Whistledown Paper #2: Welcome To Coronetia

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Spoiler

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Dear Reader,

I've found the air of the capital something so wild in its temperament. Harsh and deliberate one moment and lyrical and whispering the next. So too are the whims and dramas of our most esteemed peerage, those in our fair city of Coronetia. Yes dear Reader, I invite you to my private, personal world, and with it its enrapturing stories and narratives of whimsy, love, and blood--spilled or joined. Dear Reader, I welcome you to meet the cast of these fine papers, the esteemed peerage of the Coronetian Kingdom, for which I have only so recently become accustomed too. In Cornetia exists a peerage of great characters, all of most noble and esteemed lineage and legacy. It is in the midst of their very own social season that I open our scene, and relay my times amongst the most privileged shoulders of the Cornetian nobility. Enter Coronetia, where this author was welcomed with glamorous fanfare.

What stands as the most thematic characterizations of the Coronetian nobility is their truly… Divided perceptions of, and motivations towards Love, and moreover, marriage. This author enters the upper echelons of the Coronetian noble caste with a palette most overwhelmed by the many flavors of relationships and drama this capital city exudes. To put the characters of Coronetia on a spectrum of their moods on love and the social season, it should exist on a leftward end of putrid animosity towards the better notions of marriage, contrasted with the other end of this spectrum that is perfumed with the optimistic glows for the pursuit of love.

Who exists in the uncomfortable middle of this spectrum, this gradient of moods? None other than the Duke Mouse von Taubenreich. Indeed His Grace's name suits him, meekish and scurrying in his disposition. But perhaps even this little skittish mouse can outrun its own Howling and reaching claws of a previous doggish engagement--or for certainly, love. Indeed, the howling dogs bring the rising dawn, and with it a new dawn begins for our Duke Mouse, who, supported by his dear sister currently enraptured in that same wolves' den from which the mousely Duke's earned-aches came, who, this author is certain, shall guide her brother earnestly and purely through the upcoming season. Yes, His Grace is a wounded soldier from the battles of the heart, nevermind his cousin who returns a veteran of war, also single but doubtless crudely bloodied away from the season. This author pays a kind and mindful eye to this little mouse. What remains to be seen for this Duke Mouse is whether such earnest support from his sister, or indeed his wounded cousin, is enough to pry this mouse from the growling maw of history. What will be seen in future, of course, will indubitably be afforded retelling in these most tasteful papers.

Duke Mouse von Taubenreich is cut from a very distinguished and ancient noble Coronetian cloth. Indeed, the most base dramas of the heart find themselves in the higher levels of the Coronetian nobility, but this author finds even the decidedly… Exotic caucus of nearby Elven nobility pay suitable homage to the traditions of the societal season--and certainly, they themselves are not immune to the primal pulls of the heartstrings this oh-glorious season of spring and society brings. Enter then, Her Ladyship of the Raven, Lavellea d'Avanrell, a sobering Lady of the Elven reaches who thus far slithered and weaved her ways deftly in her want to avoid the extravagances of the impending season--citing, of course, distant pursuits of better affection left alongside her heart in the court of a neighboring nobleman, her dearest's father. Certainly poetic and charming to engage with, this author is excited to see if this Raven of the eight pointed star can find a way to showcase her better charms to her benefit in the capital. Oh, but there is another Star that blazes so bright from those Western Seas, none other than Her Ladyship of the Raven's kin, the Lord Tattlerthel, renowned poet and his own brand of muted eccentric. Posited as the primary bachelor for the Ladyship of the Raven's house, it certainly is clear this verbose Elf of the peerage is a performer in his verbal disposition. Engaging as he may be, this author wonders how much any lady can bear to listen to a recital of the creeds of rocks for so long, even when in the auspices of earnestly friendly company. Indeed, this author can only be humored so long in the wind of the lung--rather, this author cares to wonder if the Lord Tattlerthel can find himself a way out of the muds of his words and breathe in a quiet, relieving silent air to find focus on any particular debutante that works eagerly to peacock her fancies.

