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ruleandruinevents · 7 years

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DATE: December 21st, Year 1 LOCATION: The Grand Palace Ballroom TIME: 11:30 P.M.

One by one, as if they were born for it and as if it were the most natural thing in the world, they slip away: those donning violet to their posts, those dripping red to the shadows, and those draped in blue to the light, to the raised dais the royals themselves had stood upon mere hours before—a pedestal, a stage. And the ordinary ones, the otkazat’sya—the lucky and abandoned—are none the wiser, for men and women who have never known fear nor hunger needn’t worry over every passing figure, every fleeting face.

It could be dangerous, this show, and perhaps in a way it is, letting the kingdom’s most powerful Grisha have their way with the elements in such a sprawling, enclosed space like the Grand Palace—like training wild animals to do tricks and trusting they’ll be docile enough not to keep any up their sleeves. But they are, at least for the night—obedient and deadly and bored, and it makes for quite the attraction.

Let it be known that men are, at their very cores, peculiar; they delight in that which is dangerous, fear that which they do not understand, and love, above all else, what will inevitably be the end of them. In this, the Winter Showcase does not disappoint; in this, it never will, not as long as there lies a difference between the chosen and the others, the poor and the rich.

One day, it may even be something more than a waste of talent eternal, but today is not that day. Instead, it is as it always has been, and despite the protests of those performing—each with their own varying intensities, there’s a sort of magic to be found in that. The Corporalki watch from the darker corners with eyes narrowed, rendered acutely less intriguing than those they see as inferior to them for one torturous night; the Materialki linger behind the fruits of their handiwork, the unsung mechanics of a show too perfect to be natural; and the Etherealki move into view, silk blue keftas—crafted specifically for this night, no less—glimmering in the chandelier light.

And then, as if on an ancient whim, it begins. A squaller wind whisks the flames of the ballroom candles away, sweeps the hems of ladies’ ballgowns up in an embrace and waltzes them into awe, into delighted gasps, and inferni fire rises to the challenge, painting the tapestries and those who paused to admire them mere hours before in a brilliant orange glow. A chorus of ooh’s and ah’s go up from the crowd, but these sights are but child’s play for the men and women pulling their strings, a game they’d mastered and grown bored of sometime between the weighty realization that they were unlike the melancholy masses, living from ration to ration, and the somber acceptance that even gods hungered for more than they’d been given, more than they could ever have.

Tidemaker mist meets the flames midair and steam blooms from their union—plays tricks on the eyes of those watching in ways to number the stars. Some see the living; some see the dead; some see things only their own minds have ever known. But none see the man and woman in black take to the stage, and though the mist is partially to blame, there’s something else at work, too—something darker, intangible, raw.

And it is beautiful, so beautiful, but in the way of a wild thing caged.

They appear as if out of thin air, and when one takes into account the sheer impossibility of the goings-on around them, the idea that they may have seems almost likely, but the crowd hardly has time to consider the odds before they’re plunged into darkness with a boom like rolling thunder, and the ballroom falls deathly silent; such is the way of children raised to be afraid of the dark.

And then it cuts through the black like a blade through water: light, first blinding white and then gentle gold, painting a portrait of a summer morning in a ballroom consumed by winter’s night, and the crowd erupts—some into gasps, some into gleeful shouts, some in thanksgiving. It’s all the same, really, but make no mistake: the coming of the Sun Summoner is not a quiet one; a sankt’s arrival rarely is.

TIME: 11:50 P.M.

The performance is over, and all that lingers is hope and the faint smell of smoke, both of which cling to the audience like a burr caught in their best coats.

The Grisha descend from the dais to applause, each taking a small bow—first the tidemakers, then the squallers, and lastly the inferni, before they’re joined by their sovereign and their guest, both dressed in black and one accented with gold. Some reverently reach out to touch the hem of her kefta as she passes; others clap their countrymen—Grisha or otherwise—on the backs in celebration.

The war will soon be over, my prevaliruyem. My prevaliruyem, it will be as it once was. No one in the room—save for one soul, unbeknownst to the rest—knows what it feels like to live in a Ravka not ruled by the dark, but it seems they’re the chosen ones, the first to see the sun.

The divide between the nobles and the Second Army has fallen away, abolished by well-executed winds and the taste of impending victory and peace on the tips of their tongues. Grisha dance with dukes, and generals exchange war stories with the strange soldiers not under their command for what may be the very first time.

