#maison de la forge

[jonathan-pradillon]

Panneau sculpté : Maison de la forge, Aynac

Panneau sculpté à la main au ciseau à bois sur essence de chêne. Forme du panneau inspiré du blason du château de la commune d'Aynac dans le Lot. Rebords du panneau réalisés à la défonceuse. Panneau poncé à la main, traité à la lasure chêne clair, et fond de lettrage traité à la lasure noyer foncé. Finition / Protection : Remplissage du lettrage et nappage réalisé à l'époxy finition brillante.

Format : 29,5 cm x 34,6 cm x 3 cm Date de réalisation : 12/2021 Poids approximatif : 1,5 kg

Artiste : Jonathan Pradillon Pièce unique Œuvre signée Certificat d’authenticité fourni Emballage soigné

Œuvre réalisée sur commande.

Prix : 450€.

www.artinsolite.com

#sculpture #panneau #panneau en bois #sculpture sur bois #maison de la forge #aynac #panneau sculpté #œuvre d'art #art contemporain #typographie gothique #panneau médiéval #médiéval #style médiéval #art médiéval

[safarigirlsp]

Satan Wears Burberry

Satan Wears Burberry

Modern Jacques Le Gris x Reader

Word Count: 8.1k

Warnings: NSFW. Smut. Humor. Romance. Enemies to Lovers. Fur.

AO3 Link

Author’s Note: For a Valentine's Day special, and as a gift for the lovely and wonderfully talented @kyloremus , here is a fun bitchy Fashion AU inspired by Cruella DeVille and The Devil Wears Prada! This is only the intro, if it is well received, I'll do more with it. There’s not even any murder or mayhem! What’s wrong with me?

Fashion is a viciously cutthroat industry where appearance and manipulation often win over sincerity and benevolence. Weapons of choice are razored nails, deadly heels, and backstabbing smiles. Everyone who is anyone and all the someones aspiring to be something in the fashion industry know there is no event more seminal than Paris Fashion Week. Statuesque models strutting runways, aggressive designers gauging their competition, and hawkish agents scouting new talent can all be found amid the crowds and press.

As the Editor in Chief of Annees Folles Magazine, your front row seat at every event was reserved. This season, Annees Folles had even surpassed Vogue in sales and influence. Before anything became fashion, it had to receive your stamp of approval and be featured in the pages of your magazine. Brands rose and fell pursuant to your approval or condemnation just like a gladiator’s life dependent upon the tilt of an emperor’s thumb. Among the other more illustrious attendees, were the heads of the most preeminent fashion lines in the world, the CEOs and moguls whose names had forged the foundation of modern fashion.

La Maison Gris, a relatively new brand from an old and noble French family, had made a meteoric rise to the very summit of the industry. Helmed by its formidable and charismatic CEO, Jacques Le Gris, La Maison Gris had firmly secured a position high among the most distinguished names in fashion. Le Gris had fast become synonymous with Chanel, Versace, Lagerfeld, Gucci, Valentino, Tom Ford, Dior, Dolce and Gabbana. Aided in his ascension by his calculating mind, his almost irresistible charm, his devilish good looks and imposing size, Jacques had steamrolled his competition like a tank over protestors.

Jacques Le Gris always dressed to the nines and was dashingly groomed and coiffed, his image immaculately maintained. From a finely tailored bespoke suit that flattered his impressive and athletic 6’4” physique, enhancing the breadth of his great shoulders and the taper of his fit waist, to a simple signet ring bearing his century’s old family crest that drew attention to his enormous hands, he used fashion to emphasize his towering size and noble bearing. He wore a neatly trimmed van dyke, and his thick black hair down to his shoulders. An intentional streak of silver shot through his glossy ebony mane like the milky way shimmering across the night sky, giving him the regal air of a melanistic lion. He was dressed now in pieces from his own line, a charcoal suit with a chic glen plaid pattern, black shirt, unbuttoned down two buttons from his throat, and a black overcoat with a subtle flair of silver Persian lamb around the collar.

Notably broader without exception than everyone in attendance and standing a head taller than most, save for the willowy models, some of whom hoovered near his airspace when in heels, Jacques cut an impressive and unmistakable figure where he stood next to the runway in the dimly lit audience. The room was filled to capacity with the crème de la crème of fashion, interspersed with the journalists and photographers who would relay their chosen highlights to the public. While he waited for the show to begin and the first model to strut down the runway, Jacques discussed his line with anyone who would listen, showcasing his renowned affability. He was cordial where others were aloof, a trait that had helped spur his rise to the top.

Jacques was confident that his spring line that was to be revealed at this show would impress all those in attendance, but still, it never hurt to grease the wheels with a few dashing smiles. He could charm almost anyone into submission, a talent that cut across many different lines of social interaction. Only one major player had remained staunchly immune from his allure, and she unfortunately wielded one of the most important opinions. In fact, it was as though the Editor in Chief of Annees Folles Magazine took pride, a morbid relish even, in eviscerating the designs of La Maison Gris. With each scathing article, La Maison Gris and its profits took a hit and took months to reclimb the ladder from several rungs below. To say Jacques was ruffled by it was an understatement, he was mad as hell. He had yet to meet the woman in person, which he assured himself was the reason he had so far been unable to exert the full magnitude of his charm and magnetism.