That is not to say the Lord Tattlerthel is a prize so sought after at present--this author only hopes his efforts of gregariousness can be discovered among the fair ladies of Coronetia. After all, the ladies of the fair capital press on in this season with a sweated brow, wholly cognizant of the stakes and earnings of a successful season. The Viscountess Marie de la Fontaine et Fleur, legendary mistress of the fan and veteran of the capital's government, enters the season herself with her own great bouquet of budding roses, ready to engage in the season in earnest. This author is endeared to observe the valiant efforts the Viscountess displays in courtly engagement, even if it seems natural to her more positively social disposition. One poses, though, that even in the great talents of this Viscountess, she rather blooms over and above her own debuting kin, but one supposes such is the nature of flowers: the first and fastest to grow are often the prettiest to bloom, the shade of one's own great and supple petals depriving the sun's graces from the flowers still budding below. This author craves word of the efforts of these other buds--should Coronetia have a single rose, or a whole bouquet?

Primp and pristine are flowers, often, this author is told, the ideal symbol of beauty and perfection. What the issue with such symbolism is, however, is the fleeting nature of a bloom. Indeed, such a reality is something all too well known to Coronetia's Elven peers, who by virtue of biology are able to live whole weeks longer than their Ailor brethren. In any case, such an Elven disposition is the excuse of a truly noble Elven Viscount, His Lordship Littledear Te-Ambassarell. A proven man of accomplishment, the Viscount has presented himself this season to the realities of his proud earnings in the Coronetian Elven Delegation. It is with distinction that this author prioritizes the re-telling of the Viscount's own wish, overheard in his conversation to a foreign emissary,"I will only maintain a wife of my people, for the bounds of time demand an efficiency my ambitions demand." An author more politically minded would wonder how much the curtains of this apparent reality of biology will obscure the bright daylight outside of truth: how does our Viscount playing diplomat demonstrate the alliance with the Coronetian authority to which he submits in earnest, if not to wed a well-intending Coronetian human? In any case, this author, who perhaps is not so politically minded, feels assured that a Viscount of such ambitious disposition will at any rate perform well in the season. One hopes it results in a truly suitable match, one expressive of the better intentions this author hopes the Viscount Littledear Te-Ambassarell possesses.

Another man of a decidedly ambitious disposition comes to this author's mind as well, a Duke most delightful, dandy, dear, doting, daring, dashing, delectable, decisive, and delusional. Yes, dear reader, this Duke has been posited to this author as a man of distinct ambition, coming from a privileged bloodline with demonstrated ability in leadership and garnering better opinion. Indeed, to see him is to find the vision of a youthful up-and-coming equestrian hero, a gallant knight quite destined for greatness. Or so one assumes by facade. This author is riding the temperamental winds of this city, and often it feels to come from the huffs and sighs of this dear Duke Darmus della Dalmitta. Son of the legendary Lady-Chancellor Elyanna della Dalmitta, the political parties of Coronetia leaked their odorous politics into the moods of the season, casting a particular mood of disenchantment, this author posits. Once prized as a certainly competitive contender to the upcoming elections for Chancellor of the Kingdom of Coronetia, our Duke Darmus has adopted a demure greyness as the moods premising the impending election seemed to sour our dear Duke. Perhaps this Duke Darmus's political ambitions to mimic his legendary mother have been dashed one way or another, some kind of palatial coup of the mind. For this author knows that when confronted with inquiry of his supposedly ambitious character, a muted humility denies the want for a Princess--what this author thought to be once deserved, she doubts. Moreover, this Duke Darmus brings forth his prized cousin, the elegant, the beautiful, the… Young, Lady Maribell della Dalmitta. Practiced in her precious poise, this author figures this maiden debutante a tantalizing sort of addition to the season, though the fact still remains: only one horn adorns the Elasmo, and this author rather figures a ducal horn, as deflated as it may presently be, a more tasteful primary contribution to the season.

