Diary Of Celine Anahera

Hello <3 what follows are a series of stories written as either diary entries, vignettes or whatever other quirky medium I think suits the telling of these tales. These stories will be dramatized chronicles remembering Celine Anahera in the times leading up to her murder in 302 AC. These stories are obviously not canon but are inspired by those memories of geeking about early noble roleplay with dear friends years ago. Consider this a muse project--I hope to return and add more soon. Anyways, enjoy! Or don’t.


September 11th, 301 AC - The events preceding Noble Intrigue!

The throes of midday labor saturated the air of the ballroom with the sweat of servants as they hurried to and fro, setting tables and laying decorations. Celine Anahera watched from the gallery above, peering down below as the blurred figures sweat themselves rivers in an effort to look busy. Soon, richly adorned tables sporting the varied familial colors of a rejuvenated Regalian nobility would border the main dancefloor. At the center of the room lay the glittering chandelier, tastelessly dismantled and schlepped on the floor while it patiently waited to be assembled hoisted up high to glitter above tomorrow’s revellers. And still, those distant, blurry servants buzzed around and away from that precious jewel, that most imperial of centerpieces. Whatever busywork could be left besides that final, hard job at hand?

“Feh.” She pursed her lips, right hand clenching to her cane till her knuckles turned as pale as her many silver rings. The flavor of that dismissive, the effortlessness of that barely constructed noise--she rather liked it, though she hated that she did. It had become the iconic little remark of that new bourgeoisie--the likes of the families of Lo or Beauveret. In many ways, the servants below reminded her of these newly arrived families. She watched more of the events below, oblong blurs gently patting at already-set tables and greyly polishing glistening candelabras. There are some… Perhaps thirty of them down below, waltzing between each other in the most magnificent dance that avoided that damned chandelier. To wield power in this city is to do the hard work--with diligence, urgency and earnestness. To reimagine the relationships of power between the Imperial Crown, military and nobility demanded blood, sweat, tears and untold sacrifice. And all these rosy-cheeked nobility from the country can muster is a ‘Feh’. And these damned servants cannot even do the job right in their face.

A distinct green little blur scurried into the center of the scene now. A feminine figure, small and lithe among the burlier sort of servants, the distant cloud of purple could be seen fussing at the chandelier, the Vultarin crystals gently sparkling as they were moved. How nice of her to actually do something worthwhile--a shame she’s only doing it alone, though. Celine sucked in a breath and held her cane just a few inches above the ground, peering daggers at the blurs below. Before she could give that resounding clack of her cane, her personal anti-‘Feh’, the door to her room of the gallery creaked open. Her cane gently tapped against the balcony floor’s marble before she ever so gently turned her head to her left,“My Lord Medavinci.”

Built like a boar, the towering Vultarin man swaggered in, his decorative armor of the city’s guard clinking and clanking as gracelessly as you can hope for in front of an already annoyed old woman.

“My Lady Anahera. Pardon my lateness I--”

“Enough, no need.” She spun around, perhaps a bit too quickly. Despite being in her eighties, Celine is not entirely ailing. Her cane and hunching back aside, Celine knows her own dexterity well enough to figure its genuine expression would betray the utility in presenting as the feeblest of old women. In front of her, still standing like an oaf at the door, was Graelin Medavinci, the premier liaison between the city’s ruling nobility and the great wilds of the decentralized rural military. A veteran of wars of the field and wars of scandal in politics, the Lord Medavinci stands as the ideal Regalian chauvinist bachelor, debuting with the glittering bells of a good name and the shrill whistles of loyal armies.

Her shoulders loosened before she turned back to look down on the dancefloor again. She glanced over, gesturing the man over,“Your ask for a pardon began with you still at your feet rather than your knees, therefore you know me to reject it. Even still, come. I wanted to speak over theater.”

He sauntered over, burping out a laugh,“I rather thought you meant a show, but I see neither theater nor show here, my dearest and wisest Lady Anaher-- AGH!”

She pressed her cane squarely in the middle of the man’s gargantuan foot, her knuckles white while she bore that familiar maternal strength reserved for discipline through those thick leather boots. And just as quickly as she cast her cane did she withdraw it,“It is a show--look at all this. The pageantry, the bloody colors and all of it.”

