seeing the beautiful expression, Kagerus adopts one of her own, the corners of her cupid lips unfurling into a secretive smile. Her eyes, languidly hooded, rest upon his booted feet until she stands across from him, his hand extended towards her.

She takes it.

Curtseying in a way that brings her gown to billow effortlessly about her, Kagerus smiles all the more at the low bow the heir offers in return. At long last, they lift their eyes through ebony and honey lashes to meet. Their patience is rewarded by a flutter of the heart, and for a long moment, neither man nor woman retract their clasped hands.

“It is an honour, your majesty,” Rou manages at long last, her hand falling to her side (though not before she lended the heir’s hand a subtle squeeze). “I am Kagerus Zon; or Rou.”

“The honour is mine, lady Zon.” His honey eyes, intense and beyond handsome, never leave the woman’s angular, regal face. Whereupon her hand had squeezed, his skin tingles. “But please,” The reserved, calculated smile which graces his lips explodes into a teeth-showing grin; “Call me Francis.”

And so she does.

The courtesies having now been taking care of, Francis offers the lady his arm, and she takes it gently, eyes demurely downcast. The heir’s eyes look to meet them, but instead are lead to follow their downward trend, and he feels a catch in his breath at the beauty of her - the closeness of her… The sheerness of her neckline. Kagerus’s eyes flash back up into his, and Francis does not delay in meeting them, but by the coy smile traversing the planes of her round lips, he knows she caught his  wandersome gaze.

“To where are you secreting me off to, lady Kagerus?” He asks in a low, gravelly tone which sends shivers down her spine.

“If I were to tell you, it wouldn’t be secreting, now would it?” Her reply is breathy, feminine - unyielding. They come to the entrance of the palace, and doors are opened by Illean Regulars. Francis and Kagerus murmur their thanks, each mentally noting the other’s good manners. Letting slide her arm from his with another imperceptible squeeze, Kagerus strides to the horses which have been made ready for them. “I do hope you enjoy riding, sir Francis.” The title tumbles playfully from his lips, as it had from his.

Chuckling a seemly, royal chuckle, Francis motions away the groom who stands in attendance, ready to hoist Kagerus onto her mouth. Coming up behind the woman, Francis gently lays a hand on the small of her back, before kneeling before her and cupping his hands atop his leg.

That’s an image I could get used to, Kagerus thinks as the feeling of his hand on her back replays over and over in the ends of her nerves. Thanking the prince with a beat of her illustrious lashes and a curve of her bowed lips, she steps lightly into his waiting hand and mounts. She can, of course, perform this task by herself, but she figured that the male pride would appreciate some fluffing - and she seems to have figured right.

Francis, now, leaps admirably atop his own mount, a handsome bay thoroughbred stallion called Rodrik whose spirit the grooms said could only be contained by the prince. Kagerus finds herself seated side-saddle atop a lovely little grey Arabian stallion by the name of Infernal, though his kind nature suggests otherwise. Together, the two stallions look resplendent, and indeed, their riders do, too.

Lending her heels to the grey’s side, Kagerus begins their journey in a cloud of dust, a bright laugh accompanying the clatter of hoof steps. Francis eagerly follows, and is soon racing ahead of his date - Kagerus had meant only to leave the grooms in a dusty confusion, but it would seem that the heir holds within him a competitive, playful spirit - and she has no qualms with that.

Tearing along, their own manes streaking behind them just as their mounts’ do, Kagerus and Francis’ gazes cross often, and with heat; Francis moves always to close the distance between them, but Kagerus leaves off just so. The frost in her nutmeg eyes is contrary to the red curve of her lips, and it antagonizes the heir, leaving him mystified as to the woman who races alongside him. When their gazes part, Kagerus’ laugh again graces his ears; and his, hers. She enjoys the sound. Warm, inviting, homely… Somehow, she is reminded of her father’s own smoky laugh, and she thinks momentarily on how very far, far away she is from that dear cottage now.

But dwell long she does not, for very quickly do they approach their destination: the orchard.

