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dystopia now

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/ / / / / dystopia now
tractus danarius :: francesca invidus


Always there will be the intoxication of power, constantly increasing and constantly growing subtler. Always, at every moment, there will be the thrill of victory, the sensation of trampling on an enemy who is helpless. If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face - for ever.

[nick]Francesca Invidus[/nick][status]scverna[/status][icon]https://i.imgur.com/mDGBNCX.png[/icon][nm]<a href="ссылка на анкету" class="ank">франческа инвидус</a>[/nm][lz]<div class="lz"><fan>dragon age</fan><center>hunger in our eyes
victory's on our minds
it's our time to rise</center></div>[/lz]

Отредактировано Evelyn Trevelyan (2021-11-25 22:17:18)



He can swear he heard that. The giggling. The very sound, that followed him around from the day he decided to take what was his. From the day he actually met his so-called father.
Tractus twitches and turns like a bird of prey, his eyes catch fire, and for a moment he looks almost feral. Nobody seems to notice this. Nobody seems to notice him — at his own engagement party. Tractus grabs a goblet and takes a sip, — he’s not really thirsty, he just wants to hide his face for a moment — and chokes immediately. It’s like he’s not supposed to be here, and everything keeps reminding Tractus about that fact. Still, nobody looks at him. He could embarrass himself in every possible manner — and bore them all to death.

They actually look like a flock, Tractus thinks. All dressed in black, honoring the passing of a dear friend. And he’s the one that sticks out, wearing a deep emerald doublet. He looks like a fool — and frankly, that’s fair. Florian tried to tell him that it’s too soon, but Tractus just could’t wait another day, another moment. He has never been so close to becoming one of their lot.
Tractus looks at them — his face distorted with disgust. He hates them, oh how he hates them.
He feels the words coming up, so Tractus grabs a bottle of fine wine from Alerio Invidus’s cellar and flees taking all his hatred with him.

The house — the Invidus mansion — is horrible. Better than those dusty tombs he inherited though. Still, to his liking the mansion is way too Tevinter. It’s all gold and dead ancestors on the walls and dragons carved in the marble walls. So lifeless. Tractus wanders the halls avoiding occasional servants, until he finds a nice-looking dark corner to hide for a while and drown his sorrows in wine, which is almost certainly much older than him. Finally, his quest ends when he discovers an unlit balcony with an unexpectedly pleasant garden view.

And there she is.

When they met, he found Francesca Invidus plain smug, like any other magister’s daughter. Tractus couldn’t blame her — she had every right to be full of herself. She could be anything, she could be with anyone. Francesca could become a merchant’s wife or a scholar’s wife or maybe even an Archon’s wife. All the choices, all the fine proper choices. Tractus used to get some sick twisted pleasure realizing how many of Alerio Invidus’s plans for his daughter he’d crushed.

He won’t anymore. Alerio’s dead and Tractus doesn’t have to prove him anything anymore.

Francesca, on the other hand, is still alive and seems painfully lonely. And a bit sad. Standing there alone, while Florian entertains the guests that were supposed to be her guests. Tractus almost feels bad for making her marry him. Almost. She could do a lot worse, he thinks. She could end up with a lunatic like his father, so she should be lucky to have him.

But she’s not.

— Why, if it isn’t the happy bride, — he says, and the words taste sour in his mouth.

Tractus comes closer, Tractus puts — almost drops — the bottle on the stone balustrade. He knows that Francesca doesn’t want his company, but neither does the rest of Ventus.

— It’s rude, you know, — he takes a sip from the goblet. — You could have smiled at least once back there. People tend to think that I’m holding you hostage.

He looks at her, his eyes take a shade of red lyrium in cold pale moonlight. Tractus hopes he doesn’t sound as bitter as he feels. He’s way beneath her, and if her father wasn’t almost as mad as his, he would’ve never got as much as a glance from her. Yet there she is, tainted with his vile name and his bad blood.

— Am I?

Or is it your father?

Or, Tractus looks at her curiously, is it your brother?
пост перенесён

[nick]Tractus Danarius[/nick][status]dynasty decapitated[/status][icon]https://i.imgur.com/n83sNII.png[/icon][nm]трактус данариус[/nm][lz]<div class="lz"><fan>dragon age</fan><center>hope you guess my name</center></div>[/lz]

Отредактировано Cullen Rutherford (2021-11-25 12:49:34)



She hopes this is just some terrible, vicious nightmare, and that the blood on her fingers isn't real, and that in a couple of minutes, she will wake up, and Florian will smell of musk and herbs like the moment he left the mansion. The reality, however, appears to be senseless, and Florian still smells of burnt flesh, and the blood dripping from his wounds is almost black on the marble floor.