The man slid away a step, leaning against the balcony’s railing while he dumbly held his foot. He gave a small grunt, side-eyeing the stout, bejeweled crone beside him with a poorly disguised scowl,“The wordplay was certainly fun and flirty before, but now I should want to know why wanted to meet me here, nor now for that matter.” He paused, the scowl melting away before being replaced with that same stupid smile,“Unless we’re to reenact a romance--are you the damsel, or am I?”

“The show,” she began, not even entertaining his jests with her gaze,“is the pomp and parade we bring with this… What is it now, what do we call it? A ‘liberalized’ Senate.” She paused, now turning to face the Medavinci,“Myself and the Arch-Chancellor's son would sooner abolish the whole Senate. I do not know what you and Moriarty and the rest of your jingoist cabal have negotiated in your backrooms, though I can only suppose the lot of you were indisposed by the vapors of the poppy,” she paused, sharply sucking in a breath,“and that may have been the only extent in which my family has been involved in this thinking.”

She withdrew towards one of the cushioned seats butted up against the corner of the room and the balcony’s railing. She moved rigidly and slowly, the moment’s silence only punctuated by the pointed clacks of her cane before she delicately perched herself at the chair’s edge. She looked on to him, silent and waiting.

“... What is it you’d care for me to say?” Graelin said, that same tone of the well-to-do bachelor perfuming his chivalric ask to please. “Would you like me to kiss your ring, madam? Are we still playing some part in a show?” He smiled, his irritatingly pristine blonde hair seeming to shine along with his teeth. “If what we are doing here is a show, then what we’ve been doing these past months has been a game, and I rather think you’re finding yourself on the losing side.”

Celine gave a single, simple nod, her deadpan colder than ice. Silence hanged between them for a moment before he continued,“The Senate is going nowhere. Our dear Arch-Chancellor lacks a mandate with that ailing Emperor, where else is he to look? Who is to fund this rotted city’s coffers for winter, or line up in formation for the next war?” Hands behind his back now, he gently began a soft walk towards the sitting elder,“Your family’s gold is only good for so long--wealth comes and goes, especially when it comes from those backwater plantations in the jungle. Did you think you honestly would have it all your way since coming here? Your being a muse to the Kade family is no indication of power or success, nor is it a forecast of your better future. It was never going to be that easy” He stopped just a few paces from her now, looming over her. He pivoted, turning to overlook the dancefloor just as she had done.“I know you hate these sorts of shows,” he began, his tone suddenly softening,“but I trust you’ll enjoy it. You’re new to this city too, even if the sort that come to tomorrow’s little event are a whole different caste of fresh meat.” He turned to her now, that familiar smirk of a man bearing down unto her,“You’ve already paid for so much of it, might as well enjoy what your last few pennies bought.”

Another moment of silence hanged between them. The Medavinci cleared his throat, his lips just parting to bid his farewells before the sudden noise of collective grunts resounded from the dancefloor below. The brief and sharp zip of taut rope on a pulley hissed from somewhere in the vaulted ceiling even higher above the gallery and dancefloor. Another resounding wave of a group’s grunting labors pulled the Medavinci’s gaze out across the balcony, this time the quick clinking of crystals seasoning the ends of the grunts.

“I had bought this too, with my pennies.” Celine began, rising from her seat. She shuffled to stand just beside the Medavinci as the two watched the chandelier finally be hoisted to its position. Though unlit, the multitude of crystals and polished gold promised a glittering show in candlelight or otherwise. She rest both hands atop the handle of her cane, rolling her shoulders back best she could while she felt confidence fill her chest, the hot passions of an impending checkmate making her words that much more acidic,“I commissioned it from a Vultarin workshop. From your lands, I believe.” The Medavinci watched as the final ties were adjusted for the fixture before looking to Celine with a furrowed brow. She continued,“My daughter had met the craftsman’s daughter during tea just a few weeks ago. Of course, we already heard of this family before pursuing them for their dedication to their craft.”