The lights dimmed and the music picked up tempo, indicating the show would soon be starting. Jacques was focused on the runway, and didn’t see you approach and squeeze in beside him for a place at the head of the runway. The room was packed as tightly as a nightclub, but filled with an exponentially more beautiful crowd. Jacques recognized you with a visible start, his affable manner momentarily dampened with worry, fear even, at being in the presence of the one woman with the power to unseat him from his high horse. The pen was indeed mightier than the sword when it was you who wielded it, writing the destinies of every hopeful designer in the pages of your magazine.

You were dressed in a Dolce & Gabbana dress of ebony lace that hugged and flattered your shapely curves to perfection paired with a charcoal gray double-breasted Burberry Prorsum coat with military-style epaulets and cuffs. You wore five-inch Burberry heels that, although pointed-toe stilettos, they were fitted with Burberry’s signature lug sole, adding to your combative appearance and reputation. Although it was dark in the room, you wore a pair of aviator sunglasses by Maybach, also in gradients of carbon, that concealed your infamously ferocious eyes. Your hair was elegantly styled and your bearing was as proud as any model on a runway, but your presence was of a military general standing on a battlefield.

The sight of you took Jacques’s breath away. He had never been so taken aback by a woman, so instantly devastated by beauty.

With a deep steadying breath and a visible effort, Jacques composed himself. It was absurd, he reasoned, to be so unnerved by a woman. He was a master at seduction, and what was business but a different kind of seduction? Both involved a degree of manipulation and power plays. Even if Jacques didn’t know how to deal with you as a cutthroat editor who struck fear into the hearts of men, he knew how to deal with a red-blooded woman.

“I think you’ll find the florals are luscious,” he whispered with a smokey depth to his voice. He moved closer beside you until your shoulders brushed, perfectly acceptable in the crowded room.

“Florals? For Spring?” you scoffed. “Groundbreaking.”

“Well… Florals are classics for a reason,” he stumbled at the sharp rebuff. “Spring lines always have florals. It’s what you do with them that matters, is it not?”

“Have you sustained a head injury?” you derided haughtily, turning to look at him briefly over the rims of your sunglasses. “Yes, follow like the little lemmings toward the cliff of the cliché and the mediocre. The market – that is, sellers who have already made you rich -- want to get their winter fashions off the racks. Something inventive, something charming and clean, for example, would sell regardless of the season. Are you marketing to the likes of Kohl’s or Target?” You dismissively returned your attention to the runaway. “Dolce & Gabbana is the only designer who has any business at all dabbling in seasonal florals. Perhaps, an honorable mention to Dior.” Jacques tried to retort, but you steamrolled over him. “But not La Maison Gris, I assure you, and my assurance is the only one that will ever matter.”

This silenced him as he looked away, a strange and foreign mixture of rejection and embarrassment mingling inside him with an all-too familiar anger. He then looked back at you tentatively, feeling hesitant to challenge you.

“Just last spring Vogue raged over my florals,” he stated with a confidence that for once he didn’t feel, his deep voice undercut by an undertone of fear. Because of his size and physicality, deep voice, and wealth, he often unwittingly intimidated people. He was unused to being on the other side of that scale, and he couldn’t recall being so as a grown man. It was a challenge, he realized, and he savored challenges.

“Then, they were novel. Now, they are tired and uninspired,” you sighed as if bored by his simpleness. “Consistency is the last refuge of the unimaginative -- that’s Oscar Wilde, mind you – and I do believe he had a sense of fashion. He even went to prison for his fashion genius, among other proclivities.”

Jacques’s handsome features broadcast he was ready to retort but thought better of it, chewing his lip instead to bite back the argument that wanted to leap from his tongue. As the first model made her appearance on the runway, the audience applauded, approving of her floral dress with fox trim. He puffed his chest and looked at you as if to say he told you so. The next model wore a lynx shawl over a dress of gold floral brocade.

“Mixing fur and floral, are we? I always thought fur looked best on its original owner.” You studied each ensemble carefully with the eye of a critic. “Models should be comfortable in their own skin, not someone else’s, don’t you think?”

“This line is novel, sleek and vivacious. If you wish to stand out and feel good about yourself, my line is for you,” he huffed and retorted as another model stalked toward you wearing a beautiful lavender dress trimmed with tasteful sable fur in a complimentary dusky hue. The crowd roared in approval. “Nature has evolved to flatter animals of every shape and size. Do you argue that natural evolution shouldn’t be used when one is designing clothes to flatter women?”

You paused at the audience’s enchantment with Jacques’s line. He, too, saw it was a hit and raised one eyebrow at you. The next model wore a sleek aviator jacket with a collar of sheared beaver dyed in a subtle chevron pattern. The crowd actually clapped at that one.