And sponsoring the Duke Darmus della Dalmitta? The tame and measured Madame Maria du l'Deceit, an already taken dame endeared to regrettably ongoing marital obligations. Wizened and observedly tactful in the political machinations of Coronetia, this author wonders whether this delegated sponsor can inspire a rejuvenating rise out of this demure Duke della Dalmitta.

Yes, we indulge only in the blurs of this spectrum of the fickle wind of the capital city of Coronetia, those so ambiguous and thus far moody in their inclinations towards the burdens of finding a match in this social season. But, there is optimism and good words to be allowed a venue of voice. A most valiant effort by a man of most humble upbringing, that of the Master of the Royal Arenas, Adam de Puerta Verde. Certainly born from some gutter in a countryside town, this strapping young man has quickly seized the favorable winds of opportunity, casting him in the capital of Coronetia to be endeared with the potential winnings of his progressively positive climb up the societal ladder. Now with a position in the Royal Court, this Master of Arenas enters with already existing affections for none other than the fair Lady Ydette de la Fontain et Fleur, cousin to that previously mentioned Viscountess Marie. Readers, this author is supposedly guaranteed with the notions of love and affection and purity in the intentions of this Adam de Puerta Verde for that noble Lady Ydette de la Fontaine et Fleur. Do you recall that more politically minded author? She would believe this a rather opportunistic step in enshrining the newly dubbed House de Puerta Verde among the foundational bricks of the Coronetian nobility that keep the kingdom upright. But indeed Readers, I am not this author--This author rather worries of the frailty of such innocently premised love. Truly, this author worries after how the Imperial Court, or indeed, the whole Coronetian peerage will view the prior-earned affections of this couple, and how the irregularity of it will fare in the early throes of this season.

Certainly an enthralling story for the hopeful heart, that of the Master Adam and the Lady Ydette. Though it seems for the nobility of Coronetia, this author's current better optimism may be misplaced in instances of demonstrated love, for this capital city seems inclined root the worst dramas in the most passionate of love. A yodelling Lord Leopoldo von Vaudegene of the distant, impregnable southern ranges has been reported to this author as a filthy adulterous fleabag. Of course, the correspondence shared between this author and that patroness of the broken hearts, moved to such anger as to express the truer extents of her pain. It is interesting to hear of for this author, for in one's own encounters with this Lord Leopoldo, this author found him rather the butt of communal jokes among nobility… One should wonder if the blunders of this Lord Leopoldo's profession and the stresses of heat from his lofty mountain homeland inspire anything, they should wonder no more: clearly, the chaos surrounding this House von Vaudegene invites the most regrettable of aches for the heart, soul, mind, and body. Shame unto you, Duke Leopoldo. One prays you find cause to redeem yourself and return yourself your own honor in the midsts of the season's celebrations...

Oh, but fret naught over the bubbling beginnings of these dramas, nor my perhaps cantankerous inclinations to be so… Inciteful? No, Insightful. As much as I relish the fervent mood of these early hours of our season, there often is something so new about a first light, a christening moment to be kissed by those sunrays. Dear Reader, this author has heard a rumor most Regal… Imperial... of interest to be had at some smithy or another. A cousin man of the King, perhaps, but dear Reader, I ought to find this man. Perhaps in the midst of all these unravelling dramas, the arrival of a refreshing bachelor may inspire this peerage of Coronetia into proper gear--this author is quite eager to find more to write of.

This is all this author figures worthy of sharing for the moment--one hopes in the coming days and socials, the debutantes and bachelors of the city ought to shine brighter. One begs that our fair Coronetia's singles be perhaps more distinct, individual. Oh, I certainly have many more characters to write of. In any case, dear Reader, I leave you in anticipation for more…

Oh, pray I not forget! You delicate denizens of reality, this good city of the great Empire of Regalia… The Mistress of Whistledown is happy to announce to coming of OUR season's ratings in due time… But. Simply indulge in this missive, this quaint story of my past experiences...


Regards,
That Mistress of
Whistledown