He didn't want her to see their father's body. Not like this, he said, but she wasn't scared. Curious in a strange way, but not scared. What's left of him was no longer powerful enough to make her feel miserable. Florian's loss tasted like freedom on her tongue. She was happy. With father's face covered with grave clothes, she hoped that all his disgust and endless hatred will burn with him.

Oh, how naive she was.
The true nightmare was only about to start.

— Our father, — stars Florian quietly but with Francesca's anger burning in her blood, there is no way for him to finish.
— Is dead, Florian! He's dead and I'm still breathing! Have I no voice in deciding my own fate? — yet in that instance, she knows the silence will answer her with no. She's not even a venatori and right now she's not even his sister. Just a tool waiting to be used to fulfill her father's wishes.

Is this what you've inherited? The right to look upon the world like it's beneath your feet?

— I know how you feel, but listen to me, — Florian takes a deep breath and looks at her again. She has to understand, he thinks. She has to understand the importance of this, for it is all about a brighter, better future for all of them. But she did not. Her hands were shaking, her eyes were full of rage.
— No, you listen. It is not you being sold like a whore to some bastard, so don't try to act like you know a damn thing about how I feel. All your promises about how you will never let something like this happen to me are worse than lies. I'm done, — there is no way to hide her shaky voice and trembling hands, and she hates herself for that. And it seems like in a second, in a tiny painful moment she'll end up crying. Just like she always did.

No more.

- With father's death you've become unbearable, - breathe in. Breathe out. No, she will shed a tear neither because of her father, nor because of Florian, and even more so because of Tractus Danarius — never again.

— I'm sorry, - he said. But the cruel thing was, it felt like the mistake was hers, for putting so much hope in the brother who was never bounded to her as tight as to their father. Bloody Alerio Invidus continue making her life miserable even from beyond the Fade. Will he ever really dies, she wonders?


The agony will last forever, and she still can't get used to it. It's time, though. It's time to shut up and put on your best smile while taking congratulations on her engagement. There were so few of those, frankly, but it was no wonder. All these scavengers came to see if Florian was ready to take his father's place. If he was worthy. Everything else was not important. Francesca was overflowing with disgust. This was so far from how she imagined her wedding would look like, she couldn't stop pitying herself. She hopes though it's far from what Tractus imagined either.

After another arrogant speech, she decided to disappear and maybe get drunk on her way to the abyss. Her goblet becomes empty very quickly to her sadness. The gardens beneath the balcony where she chooses to hide were almost peacefully quiet, the wind blows whispered in her ears and, and if she tried, she could almost feel like nothing happened. Like in the morning everything is going to be the same. Yet in the next moment, a shadow flickered round the corner and then he appeared from behind her back.
She rolls her eyes and doesn't even turn around.

When they first met, she thought that it was a big mistake. He's not meant to become a magister, she thought, he's too reckless, too blunt. Anything but that. But there he is working his fingers to the bone to make an impression on those who've already decided his fate.

Did it worth all the effort, Danarius?

She smirks.

- Well, your greed for power and my father's overwhelming indifference certainly left me no choice, - she muses over an empty goblet. - So how is that any different?

The next moment she almost feels sorry for her words, for him. Poor Tractus, no one warned him that he's marrying a pariah.

— But don't worry. They don't really care, otherwise, why would we both needed to hide here? — finally, she decides to turn around and look him in the eyes. — The party sucks, of course, but you know what I mean. The only reason they came is to make sure my brother won't disappoint them. Sorry bastards, — she curses and gives a careless shrug. May the Maker take them all, who cares. She notices the bottle of wine and places her goblet near. — Care to share, dear?

[nick]Francesca Invidus[/nick][status]scverna[/status][icon]https://i.imgur.com/mDGBNCX.png[/icon][nm]<a href="ссылка на анкету" class="ank">франческа инвидус</a>[/nm][lz]<div class="lz"><fan>dragon age</fan><center>hunger in our eyes
victory's on our minds
it's our time to rise</center></div>[/lz]

пост перенесён

Отредактировано Evelyn Trevelyan (2021-11-25 12:45:38)



When he was younger, he used to watch the windows of his father’s numerous houses illuminate. The night sky painted with countless colors of magical fireworks, and Tractus thought that this was what happiness must look like. His life was devoid of color. The inside of gold-plated Tevinter wasn’t as shiny as one would expect. Tractus’s childhood was colored with darkened damp wood for the fire, with wrecked roads of grey stone. With pale yellow bruises.
Now the brightest of lights shines behind his back, and Tractus’s shadow is darker than ever, but it doesn’t matter as much as it used to. Now Tractus knows that happiness hides in the shades of gold coins, in the color of enemy’s blood on his hands. It’s not what his mother taught him, he learnt that on his own. Part of him wishes he could take it back, make everything simple again. Enjoy the fireworks one last time.