Huffing madly through sweat-glazed nostrils, Rodrik and Infernal slam to a halt just outside the fence encapsulating the emerald land. Both stallions dance on the spot, eager for a chance to show the other up in the way of masculinity and prowess, but no - their brawling shall have to wait upon the romance of their riders.

Hopping lightly to the earth (without aid), Kagerus wonders if perhaps the prince caught a flash of her risqué petticoat in the action of it all. If he has glimpsed such a lovely sight, she wishes him the joy of it - by the roguish smile gracing his smooth lips, she figures he is partaking in that joy with full ardor.

Once more accepting Francis’ offered arm, the two hand of their gallant stallions to nearby grooms before proceeding into the orchard. Fruit trees, strategically organized, are in full bloom above their heads, and their preened branches offer patched shade from the sun. The two exchange sidelong glances freely, the patchwork lighting lending the whole situation a fantastical feeling.

“This way,” Kagerus announces suddenly, shattering the ever rising tension between them with those two simple words. Covertly, Francis wonders just what this woman wants from him, with her frosty glances but fiery smiles, her gentle caresses and her sudden upheavals. Overtly, he follows his date, ever happy to accommodate her wishes.

Rounding a corner, the two enter a wide area, treeless save for the massive oak tree in the center of the space. Its emerald leaves shimmer in the waning afternoon sun, and the gentle whisper of a breeze rustles those same leaves like the sheets of lovers in the morning. Kagerus falls in love with the space at once, and Francis does too - he may have ran across this field many time before, but never yet has he graced the well-kept grasses with the feet of a beautiful woman.

Just as planned, a string quartet hidden in a nook of the surrounding foliage begins playing upon the entrance of the romancers. The deep roll of the cello compliments the other-worldly keening of the violins, and the viola dances melodically between the two as a ballerina might dance between partners. The quartet has gauged the mood between the heir and his date perfectly; the music floats towards them neither too heavily, nor too jovially. The sound is romantic and encouraging; and encouraged they are.

“Might I have this dance, my lady?” Francis deftly steps in front of Rou, sliding his hand into hers seamlessly. The patchwork sun falls just right across the high planes of her cheeks, collar bones and coyly hidden breasts; it falls just as well across the prince’s regal nose, alabaster teeth, and high-collared shirt. His gaze is hot; hers fan at his flames, whether in an attempt to cool them or heat them further, he cannot decipher.

“Of course, my sir.”

After a bow and a curtsy, the dance begins in earnest. Kagerus thanks her lucky stars that her mother taught her to dance before disappearing, otherwise this date would be a dud; as it is, the two float across the green grass like nymphs across rivers. He leads, she follows. She spins, he draws her closer. His hand holds her lower back firmly, hers rests suggestively on the plane of his upper chest. He lifts her easily by her slender waist into the air, and she rewards him with a beatific grin, nutmeg eyes aglimmer with wonder. The prince’s own honey eyes radiate warmth - or rather, heat.

The song the quartet has been playing comes to a close, which seems to be purposeful if you were to ask either of them; by the end of the very upright and noble dance, the two have found themselves in a very close, friendly position. Definitely not upright, to say the least. Smiling abashedly, Francis extricates himself from the pose - Kagerus’ gaze only intensifies, her smile a careful smirk.

“How about I show you one of my people’s dances?” She asks suddenly, breaking the tension between them once again with her light tones and fluttering eyelashes. Gesturing to the quartet, a roudier tune soon comes drifting their way, and as the sun begins casting long shadows across the orchard, she has taught him a fast-paced country dance, freely utilizing her hands in the instruction of the art. A pattern begins to form between them, a sort of challenge of ice and fire - a brawl to see who could bear the tension longest before either breaking it, or succumbing to it.