Graelin scoffed, confused. Before he could pose his brutish confusion, Celine continued even still,“Mandolo, the family name. Valentina, the daughter. You two have met, no?” She slid forward a step, peering down over the railing before giving a triumphant tut, gesturing vaguely towards the jubilant green blur celebrating yet another successful installment in the center of the dancefloor,“She complained to my daughter of nausea some weeks ago… My family’s physician believes her pregnant.” She paused, panning to Graelin now,“Strange given she’s yet to be wed to her promised…”

“I’ll stop the vulgarities.” Celine began, reaching high to rest a hand on the tall man’s shoulder,“Marry my daughter. Marry her, and I’ll schlep your little boy’s club forward as a true institution of the Senate. Marry my daughter, play your games with your boys, and leave the rest to myself and the Arch-Chancellor’s son. That will be our deal, and thus concludes our show, my dear son.”




Summer of 300 AC, A Holiday to Daenshore during a Recess in the Regalian Senate

A gust of warm wind tossed the scarlet silken curtains that draped along the cloister of the courtyard, the high evening sunlight glittering the sewn-in beads of glass to reflect a marvelous dance of tinted light that pulled and pushed with each sigh of the sky. The sun only just began to unseat from his midday throne, and that sumptuous moment of siesta yawned its end. Still, the heat of the last hour’s high noon radiated off the tiled courtyard, its central fountain dry as to not needlessly waste water. Lush potted plants and strewn out cushions and pillows bordered the whole courtyard, particular clumps of blankets and throws boasting hookahs and other tools of the poppy. It was perplexing--this courtyard used to be one of the cloister of the Society of the Spirit, a slum-centered church meant to facilitate some semblance of kindness in these otherwise putrid streets of Daenshore. While this once-monastery is now a glorified brothel-called-club, Celine couldn’t help but figure the more fundamental functions of this site are still maintained. Perhaps even the services of these vixens of the night and their Madam facilitate a local economy at least more wholesome than gang-centered racketeering.

“It’s odd, is it not?”

The Cielothar’s voice cooed in some sort of nursery song. The elder Anahera stood beside this supposedly legendary Madam. Her silks seemed to drip off her slender and youthful-looking physique, various bands, rings and piercings of plain gold fashioning her long drape of translucent silver silk. Celine always knew these Wind Elves to be ones of a much more nature-based disposition, certainly more tree-hugger than whatever flagrant skin-bearing this woman cares to offer. Though it made sense, the old matriarch certainly attempted her homework before sailing here all the way from the capital. She herself is not too old, a mere 40 years Celine’s junior. An Ailor woman of this Madam’s age would already be nearing her change, but it was obvious in Celine’s eyes the sort of inherent blessings of youth those Nelfin enjoy certainly pose as a vain blessing in an emptier glass, or a better means of pursuing time-earned wisdom in a fuller glass. The Madam is relatively young, born and bred in the streets of Daenshore, never truly knowing a life beyond its schemes and grime.

The pair stood beneath one side of the cloister, shaded beneath the elegantly arched gallery. Despite the ample shade, Celine still boasted a white silken parasol, matching her own glowing-white gown of muslin and linen. She rather detested the heat. The elder Anahera squinted, panning ahead towards that presently dry fountain. A simple wooden table was fashioned in front of the fountain, atop of it an odd, oblong sort of husk. It bore a lightly yellow hue, though its exterior shell still looked more the part of a fanged coconut. Atop this oval of expressive fiber was an ostentatious flare of green leaves, looking almost like a weed turned fern. These leaves sat there, peacocking atop the husked orb while the Madam pointed at it, “It is from the far west, apparently quite sweet and sharp in flavor.” The Madam withdrew her hand, tracing her fingertips over her lips while she so sumptuously purred, “They call it a pineapple.”

“It is certainly… Exotic.” Celine pursed her lips. She was well aware what a pineapple is--there were samples shipped to the capital just a month ago. In any case, she nodded, turning and looking up at the Madam, “It sounds to me it’d make for great libation touched with coconut, a rum.” she croaked in posing.