Not a star in the sky that night, there’s only pitch black void behind Francesca, masquerading as a city. True colors of magister’s Tevinter are just as dull as the ones of a slave.

The look at Francesca’s face is strangely satisfying. The look of poorly concealed disgust. No surprises there, Tractus thinks. Everything’s just the way it should be. She must find his straightforward desire to become a magister just as hopeless as it is outrageous.
He climbed that high thought, didn’t he?

— Power is great, — he gives Francesca a non-threatening smile. — You should try it sometime.

Perhaps he should be offended, but all he feels is a peculiar kind of relief. A part of him believed that it could’ve been different. It’s not. She hates him, as expected. At least now he’s certain.

Tractus tilts the bottle over her goblet at a dangerous angle, a few drops of wine mark the dark metal red. He won’t do anything right, Francesca should know that.

— Wrong, — he says filling his own goblet. — They’re not here for your brother. They’re here for a scandal. Came to see you break, — he adds playfully with a giddy smirk.

She finally looks at him, darkness hiding her contempt. Her hair is not the color of flames anymore — but what if flame has never been so bright? Doubt spreads like a disease, and he thinks, that maybe, just maybe, the sky has never been blue and neither has the ocean. Maybe marble has never been snow-white, but just another dirty shade of grey.

Maybe Magisterium won’t get him where he needs to be.

Or did he become colorblind — and had never even noticed?

— A word of unwanted advice, — Tractus leans a little closer, it’s almost uncomfortable. — Don’t play victim, Francesca, it’s unbecoming. You weren’t dragged here by force.

His voice is a vague memory of cold winter winds. It’s not a small talk anymore.

— You shouldn’t let them get to you — or at least shouldn’t show that. Those people can smell weakness faster, than hounds pick up their prey’s trail. If you let them know you’re miserable, if you let them know you allowed someone to make you miserable, they will walk all over you. Don’t ever, ever show people in Tevinter that things didn’t go your way.

Tractus takes a sip and looks at a dark silhouette of some magister’s residence rising up behind the garden. He wishes he could just ask her to believe him — if she doesn’t listen, Tevinter will just crush her, nothing to be left. But it’s too early, and he’s just a bit too drunk.
пост перенесён

[nick]Tractus Danarius[/nick][status]dynasty decapitated[/status][icon]https://i.imgur.com/n83sNII.png[/icon][nm]трактус данариус[/nm][lz]<div class="lz"><fan>dragon age</fan><center>hope you guess my name</center></div>[/lz]

Отредактировано Cullen Rutherford (2021-11-25 12:49:48)



Tractus's voice, loud and harsh in the middle of the endless night, was like sharpened scissors cutting the invisible rope around her neck. Her look is almost daring, almost crying to prove him wrong and that she, unlike him, doesn’t need or want this power at all. That she’s better than that, better than him.


The only thing she really needs to ask is if he is ready to let her feel that power?

She buried her feelings, her very heart away, deep into the ground but never let them grow into flowers, only thorns. She had found safety in the mundane of moving through the motions of living without risking herself again. Her fear of her father was way too big to even bear the thought of the idea that she might want to be powerful as well. That she was already powerful.

She looks at the garden below them and thinks of the past, how Florian once tried to convince their father that her gift would help to restore the Empire to its former majestic state. She looks at the garden and remembers how much disdain, no - how much disgust there was in her father's look, how much resentment in her little broken heart. Now, standing next to Tractus, Francesca imagines how massive roots are eradicating the Empire to the ground, how they drag it down, through the Deep Roads, through the Fade itself. And how a golden city under the onslaught of her desperate, sealed for years power turns into the Black, damned, forever lost. And then she thinks: maybe her father knew this? Maybe he was afraid that one day she would devour him?


Francesca takes a sip and thinks that wine has never been this sour. She sighs, slightly smiling.

- Oh, well, if you say so... I'll try it  next time.

Deep inside she knows he's right though. Scandals are basically the main meal in Tevinter, and they will try to get it, one way or another. There are plenty of ways to get it, for example, his poor choice of an emerald doublet or the expression of pure annoyance on her face, or even Florian's attempts of making everything less miserable are good enough for rumors, that they'll spread somewhere while drinking wine in their fancy houses, but nothing more. The problem is that the night is young and she lost count of the empty goblets.