Princess Anastasia finds a worthy companion in Katya Aristov, but the squaller finds the royal utterly pathetic, and she puts forth no particular effort to hide that sentiment, but ruled by the etiquette of an event like this, they look to be exchanging friendly small talk from afar, the cruel twist of the Grisha’s lips the only indication that anything is amiss.

Inessa Razin and Druvik Jadeja discuss the brutal beauty of a mounted sword, Druvik’s eyes alight at the sheer artistry and Inessa’s voice dripping with condescension; she’s mildly intrigued, to be sure, but she’d much prefer to see the blade driven through her companion than admire it from its pedestal.

Shona Yul-Jun and Lei Yul-Keung escape the crowd and lament their mandatory presence at the Fete, bonding over their passionate desires not to dance with glossy-eyed nobles or to drink their fill of champagne, but to be anywhere else, doing anything else; even gods grow bored.

Oyun Kir-Naran approaches Sergei Valke as he watches the goings-on from the outskirts of the crowd and wastes no time in making him acutely uncomfortable, although for a man like him in a position like his, being bothersome is hardly a feat. He does his best to drive her off, but she stubbornly remains, intent on poking holes in his facade.

A certain Luka Mravkinsky loses sight of his so-proclaimed bratvas in the throng of people and strikes up a conversation with Stasya Belov to pass the time. They’re quiet, soft-spoken—hardly a proper replacement of the fiery friends he’s misplaced, but they’ll do for now. Even a soft breeze can stoke a fire.

Overcome with joy, Darya Voronov begins searching for the Crown Prince out of what can only be called habit, but she instead happens upon Svetlana Gavrikova, who is looking for her own sovereign. Uninterested in courtly small talk but having heard of the common lady-in-waiting, the oprichnik bides her time by making her feel just inferior enough for her words to carry a bit of sting. It’s nothing personal—with her, it seldom is; some people were just born to be victims.

Dmitri Alekseev prowls the floor in search of a victim and finds another, familiar predator: Adrik Vahkrov. Never one to shy away from an opportunity, the heartrender quickens the guard’s pulse as he approaches and taunts him accordingly, only to be struck in retaliation by a few biting barbs himself. The oprichnik may be deadly, but he’s not deaf; he’s well-aware of Dmitri’s fall from grace.

Arisha Kovrov is approached by Aarvas Rai, who speaks of the salvation the Sun Summoner’s arrival must herald. The royal adviser is uninterested in their preaching, but intent on remaining more or less unnoticed so that she can keep an inconspicuous eye on the Crown Prince, she allows them to remain at her side.

Valeriya Vasnev spots her fiancé in the crowd and begins making her way over, pausing only long enough to soak up the adoration and praise of any who care to give it, only to be intercepted by his cousin, Tatiana Lantsov. The latter duchess is doubly jealous, both of the attention the Vasnev woman is receiving and the title of princess she’ll soon be bestowed with, and she ceremoniously pours a glass of red wine down the front of the other woman’s dress. Chaos ensues.

Fyodor Drugov approaches the younger prince in the crowd, making a half-hearted attempt at a joke that they’d much rather be kicking his ass, for a lack of more eloquent wording, than sharing a drink with him. Viktor Lantsov responds in kind, clinking his glass against that of his sparring partner’s and jovially offering to take them up on such an offer later—but with a drastically different outcome.

Valerian Petrov and Ira Sorokin meet for a drink in the shadows, both out of coincidence and a mild desire for companionship that neither is quick to claim nor deny. The latter scoffs at the pretenses of propriety and laments how warm it is in the ballroom, to which Valerian responds by toying with a flame in his free palm. She doesn’t bother to hide her annoyance.

Farid Tereshkin, ever a great conversationalist, asks Feliks Bazin if there’s any truth to be found in the rumors that he was killed and brought back to life on the battlefield. The oprichnik coldly suggests that he mind the skeletons in his own chambers, mentioning details of the count’s affair with a squaller with equal shame—none. The count takes it in stride, however, aware—if not proud—of his conquest; his smile never falters.