“A marvelous idea! We’ve a whole crate to try for tonight’s-- what did you call it? Libation? I rather like that word, we shall call it a Libation Bath!” The Madam gave a whimsical sigh, her fingers fluttering from her lips to her collar, where she tepidly tapped gently against her skin, “I know you don’t care to hear of the club, Madam Senator, beg pardon.”

Her look must have given it away. Celine tutted, turning to face that pineapple set so wantonly atop that table in the sun. “It’s perfectly fine, Madam. My holiday here is indeed to see family, I’ve still a whole week left in Daenshore.” She twirled her parasol absently for a moment, “I only intend to honor that given excuse to the Lord Chancellor. I do appreciate you taking care after my time.”

Seemingly on cue, one of wooden doors on the left side of the cloister burst open, some handfuls of teenagers and children, all of varying physique, condition and indeed parentage. While many were still rubbing sleep from their eyes and squinting at the harsh bright light of the outdoors, many still chattered and laughed as they all scattered about, clearing up the various cushions and fineries that bordered the courtyard. Celine peered out over them all from the courtyard while they moved to and fro, the Madam absently humming pleasantly beside her. The elder Anahera first eyed a beefy young man, clearly of some sort of Avanthar parentage mixed with Ailor. His walnut curls bounced as he haughtily pushed past his peers, boasting a great armful of blankets and pillows, and even a hookah. She then panned to see a lanky young Qadir girl, whether she was of mixed parentage was beyond Celine. She laughed boisterously while punching the arm of the boy appearing to tease her while they shared the load of a particularly large cushion with two other sort of Half-Elfin youngsters. A particularly haughty Half-Orc boy appearing to be no more than eight-years-old tussled playfully with a comically smaller, and presumably just as young, Ailor boy. “He’s often late to this, even as a babe he preferred to sleep so much I was afraid he may dream a whole lifetime without living it!” the Madam chirped, absently caressing her belly.

Soon the courtyard was cleared, left bare with only the few larger potted plants at the corners. The youth began to undress in the shade of the gallery opposite Celine and the Madam, just as the water of the central fountain burst forth with a mighty vigor, shooting high in the sky while various other small faucets along the courtyard's edge began spurting forth their own streams. Before Celine could suggest leaving the youth to their midday bathing, a blur of a figure burst out into the courtyard, stumbling into the courtyard. Lithe and tall, the figure tactlessly fumbled over the slippery tile, half-dressed. His voice cracked in his quick yell, still bumbling forward before he eventually crashed into the table and its hosted pineapple. “There he is. Gonza!” the Madam beckoned out to the boy, who lay soaked and defeated in the mess of the table and dejectedly tossed-aside pineapple.

The various children and teenagers laughed and did their oohs as the boy was called. He scrambled up, dusting himself off theatrically while the fountain’s waters continued to rain down on him, a handful of the children laughing in more as he did so. He eventually gave a leisurely saunter down the courtyard as he seemed to embrace the pouring water, an oddly young swagger that felt all too familiar for Celine. He approached the pair, throwing back those infamous auburn curls, soaked as they were, as he finally looked to them. And there she saw him.

His eyes were that rich emerald, so hard for the Spirit to forget in blessing anyone born into this most noble lineage. Bright, big and almost seeming to glow, those verdant portals into this boy’s soul showed a greenness of youth and naivete just as vibrant and loud as the mischief that seemed to dance in the glitter of his eyes. He sported a wide, haughty grin, pointed and piqued enough to trade into what she knew him to have in that certain sharp smirk. His upper right front tooth was flatly chipped, but the breadth of his smile suggested he didn’t care. A few of the finer hairs just at the top of his upper lip were stiffening into the proper stuff on the way towards a mustache, the thickness of his sideburns seeming just as newly developed. He bore that same delicate jaw and same sculpted little nose--the only real addition to conventional expectations of his blood were his slightly elongated ears, their otherwise telltale Nelfin points slightly dulled. Was that a little earring on his right lobe?

Celine blinked, stiffening as she looked down at the extended, dripping hand the boy offered to her. The Madam guffawed next to her, slapping the boy’s shoulder. He bristled, shrinking while the Madam quipped in a shrill hiss,“Kiss her hand!”