- What an honor, - she says, fixing her hair over the ear.

Strange, she thinks. She almost stopped feeling the urgent need to leave the place after his appearance. But the sudden feeling disappears as quickly as it came before. Her hand clenched, and she rested her fist on her thigh, trying to recover from the words that struck her composure, trying to hold still while he's leaning closer.

The truth he shares feels like dry suffocation, reminding her of her father's fingers, closing in snake rings on her own neck. He learned that the hard way, she knows that. Wore this truth in every hidden scar upon his skin, screamed it in every nightmare he could not resist, feared it in the beat of his heart. But even as everything around him fell, somehow, Tractus endured. He was, moreover, strong enough to show every arrogant magister in Tevinter that he's worth something. But why would he tell this? Why would he share this truth with her like he almost cares?

Is he gonna save her? Or is he about to destroy her?

Hating him, hating herself, hate, in general, felt much better than drowning in the frozen lake of the obscurity.

- If only I knew how to do it, - she whispers with a bitter voice. She looks him in the eyes, no disgust this time, no hate. Is there still a chance for them to get along, she wonders? An awkward cough distracts her from her thoughts, the goblet in her hand trembled from a sudden, and some wine splashed over her dress. - Damn it! - she curses, trying to somehow fix this mess. The slave girl begging her forgiveness, but Francesca isn't in a mood for one.

- I'm sorry, mistress, your brother sent me to find you and tell, that the guests are worrying, - she says, eyes never lifting from the ground. Francesca smirks with irritation. Of course, they're worrying, and Florian is just being a good host that could not leave them for a second even for his own and only sister.

- Tell him we'll come back soon, - she humbly disappears after her words, leaving Francesca and Tractus all alone again. - Stupid girl, now I need to change. Though I can try to find something as stupidly emerald as your doublet, - she laughs, no offense this time.

[nick]Francesca Invidus[/nick][status]scverna[/status][icon]https://i.imgur.com/mDGBNCX.png[/icon][nm]<a href="ссылка на анкету" class="ank">франческа инвидус</a>[/nm][lz]<div class="lz"><fan>dragon age</fan><center>hunger in our eyes
victory's on our minds
it's our time to rise</center></div>[/lz]

пост перенесён

Отредактировано Evelyn Trevelyan (2021-11-25 12:45:20)



пост перенесён
The servant girl appears out of nowhere — a demon slipping through the cracks in the Fade, no less. Nasty little beast, she ruins everything. Tractus’s eyes darken, the shade gets even more unnatural than usual. Her tumbling voice, her utter obedience sickens him, enrages him. It passes quickly though. Tractus can’t blame her for being wrong and damaged, for being a pest in the imperial gardens. Everyone who’s not born with a magister’s name is somehow crooked. Everyone not rich or powerful enough — just unconditionally flawed.

Tractus hopes that his father’s wealth, his father’s name will fix him, cure him. He should feel like a traitor — and frankly, he does. However, up to this day his new and shiny family name have only made him hated by both the magisters and the servants. It’s not as nasty as Tractus thought it would be — there’s something freeing about being a disappointment. It frees him from guilt before the commoners for looking down on them, frees him from guild before his honored father for being an unwanted heir.

The servant leaves, and suddenly everything’s not as lost as Tractus thought. Francesca brushes the misshapen off so easily, Francesca laughs — and Tractus can’t help but laugh too. He can’t remember when he last heard someone laugh sincerely — even strangers drinking on his dime in taverns are not usually entertained by Tractus’s company.
Francesca doesn’t look doomed anymore, and it makes him a bit hopeful. Makes him a hell of an idiot as well.

But the feeling is nice — even if lasts but a moment.

— I look stupidly gorgeous in emerald, thank you for noticing, — he says and bows in jest. — Not going to sacrifice my looks just because some glorified tyrant kicked the bucket. I’m sorry thought, — he adds seriously. — If he was a caring father. Something tells me that he wasn’t though, I know a thing or two about magister parents.

And I know exactly what kind of nightmare Alerio Invidus was.

He feels terrified as well as relieved. Her father’s death had to come up at some point, and Tractus wants it out of their way as soon as possible. He knows that he’ll try to talk about it again, he’ll try to understand it her loss is a loss indeed. But for now — he’s fine with just getting rid of the druffalo in the room. It’s still scary on the other hand. Not everyone is as cynical as Tractus. Not everyone has this overwhelming need to hurt first — before getting hurt.