The Darkling, largely left alone out of fear (all children are afraid of the dark, and even once they’re older, a man who can practically become it is terrifying in his own right), is keeping a close eye on the Sun Summoner when he’s boldly approached by Margarete Starikov, an unremarkable young girl in healer colors. She tries to make conversation, but he largely shrugs her off, uninterested in a woman who can scarcely reach his shoulder’s small talk. Her cheeks burn red, but she’s not wearing any of Rita’s blush.

Rita Jakov is conversing with an older noblewoman about her crow’s feet—it’s intriguing, really, and utterly crucial—when Arsen Tarasov interrupts, making a show of clearing his throat and asking to borrow the tailor for a dance. Conscious of making a poor impression on her companion, she accepts, only to be taunted mere moments after he has her alone—silly, silly girl.

General Mironov finds himself conversing with Vera Nikolaev, and though he finds her rather intriguing in the way she carries herself—wise, despite her inferior status and age, he can’t help but regard her warily; even hope can’t weed out something as deeply rooted as prejudice. Yet she works with Margarete Starikov, the she-witch he’s watching from afar with a gaze to cut, and he can’t help but pry a bit. Is it true that she often struggles to save her patients? How often does she lose them?

Neysa Rai, who has noticed Maksim Kaev watching the princess dance and converse with nobles and Grisha alike, decides not to chide him about it, instead sparking a conversation about the war, something she’s certain they’ve both got in common. And how is the war going? Not well, but then again, it seldom is; if he picks up on her discomfort, he allows her the same reprieve she did him.

Arina Zahkarov lingers on the outskirts of the crowd, curious enough not to turn away—though the people have nothing to do with it—but disinterested enough not to venture in any further. Recognizing her as an alkemi by her colors, Ilya Tsarov inquires about blasting powders, seemingly having forgotten—or perhaps not laying claim to—the prejudice many of his brothers in arms hold toward her kind. She eagerly engages, taking full advantage of the opportunity to talk about what she knows with someone at least half as knowledgeable.

Vasily Baranov spots the Sun Summoner alone in the crowd for a fleeting moment and seizes the chance to speak to her for himself, greeting her with a bow—strange, a noble bowing to one of them, but perhaps it’s habitual—and asking her to dance. Gemma Pavlova obliges, and the two talk about their upbringings, finding they have a bit more in common than they might’ve imagined.

Altan Yul-Suhe congratulates Rhea Tereshkin on her recent marriage and slyly apologizes for not having offered his congratulations sooner, deliberately making it evident that he can’t be bothered with the affairs of the otkazat’sya. The countess has been striking out a bit more on her own lately, and he commends her for that, as well; ambition recognizes ambition.

Iskra Raevsky seeks out the Crown Prince, a feat accomplished relatively quickly, considering she’s been watching him like a hawk since the night began—and even before that. Anton Lantsov is happy to see her, glad to have an anchor in a sea of faces he must remember and hearts he must win. The two share a brief moment together before he returns to his charming work, and she trails him at a distance once more.

Then, as if to disturb the champagne-glass peace the Sun Summoner’s arrival has brought, the double doors swing open, and through them slips the winter chill and a man, wild-eyed and bloodied, with a tattered First Army uniform clinging to his frame. The more sensitive of the nobility gasp at the mere sight of him, hunger-driven and half-dead, but his appearance, it seems, is the least of their worries. His entrance is that of a survivor; his message is that of a prophet. The silence in the room is pulled so taut it might snap.

“The Shu!” He screams, voice ragged and rough, and every individual who’s ever laid claim to Shu lineage stands at attention, stock-still and waiting for what’s certain to be a madman’s accusation. “Fifteen men, fifteen good men—dead, all because of you!” The soldier picks out the Shu diplomat with remarkable ease, a calloused and dirtied finger jabbed in her direction. A royal guard steps forward to seize him, but he lunges forward, grimy fingers nearly grazing the Crown Prince’s coat; he’s beaten back by a certain pyro but his tirade, it seems, has only just begun.

“What is the meaning of this?” The king grounds out, eyes narrowed, but the general, who seems to have guessed what the man might intend, cleared his throat.

“The border, is it?”

“No.” The man is nearly in hysterics now, arms spread apart as if to embrace the room one final time. “Closer.”

“What happened?” Ivan presses on, impatience bleeding into his words like scarlet into the man’s dull brown trousers.