As the date drew to its entirely unwanted end, the dancing has stopped completely, though the quartet continues to serenade the couple. The two sit with their backs to the great oak tree, though their eyes are caught in an infinite duel. Their pinkies touch daringly, and when one is not gently brushing his against hers, the other is brushing hers against his. Outside of the toying physicality, the romancers enjoy the sharing of trivial, childhood tales - and, in the end, they end up finding many common grounds between them. They hadn’t any true friends growing up, and enjoyed the stars and the outdoors; they were both literate, and hugely enjoyed literature; they were not afraid to get their hands dirty, and in fact, welcomed the chance to do just that.

It all comes to a predictably abrupt halt when Rhaego the valet comes to inform them that their two hours have come to a close. Neither participant welcomes the interruption of their simple outing, but that is the way of this thing, they suppose - a selection must be made, for the good of Illea.

Kagerus walks the prince to the fence of the orchard. Their stallions, now cool and calm, stand at the ready; a little in the distance, a wonderfully dressed woman sits atop a great black beast of a horse, clearly impatient for her turn at the prince. Kagerus feels a leap of possessiveness in her throat, and for once, she does not push it away; she has never connected with another person in this way. Francis has accepted, even admired, who she is - who she truly is, on the inside. A bright spark of a mind in the sea of a dull, homogenous society. She is allowed to be possessive of that.

Emboldened by the sight of the competition, as it were, Kagerus slides the hand which rests on Francis’ arm into his hand, and as they say their final goodbyes, she leans into him, pressing a fiery-cold kiss upon each of his regal cheeks. The tension between their gazes as she pulls away for the final time seems almost insurmountable; but it breaks, as it always must, and the prince leaves, off to be with another woman, on another date, in another world.

Breathing deeply, Kagerus steadies her romantically-frayed nerves, and mounts Infernal effortlessly. At a much slower path than two hours before, the lady returns to the castle, endlessly resplendent in her ruby gown, but now found wanting in the aspect of suitors. She wonders if she shall ever see Francis again, or if he will chance more glances to her chest before all is said and done. Shivering at the thought, Kagerus finishes the last leg of the journey to the castle at a gallop, and hurries to her room in a similar manner.

When the bell for supper is rung that night, Kagerus quietly requests that hers be brought to her private chambers. She has no wish to invoke the fury or gossip of the other ‘selecteds,’ especially not after her little stunt this afternoon outside the orchard. No, she is happier to push around the veritable feast on her plate in private, and to analyze and overanalyze the happenings of the day.

Eventually, the shutters are drawn and she is ushered into night-linens and then to bed; although her restless mind does not welcome sleep at first, the woman falls into a deep slumber, and once again, it is a black, notionless sleep. It would seem that, now that she lives a dream for her reality, her subconscious has no muse from which to create dreams of the sleeping nature. She doesn’t complain.

Rising late the next morning, Kagerus decides to remain in her living quarters until dinner. She goes first to the bath she so fell in love with yesterday, and she attempts to memorize just how luxurious the hot, soothing waters are, so that she might have some good memories of her own, if all of the other ones turn out to be ill-begotten in the end.

When a bell is rung for lunch, she takes it once more in her quarters, and manages to eat more than her last night’s dinner. She inquires as to any available quills, and they are supplied to her, along with wells of ink and pages of parchment paper. Hoping to stem the anxiety blooming in the crevice between her ribs, Kagerus sets to writing an account of the past three days happenings without sparing a detail. The letter could have been written indefinitely, but when an hour warning is given before the elimination dinner, Rou finishes it up right neatly, addresses it to Kavi, and places it in the hand of her kind valet Rhaego, with the request that it be posted as soon as possible. Rhaego assured her it would be so, and ushered her back into her chambers, wherein she is fitted into a dress identical to that of yesterday, save that this gown is of the deepest honey colours.

At long last, the call for dinner is heard.
She sweeps elegantly down the staircase just as she had yesterday, though today, no prince stands at the bottom, eager for her hand in his.
In the dining room, she barely has the mind to take into account the splendor of it all - the usually cool-headed girl spins with anxiety, and scarce two bites of food pass between her cupid lips.

And then, with a chilling finality, the call comes:

“Ladies, this way. The elimination shall now commence.”

☼ Kagerus

word count: 4185
time: 2 am
me: dead