He settles it easily — doesn’t leave Francesca any room for response.

— I can escort you to your chambers, can’t I? Being your future husband and all. Also I know a lot about inappropriate colors, you may find yourself in need of my assistance.

Tractus offers her a hand.

He’s been rejected his whole life, but if she rejects him now, he might not survive the shame of it all. But he feels like it’s worth the risk.
пост перенесён

[nick]Tractus Danarius[/nick][status]dynasty decapitated[/status][icon]https://i.imgur.com/n83sNII.png[/icon][nm]трактус данариус[/nm][lz]<div class="lz"><fan>dragon age</fan><center>hope you guess my name</center></div>[/lz]

Отредактировано Cullen Rutherford (2021-11-25 12:50:00)



He has a well-deserved reputation for bluntness, she thinks. It suited him, though, in some kind of way. The truth was always a rare thing in the Imperium and she definitely didn’t expect to see it here, in him. So she laughs, closing her eyes with her hand when he bows like a proper nobleman and smiles even after he speaks of her father. His words sound as terrible as they are funny, and — true. Too bad that she let this glorified tyrant dictate her rules from beyond the grave.

Francesca, however, has no chance to agree with Tractus; Francesca has no chance at all when he offers her his hand.

She didn't mean to stare yet couldn't help but notice — Tractus's voice trembles with uncertainty, Tractus's voice sounds like he doesn't fully believe it all himself. Francesca blinks with confusion and thinks that Tractus’s hair is now messed because of the wind. She can't say why does it seem so important to her right now, she doesn't know at all why she still hasn't said no. Instead, she fixes his hair with her hand so easily, like she has the right.

She has to tell him no. It will be the right thing to do. It will be fair. A couple drinks won't help this, definitely won't help them. But talking to him without burning hatred is incomparably easier than drowning in that vicious feeling. Everything turns out wrong from the beginning, but the wine boiling in her blood makes her doubt. It makes her hope that if they try hard enough, they don't necessarily have to end this story the way her parents did.

Francesca's heard her mother died in agony. Best healers in Minrathous could not help her, Alerio told his children, and at some point, Francesca started to doubt whether her mother died her own death or whether her father got rid of her because she became a thorn in his side?

So she decides that trying to turn this out in something good is not necessarily supposed to hurt. After all, another magister's daughter could end up in her place, it's just Alerio Invidus was arrogant enough to eliminate his rivals. It was Alerio Invidus who had nothing else to offer except for his daughter's life.

— I may indeed, — she says after a brief moment and takes his hand, returning a bow with a chuckle. — And while we are walking, tell me something about you. You know, anything? What do you like, what makes you sick? Tell me about the place where you live. Will there be a place for my garden? — oh Maker, she hopes the darkness will hide her burning cheeks. — I guess, we didn’t have a chance to get to know each other before all this, but why not start now?

After all, wouldn't it be nice to prove to father that his plans for her will not succeed? Even if the dead man no longer needs it, Francesca will be able to sleep peacefully if Tractus shares the thought.

[nick]Francesca Invidus[/nick][status]scverna[/status][icon]https://i.imgur.com/mDGBNCX.png[/icon][nm]<a href="ссылка на анкету" class="ank">франческа инвидус</a>[/nm][lz]<div class="lz"><fan>dragon age</fan><center>hunger in our eyes
victory's on our minds
it's our time to rise</center></div>[/lz]

пост перенесён

Отредактировано Evelyn Trevelyan (2021-11-25 12:45:03)



пост перенесён
People don’t like him.

Some think he doesn’t deserve Danarius’s name. Others — that he’s being ungrateful to the society, which allowed him generously to almost be one of them. Even now, at his own engagement party, Tractus is an eyesore. He’d like to think, that that’s all there is, that he is generally unlikable because of his blood and his blood alone. That’s not the case, and Tractus knows it.

He goes on and on about how high he’s going to fly — once given a chance. He throws accusations so easily, it’s not even scandalous anymore. Tractus’s not a rebel and he’s not an ardent truth-teller. He comes off as irritating.

Yet what else does he have to say to them?

What do they have to say to Tractus?

Maybe every guest, trapped in the labyrinth of Invidus’s house, hates it all as well. Hates the never-ending struggle for power, hates the need to be accepted, to be marked as their own. Desire — is like a rising tide, it suffocates, it swallows one whole, and it’s terrifying, and it’s maddening. A speculation — yet may be true. A guess — with a slim chance for luck.