“Grisha hunting, what else? The Shu came looking for our Second Soldiers and took ‘em all, like they tend to do—” He spits in Oyun Kir-Naran’s direction, having left his shame somewhere on a battlefield in the South, “and killed the ones they couldn’t use, filthy bastards. And you—” Those nearest him shrink away from the sheer vulgarity of him, but he sees only her: the living, breathing representation of the enemy, even as several other Shu Grisha mill about, “—you conniving, no good bitch—”

“That’s enough!” The king roars, and the people around him seem to agree, their unease evident in the way they shift and whisper, a tide of fear reignited.

“Nonsense,” comes the diplomat’s reply, eloquent and cold. “He lies. We’ve been trapped.”

The soldier laughs a hyena laugh, but no one moves to quiet him, so transfixed by the story he tells that his sandpaper manners hardly matter. “No, spy, we have.”

“And we will continue to be, because this has been going on for months! Months! First the border, and then a bit farther inland, and now here, a few days’ ride.” He straightens up now, fingers raised to his forehead in a backhanded sort of salute. “Your men are dying, tsar, and still you dance.”

Another gasp ripples through the crowd, and when a guard steps forward and draws his sword, the king raises his hand. “He lives.” The officers each pick their way to the eye of the chaos, and once they’ve all gathered around, he clears his throat, deathly calm. “The war room—now.” And then they’re gone, falling into an organized line leading out of the corridor with the war-struck man in tow behind them.

“Take her for questioning.” He dismisses the Shu diplomat with a wave of his hand, seemingly already having condemned her in his mind.

But if he hasn’t, the court certainly has. Even the Grisha unfortunate enough to have once called themselves Shu are shunned as they regroup into their respective Orders, shouldered aside and ignored. Your countrymen did this, they seem to say.

Tonight, they are not all Ravkan; the lines are no longer blurred.

The nobles slowly gather their bearings, some retreating to their quarters and others quietly slipping out the way they came, until none remain but five: the king, his sons, their general, and his hesitant ally—the heads of two armies and the blue blood that commands them.

And together, they must decide how to win a war when it knocks on their door invited. My prevaliruyem.

Or will we?

OVERVIEW: And that concludes our very first Rule & Ruin plot drop! We hope you enjoyed it as much as we did creating it, and we’re eager to see where else the story will go from this point forward—it’s only just begun.

The interactions described above may be played out on the dash, in chatzys (please post them once you’re finished!), or plotted out in private. However, these were certainly not the only interactions to have taken place after the performance; they were merely the most notable. Feel free to write or headcanon as you please!

You may date your post-event threads from December 21st (Year 1) to January 4th (Year 2). News of Shu attacks drawing closer and fear of a possible invasion has spread, inciting a sort of hysteria among the nobles and renewed determination within both armies. Oyun is currently being kept under surveillance, but has evaded any concrete punishment for lack of certain evidence—but not for a lack of trying. Anyone known to have Shu blood is feeling the sting of the hostile power’s actions, despite their personal lack of responsibility.

No canon characters or their immediate relatives were killed in the attack.

#rarevent #rarfete #plot drop

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artificialqueens · 7 years

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Pas De Deux - Chapter 2 (Trixya) - Arcadia

A/N: Thanks for all the great feedback, I’m so happy people enjoyed that first chapter. I’m still trying to find my footing with this fic so I apologize if it feels slow. I also apologize for the lack of any actual ballet yet, I promise that’s going to come into play next chapter. Again, please let me know if there’s something I can fix or improve on :)

***Warning for some slight smut towards the end

Chapter 2

Katya pulled her wet clothes off quickly as thunder continued to roar outside. She hated being the center of attention like that. Hated feeling those judging eyes on her.

They weren’t all judging though. She recalled the blonde by the fire who’s gaze felt curious, intrigued. She was a beauty too, light golden curls framed a heart shaped face. Her angled eyes were so big and so blue.

She dropped her clothes in the washroom connected to her room and pulled on a simple brown skirt and white blouse. She did her best to untangle her wretched hair from its confines and let it fall down her back in its long waves.

Katya smirked at the reaction her loose hair might attract from the other snobbish dancers. She hoped she could get along with at least one of them. The one girl, Max, seemed sickly sweet, though most likely a stickler for propriety. And she already knew she would get along perfectly with Adore.