The elder Anahera offered her hand up towards the boy now. Old, withered and hunched, Celine has always been a short woman, but it felt jarring to offer her hand up so high--how many other Anaheras ended up this tall, especially at his apparent age? He gave a nervous laugh before giving a quick obligatory peck atop one of her rings. The Madam cast her gaze over towards the gawking children, still half-dressed, “The water is still flowing! Chop-chop before the wind comes!” she gave a few claps before glancing towards Celine, “We ought to head to the other courtyard, more PRIVACY!” the Madam laughed before sashaying down the gallery, hardly waiting for the pair to follow.

Celine and the boy watched her as she so theatrically pranced in her walk. The boy paused, blinking before he cooed,“I ought to offer you my arm!” His voice carried that grating tang of prepubscene while he smiled. He theatrically jut his lanky arm out in a rigid acute angle, the boy’s whole posture tipped slightly to the right while he offered his elbow to the elder Anahera. She took it silently, her other hand still sporting her parasol as the two trailed off after the Madam into the adjoining courtyard, one of the same design albeit with cyan drapes and complementary cushions and fineries splayed across the hot tiled floor. The Madam led the pair towards a small wall-mounted fountain in the shade of the gallery, various carved flowers and grape vines shaped up to a great gilded poppy that spouted a gentle stream of water. “This is an iteration of a work by one of the club’s artisans your family has so graciously patronized with us, Madam Senator,” the Madam began chirping, gesturing flippantly to the fountain, “as small as it is, the design concepts are to die for, certainly, oh, can’t you just see all the details of the grapes, the fine attention paid to how the water flows down…”

The Madam’s caws trailed off as noise to Celine as she still stared at the lanky boy whose arm she held. She gripped his still dripping sleeve, watching him as he bobbed his head along to the Madam’s rambling. He gave a little laugh alongside the Madam as she kept going, and there it was: her son-in-laws devilish little smirk. She withdrew her hand from the boy as the Madam finished prattling, “...and honestly, Madam Senator, we’re truly honored for the continued patronage, I only wish it wasn’t conditioned on such grey anonymity!”

The boy looked down at the elder Anahera as she withdrew, a brow cocked at the sudden tension in the woman. “Are you alright, m’lady? Did I get ya wet? Beg pardon--” his voice cracked, the boy shut his lips.

Celine cast her wrist towards the fountain, “We’re happy to keep this institution flourishing the way it is, and the anonymous nature of our donations is to remain.” She turned squarely to the boy now, silent as she looked critically on him. He tugged at his soaked collar that clung to him, that same smirk on his lips, albeit shaded with a curious, humble sort of embarrassment. That is something one doesn’t see with that smirk. She shoved a hand into her pocket, retrieving a small velvet pouch. She tossed it flippantly to the boy, who caught it with the glee of accomplishing truly such an eventful feat. He blinked, silent himself while he eyed the elder Anahera.

The Madam looked between the two, leaning against that most decorated fountain while she held her nails to her lips. Celine cleared her throat, promptly closing her extended parasol and fashioning it as a cane she held in front of her,“Wear this with you always, and when you are in the direst need of a friend, they will see this, and know to help.” she forecast oh-so cryptically. She cast a final glance towards the Madam before promptly turning on her heels and shuffling out, the distant guard decked in the flares of the golden poppy on that deep blue field following her out.

With the elder woman gone, the boy looked to the Madam, the velvet pouch still cupped in his hand. “Well? Open it, silly goose! See what it is!” the Madam sang, twiddling her fingers towards the boy. He gave a humored scoff, his shoulders dropping while he eyed the pouch, finally reaching to untie its string. He pinched his fingers in, retrieving a slim golden chain. Rather than any ordinary chain, though, each chain was fashioned as a sort of miniature poppy, its stem looping in a circle around itself with each interlocking chain. Every other poppy sported a miniature emerald that glittered alongside the gold, a hue not too unfamiliar to him and his mirror. He blinked, frozen for a moment before slowly securing it around his neck. He looked up to the Madam, perplexed, but still with that sharp smirk.

 

wrote another short blurb xoxo