He got used to this — guessing. Making doubtful conclusions. Seeing people, like they’re nothing but reflections, twisted, fractured. But Francesca reaches her hand and touches his hair so easily, that Tractus wonders.

Is this how it’s supposed to be? Is this how it was always supposed to be?

He looks at her — and it’s almost blinding.

She’s not a reflection. She may be the last of the real ones in all of the Imperium. And Tractus thinks — Gods, those vultures are going to tear her apart. And Tractus thinks — only if he doesn’t destroy her first. It almost hurts, so he smiles to make it worse.

Francesca takes his hand, — by Old Gods, Tractus hopes the darkness will hide his smug silly grin — and then something even more unexpected happens. He glances at her, smile dying swiftly like an early summer storm. Is this some kind of a joke? Is there a catch he’s yet to discover? But Francesca doesn’t look like she’s joking. Neither does it look like she would seek to hurt anyone.

Not even him.

His bitterness won’t allow Tractus to simply enjoy this moment. There’s a quite nasty voice that says — she doesn’t care. She’ll tell her blue-blooded friends later what a fool he is. For once Tractus is deaf to the mean little voice. It simply must have confused Francesca with one of the reflections.

So they leave the balcony, and Tractus hates that muddy yellow light of candles in the hall, but it doesn’t really matter.

— That’s fair, — he says casually, like all this doesn’t look, doesn’t feel like a trap conjured by a desire demon. — Let’s see, I live in my family’s mansion, which looks like a poor man’s fantasy and feels like a grave. There’s a huge fighting pit made out of the back yard, and it’s horrifying. I’m thinking of tearing the whole thing down, making something new. There… — he pauses, he doesn’t look at Francesca. — There will be a lot of space, so a garden, maybe? A whole arboretum if you will. Would be quite symbolic, right?

He sounds nervous. Why would she want to bring her flowers to the blood-stained land of his father? Why would she want to give a chance to something that broken?

Tractus stops and looks at Francesca. The hall is empty, and it feels that they’re truly alone.

He doesn’t want to talk about how the Imperium mistreated him, how it makes him sick. He — he doesn’t want to talk about himself for once, not really.

— There’s something you should know about me, — he says seriously. — I have a collection of marble birds. I… I have no idea how that happened, I just wanted to do something stupid with my father’s money, so I bought the most hideous marble peacock with eyes of sapphire and feathers of gold, and it kind of went downhill from there. These birds — they’re everywhere, and they’re creepy, and I just keep buying them. Someone should really stop me.

No defense. No poisonous thorns wrapped around him like an armor. It’s risky — but for the first time since he became a Danarius, he doesn’t feel like a reflection himself.
пост перенесён

[nick]Tractus Danarius[/nick][status]dynasty decapitated[/status][icon]https://i.imgur.com/n83sNII.png[/icon][nm]трактус данариус[/nm][lz]<div class="lz"><fan>dragon age</fan><center>hope you guess my name</center></div>[/lz]

Отредактировано Cullen Rutherford (2021-11-25 12:50:10)



Francesca looks at Tractus in disbelieve. It felt like her skin begin to prickle at the way he seemed to hesitate, the pensive weight he put on his words. Could it be just another trick he uses to let her guard down, she wonders, another promise covered with politeness yet empty on the inside? Or is it her just being wrong about him all the time before?

He doesn't look her in the eyes, she notices. Why? Scared to be caught or, maybe, scared, yes, yet for another reason? She can't be sure, but the sincerity in all his words is frightening — her father hated her gift, and all his friends obsessed with the idea of supremacy were of about the very same thought. If her magic was only good enough to make the Imperium look better, then she should go and join the slaves working in the garden. Those were her father's words. Worthless power for a worthless child — how expected. But Tractus doesn't seem to care that her magic is abnormal, useless even for a bit.

Tractus promises her garden. A whole arboretum even, and, without realizing it completely, she holds his hand tighter — with gratitude.

— Thank you. It, — she doesn't look at him either. Maybe she was just scared too? — It means a lot.

The road through the labyrinth of corridors seems endless to Francesca. She doesn't even realize she takes a long way around as if is wanting to extend this walk. As if is wanting to stay away from the scavengers waiting for them in the hall, just for a bit longer. They stop abruptly and for a moment in the dim light of the candles Francesca thinks that right now the illusion will be shattered. Must be. That right now Tractus Danarius will stop pretending and say, smirking cruelly, how pathetic she is when she looks at him like that.