She took her time going downstairs, peeking into the parlor to assess the atmosphere. A spot was open on a loveseat near the pretty blonde. As soon as Katya stepped in though she was accosted with questions.

“Was that your beau?” a raven haired beauty asked her in a judging tone.

“I’m sorry?” she was taken aback.

“Violet!” Max scolded the dark haired girl. She turned to Katya and raised a thin brow at her loose hair.

“She means the handsome man who escorted you here.” The voice came from a tall blonde who stood by the bookshelf. She sounded tired or bored, perhaps both.

Katya couldn’t help the shocked laugh that escaped her. In heaving wheezes she met the eyes of some surprised faces. All eyes were on her and her obnoxious display.

Stop it. She abruptly stopped laughing. She knew her laugh was unladylike and inappropriate. When she was younger, the other children had always made fun of her laugh at the home, this felt hauntingly similar. ‘Ladies do not laugh like pigs’ the voice of Sister Tempest reminded her and she suddenly felt very foolish.

“That was my brother, Aaron. Not my ‘beau’.” The word felt silly on her tongue. And though it might be a lie, it was close enough to the truth. They may not be related by blood but they were closer than many real siblings ever would be.

That seemed to please everyone and fortunately she was now out of the spotlight. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Violet’s burning gaze on her, as if she couldn’t decide if she liked Katya or absolutely despised her.

“I’m not impressed.” Katya heard her whisper to the girl next to her. The blonde at her side had an empty glass dangling from her fingers, her body slumped on the sofa and stifled a giggle in response.

Katya’s skin flushed hot at the words. She’d hardly introduced herself and her abilities were already under scrutiny. She turned her back on the other girls, stowing away her anxieties for another night.

Her eyes wandered over to the girl by the fireplace again and made her way to the seat across from her.

“Mind if I sit here?” She offered a small smile as the girl looked up at her with those big eyes. She was even prettier up close. High cheekbones, wide blue eyes, full pouty pink lips, a dusting of soft freckles under her eyes. Her hair was collected in a haphazard bun, loose tendrils that had escaped cupped her right cheek delicately. Katya’s heart skipped a beat when the girl smiled back at her and nodded. She’d be wonderful to draw. Katya’s fingers suddenly itched to grab her pencils and paper.

You’re going to scare the poor girl if you keep staring at her. Katya blinked and sat, looking at the fire.

“Just ignore Violet, she’s not easy to warm up.” The girl tried to comfort her. Katya had a few choice words for Violet, like rotted.

“I can see that.” Katya murmured in response before she continued.

“Could I bother to ask you who everyone else is? I don’t want to interrupt them all to ask their names.” That was a partial lie. She didn’t want to admit to the other girl that she was too nervous to do so. “But I realize that I’m already interrupting you now.” She finished embarrassed, nodding at the book in the other girls lap.

“Oh, no it’s no bother.” She looked down like she had forgotten there was a book in her lap.

Katya followed her eyes as she went around the room, quietly describing what she knew of each character. She made little jokes about them but her tone held a certain warmth, as if she had already developed a fondness for them.

“And then that leaves me, Trixie. I only just arrived some time before you did.” Trixie smiled softly back at her.

The name suited her, beguiling and lovely.

“They were talking about you though.” She added with a little grin.

Katya’s heart lurched.

“They think you’re a spy come to steal technique and knowledge for the Russian Ballet.” She giggled.

Katya couldn’t help but snort.

“Well it’s true of course.” She said with a straight face.

Trixie saw right through it and let out a bark of a laugh before dissolving into sharp giggles.

She smiled at her reaction, Trixie had a loud laugh just like her. The girl made her feel soft and at ease.

“You’re good, I almost believed that.”

Katya grinned cheekily before adding;

“I haven’t been to Russia, or even talked to a Russian, in years so I think they’re safe. But now I might play with them a bit for that assumption.” She turned and observed the blonde, identified as Alaska, she had seen eyeing up Aaron.

She then caught the eye of the rude girl, Violet. Pearl’s head lazed on her shoulder, one of Violet’s fingers twirled around the ends of her pale hair. They were a curious pair. Violet looked away quickly and left the couch, startling Pearl.

Interesting. Katya would file that interaction away for later thought perhaps.

She looked back at Trixie who was looking right back at her before she averted her eyes back to her book shyly.