Francesca watches him carefully, trying to hide the fear in the corner of her eyes. She holds his hand tightly, never letting go, waiting, but with each of his next words, the fear passes away. It takes a moment, and her laughter spreads along the corridor while she hides her face in his shoulder, just to sound quieter.

— Sorry, — she says, taking a step back from Tractus and wawing her hand on her reddened face, — it's adorable. You reminded me of how once when Florian and I were kids, one magister brought some peacocks to our house, a gift he said. And on the very first day, one of these birds bit Florian. He hates them ever since. I have no idea what he did to that poor bird, but promise me we will send him one as a gift, please? I am sure he will smash it as soon as he sees it, though, but his face, oh Maker, I am ready to bet everything that it will be priceless!

Francesca shares a few more memories - of her childhood, of how it all went wrong when her mother died. Lies, of course, everything was broken long before that. Just like her memories now - shattered pieces of a picture that seems never to be whole again.

Suddenly, she realizes they reached her room. Suddenly, she's nervous. It’s not like she doesn’t want Tractus to see her room, not exactly. She just struggles to believe this is all for real. She's marrying Tractus. She couldn't even remember his first name a few days ago, and now everyone expected her to take his last. Does he? Does it even necessary? She has so many questions no one bothers to answer her. When Florian first said about this she thought it was a disaster. Now - she thinks it's actually nice. It's nice to have someone who can be this close. But for how long?

— Okay, — she smiles nervously, casting the spell to open the lock. It's dark inside - of course, only a few candles that are still not enough to make it more appropriate and less intimate. Oh Maker, why does it have to be that confusing, she thinks, clapping her hands so that it could be a little brighter. — Come in.

She stops in the middle of the room, feeling stupid really, waiting for his reaction of some sort. She doesn't think her room looks any different from the one he probably has or any other magister's child yet she can't help but wonder is it as he expected or not even close. Or maybe she's just being silly, imagining things that have nothing to do with reality - never should miss that option. But time is running out, and soon enough, Florian will probably piss off if they won't come back. And for some reason, she doesn't want him to see her with Tractus in her room - it makes her blush even just to think about it.

- Don't get too comfortable though, for I've got plenty of dresses you promised to help with, - she giggles, coming to the wardrobe. It's not that much, to be honest, not that much of emerald dresses, if to be specific. After separating a few of them, she grabs Tractus by the hand and brings him closer. — So, what do you think?

[nick]Francesca Invidus[/nick][status]scverna[/status][icon]https://i.imgur.com/mDGBNCX.png[/icon][nm]<a href="ссылка на анкету" class="ank">франческа инвидус</a>[/nm][lz]<div class="lz"><fan>dragon age</fan><center>hunger in our eyes
victory's on our minds
it's our time to rise</center></div>[/lz]

пост перенесён



It’s so uncomplicated, and Tractus knows for sure there should be a catch. That can’t happen to him, he didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve her company. On the other hand, it’s Tevinter. It’s merciless and unpredictable. The Empire knows no justice.

He smiles, he promises to send Florian the jewel of his collection — and they should be there when it arrives, the show would be to die for. Yet his smile is somehow forced — just a bit, not enough for Francesca to notice.

She didn’t deserve this either. She should have been born far away from this place, forsaken by the gods. She should have had a decent family, a father, who wouldn’t sell her to someone like Tractus. It hurts when he suddenly realizes — he could make up for what she was deprived of. He could be honest, he could abandon his poisonous ambitions. He—

They could actually be happy.

And here they are. Francesca lets him in into her room — he doesn’t believe it until the door closes behind him. She should know how much Tractus appreciates her trust, shouldn’t she?

But he says nothing.

Her room is different. Tractus doesn’t feel like the walls are closing in on him, like in any other corner of the Invidus mansion. Yet another reason to think that she doesn’t belong here — desperately. The air is filled with a scent of freshly cut flowers, and Tractus looks at the silver vase on the vanity table. He doesn’t know what those flowers are called, but they’re definitely nice to look at.

They’re beautiful — but they won’t last. Not here. Not in Tevinter.

He lets Francesca grab his hand, he lets her pull him to the wardrobe. It’s still so natural, so simple. Tractus looks at her, and for a moment it feels like it wasn’t all for nothing, and his loneliness seems a lot nicer.

Seems like it was worth it.

But he should know better.

Tractus studies dresses and frowns. He’s dead serious, he wants her to know that this choice is not a joke anymore. There’s nothing more important in the whole Empire.

— Well, that’s tough, — he says. — Are those real emeralds? So decadent.

He reaches his hand and touches the soft velvet of a lavishly decorated dress. Even in this room, even in the wardrobe the fabric looks as if it’s made of pure glow. It would look blindingly bright. It would be scandalous.

— You should wear this one. They will never forget it.

He smiles — but his smile is a bit crooked. He takes a pause.

He should know better.

And there’s the catch.

— Listen, Francesca, I don’t want to spoil the night. Gods know I never thought that there would be much to spoil, but… — he looks at her, he allows her to see how sincere he is, how vulnerable this makes him. — But there is. Plenty.

Every word hurts him, but this is how it’s supposed to be. Tevinter bleeds people dry, there’s no way around that.

— There’s not a single guard at your door, and your room is so easy to reach. I know that you’re a powerful mage, but that thing — it may not give you a chance to use magic. I feel… uneasy after what he’s done to your father, and you should too. I wouldn’t want you to get hurt.

And he stops to see her face change, so see her confused, to see her lost completely. He knows what Florian told her — yet he speaks as if Francesca should know that her father was murdered by a vicious beast. He knows that Florian didn’t want to scare her.

He should have.

— Florian told you that you should be careful, didn’t he? — he asks her with worry so sincere. — He did tell you what happened to your father, right?

He knows better.

This will make Tractus the one she can trust, and he sacrifices Florian for this little trick. Tractus promised not to tell her — he lied. It’s easy for him, he knows no guilt. Yet every word leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

This night could be a precious memory. This night could be the beginning of something genuinely good in his life. Something beautiful. But Tractus traded it for yet another manipulation.

He knows better. It’s Tevinter.

It won’t last.
пост перенесён

[nick]Tractus Danarius[/nick][status]dynasty decapitated[/status][icon]https://i.imgur.com/n83sNII.png[/icon][nm]трактус данариус[/nm][lz]<div class="lz"><fan>dragon age</fan><center>hope you guess my name</center></div>[/lz]



She nods and pushes Tractus aside with her shoulder. Francesca laughs. At this very moment, there could be nothing more important, nothing more amusing than the imaginary picture of the magisters, whose faces are twisted either from indignation or from shock when she appears in such inappropriate in all possible ways dress that does not fit into their well planned evening.

But Tractus's sudden question pulled Francesca from her thoughts.

She doesn't like the way Tractus's face changes when she turns around. She doesn't like the way his words sound.

Strange it feels, almost as if he tears dried blood scab off with his words. As if the pus that clothed in words flows from a neglected severe wound - but it was not he who caused this wound, Francesca thinks with regret, and it is not his fault that she cannot heal.

Was there worry to his tone? It matters not anyway. This won't make her feel better for a second.

She cannot look at Tractus. She looks away, purses her lips, puts her palms around her shoulders. Francesca knows: it is unworthy of Invidus's daughter to show her weakness, especially not in front of Danarius, but it doesn't matter.

It doesn't matter anymore.

Another wound would ruin her. A soul shattered into thousand shards of glass; a fracture impossible to mend.

- He said it was an ambush. The qunari. Too many of them, father didn't make it.

She frowns, recovering her memories. Florian stops her hand when she wants to remove the burial shroud that covers her father's dead body. No need to remember him like that, he says. Like he was any better when he was alive. Still, what was he trying to hide from her? What kind of deadly wound did the beast Tractus mentioned before leave?

- Why would he lie? - did her brother forget who he is amongst the chaos? Did he forget everything that binds them? Was it even real? Too many questions, too few answers.

- In any case, soon I won't be living here so why bother. After all, he'll get what he needed anyway, - even if I'd be gone, she thinks.

Another wound would ruin her. But the ruination is no longer an option.

Clenching her fists, Francesca makes a long breath. The seconds were slow and torturous, passing like a waterdrop leaking from a ceiling of one's prison. The seconds she made her decision.

- Promise me this, Tractus. If you want to use me, just fucking tell me about it. I may look like I know nothing about how things work, but I ain't stupid. It won't work if you don't see me as your equal.

And that was it. She didn't care about how exactly her father died, she didn't care why did Florian think it was better to lie to her. She just tired from being treated like a child, or even worse. Another person with the same behavior will ruin her, but the ruination is no longer an option.

- Now stop just standing there and help me change. I want my brother to choke with his damn wine.

[nick]Francesca Invidus[/nick][status]scverna[/status][icon]https://i.imgur.com/mDGBNCX.png[/icon][nm]<a href="ссылка на анкету" class="ank">франческа инвидус</a>[/nm][lz]<div class="lz"><fan>dragon age</fan><center>hunger in our eyes
victory's on our minds
it's our time to rise</center></div>[/lz]


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