“Where are you from Trixie?” She asked, interrupting her reading again, though Katya realized she was only just pretending at this point.

“From a little town in the Midwest no one has ever heard of. It was just me and my mother, and my stepfather.” Trixie whispered the last part, unhappiness evident in her tone. She recovered quickly.

“I’m afraid I’m just a boring farm girl.” She said jokingly.

“I don’t think you’re boring.” Katya responded a bit too quickly. Christ, calm down.

“I mean, that’s more interesting than growing up in Boston with Catholic Nuns.” She rushed out.

“Oh, that sounds like a lot of fun.” Trixie deadpanned. A beat passed before the two broke out in a fit of laughter. She had never met someone she found so easy to get along with as quickly as she did with Trixie. Katya felt the pull on her heart she’d always gotten when she was attracted to someone. But she had no way of knowing if Trixie shared her hidden preference toward the feminine.

They continued sharing stories and jokes until Katya realized they were the only two left in the room. It had grown completely dark outside. Rain still fell softly outside, barely making a sound above the fireplace. Trixie looked exhausted, a sleepy smile showing she didn’t want to end their conversation. Cast in the warm light she seemed to glow.

Katya looked into the fire, the heat on her face hiding her blush. She couldn’t help as her mind ran wild with thoughts of touching her smooth skin and tasting her lips against her own. What it would feel like to feel Trixie’s heartbeat against her if she pulled the other girl to her breast to kiss her.

She banished the thoughts, feeling guilty for fantasizing about a girl she had only just met. She just couldn’t help but be drawn to her with her loud laugh and kind eyes. Something about her made her feel warm and happy, sensations Katya rarely felt.

Katya wasn’t tired but she could see Trixie’s eyes starting to droop.

“Alright, time for bed.” She stood and offered her hand to pull the other girl up. Her hands were soft but firm, and made Katya’s tingle as they touched.

Trixie’s room was directly across from hers. Saying goodnight and then watching her leave had felt almost painful to her, despite knowing she would see her again in the morning.

Katya undressed and sat at the vanity by her bed. She began to comb her hair slowly, her thoughts running far away from her. Every so often, she’d run the comb through her hair and brush up against her breast. Her eyes closed as she imagined what it would feel like to be touched by another woman. To feel hands run up her sides and caress her intimately. Katya had never been with another girl but she fantasized about it often, until she was mad with desire and want.

She had always been a wild girl. Her mother had said so often, too wild for her own good. Perhaps one of the reasons she’d dropped her off with the nuns when she was only 10 and returned to Russia without her. She didn’t make friends easily, she was thought of as strange and peculiar and she became lonely very quickly. That horrible place was where she had met Aaron. Then, a lanky fourteen year-old year old who had pulled another boy off of her after she had provoked him into a fight.

Since that moment twelve years ago, Aaron had become the only family she wanted or needed. And when he turned of age, he’d taken her from the orphanage and introduced her to ballet. Aaron danced too, though he did not advertise it to many. Katya loved dance, and it showed, but her heart belonged to her art. She had been drawing and painting since she was young. Selling some of her pieces had actually paid for her ballet training and instructors.

She wondered if Trixie would let her compose a portrait of her, or if she would be disturbed by the request. Having only just met her, but Katya was curious about her. She knew her desires were different than many other girls her age, yet she had long since dropped the idea that she was a sinner or evil for them.

Katya pulled her long hair off her neck and let her eyes drift shut. She ran a finger along her full bottom lip and down her jaw, imagining fingers and hands that were not her own touching her. She longed to touch and see another body that wasn’t hers.

She laid back on her bed and ran a hand down her bare torso languidly, relishing in the goosebumps that rose after it. Sighing as she met the throbbing flesh between her legs. Her other hand cupped her breast, teasing her erect nipple between her fingers. She had done this many times before, on nights when she felt nearly intoxicated by the hot ache of her body. Her knees fell aside as her hips rolled against her slick fingers. The only sounds in the room were the crackling fire and her breathy sighs.

Katya bit her lip around a moan. She loved feeling like the wild girl everyone thought her to be. And as she found her release she wondered if perhaps Trixie was as wild as she.

#katya zamolodchikova #trixie mattel #trixya #slight smut #pas de deux #arcadia #rpdr fanfiction #submission #historical au #lesbian au #ballet au

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