No matter, people often didn’t know what they really liked until you told them.

You gestured for him to lean closer and whispered conspiratorially, “Like I said, the unimaginative masses are easily impressed. They can’t do what I can do: convince the biggest retailers in the world to market your line, and the populace to buy it.”

Jacques took a deep breath, gathered his courage, smiled mischievously, and said with a seductive tenor, “Well, there is more than one way to skin a cat.”

“I suppose you would know,” you quipped as another lynx trimmed ensemble walked past. “Regardless, the details of your incompetence do not interest me.”

“My incompetence?” Jacques huffed. No one else in the world would dare to call him incompetent. But arguing the point with you would get him nowhere. He decided to try a different tactic. “Let us continue this tete-a-tete somewhere more private, and I’ll try to find something about myself that does interest you.”

“Bold of you to assume a ridiculous man like you could please me in any venue. Be assured, I am demanding in my personal life as well as my professional one.” You let your appraising gaze rake over his body. “I want the best. I deserve the best. And I demand the best. In all things and in all ways.”

“My fashion lines may bore you, belle comandante.” Jacques grinned and asserted boldly, “Trust me, as a man, I would make you purr.”

“I have no commitments and I find myself rather bored by Paris, but I’m sure you have a parade of floral harlots vying to charm you into letting them walk your next runway. Who would I be to deprive them of the valuable life lesson in regret they would learn from a night with you?” You eyed another fur-trimmed model skeptically. “Dear God, you’re not into furries are you?”

He said nothing more until the show was over, but a sly lupine smile played on his plush lips. When all the models had walked the runway and the din of conversation filled the room, he made you a darkly illicit offer. “I’ll make a bet with you. If I can make you purr for me, then you will write a splendid review of tonight’s show.”

Removing your sunglasses, you eyed him with unveiled skepticism. “And if I find you are not up to the task of pleasing me?”

“You won’t.” He winked at you.

“Graduating from fashion to prostitution, are you?” You raised a judgmental eyebrow. “I can’t deny it’s a better fit for you.”

“Not publicly.” He grinned at you, flashing a predatory glint of white teeth. “But for you, I will make a one-night-only exception. I’m a gambling man, and what higher stakes could I play with? If I can wring a good review out of you between the sheets, you will write a nice review for my fashion line on the pages of Annees Folles. We’ll enjoy ourselves in the process, that I promise you, cherie.”

“It is an interesting thought.” You smiled. “To wonder what I will find worthy of review. The before or the after?”

“Yes, I agree,” he boomed loud enough for everyone to hear. You had heard he was a showman and viciously sarcastic. “You know why failed designers become harping editors of fashion magazines? It’s a petty facet of human nature that we feel the need to tear apart others who have talents one does not.”

“Is that what you think?” you laughed at the absurdity, meeting his challenge and projecting your voice. “Designers are many. On the other hand, people who dictate the tides of fashion and control the very destinies of men like you are few. The truth is, no one can do what I can do.”

“It must be lonely at the top for a maneater like you,” Jacques teased, his voice low again. “Who keeps you warm at night?”

“Renew your offer at the end of the evening,” you replied coyly. “And I’ll decide who’s keeping me warm tonight.”

*******************************************************************************************

Nearly as important as the fashion show itself was the afterparty. This was where most of the schmoozing and deal-making were conducted, where connections were made and alliances were formed. Swanky upscale clubs were privately rented for these glamorous soirees. The afterparty for La Maison Gris was celebrated at L’Arc, the highly exclusive nightclub at the top of the Champs Elysees. Jacques had rented the club for the night, open only to those on his well-pruned guest list. The neon strobes of the club ordinarily played across a beautiful crowd but during Fashion Week, its lights never fell on someone who wasn’t either rich, famous, beautiful, or otherwise extraordinary.

Jacques was the man of the hour and had to make himself seen at his own party. You, of course, were on every guest list of every afterparty, but only an elite few were deserving of your attendance. After making your rounds at parties hosted by Dolce & Gabbana, Burberry, Dior, and Tom Ford, you decided to make an appearance at the La Maison Gris party and see if Jacques’s bet still intrigued you. Your arrival was just late enough to be aptly fashionable.

A redwood of a doorman recognized you and ushered you in ahead of a winding line of at least one-hundred hopeful partygoers, much to their displeasure. The floor of the club writhed and undulated with women in chic dresses and men in suits dancing in time with heavy driving bass. You would have been hard-pressed to squeeze up to the bar that was so tightly packed that even the attempts of waifish models were foiled by the mass of humanity.

The freshly bleached smiles of several of the biggest names in Hollywood caught your eye from various corners of the room. One perfect smile belonged to the actor who had just landed his big break in being cast in the newest reboot of the Superman franchise. Clark Kent du jour had the build of a linebacker, a square jaw to match, cerulean blue eyes, and jet back hair, complete with a Superman curl he had cultivated since landing the part. He had also been pursuing you since you had toured the set for a piece on the costumes, most of which had been crafted by Zegna. He wore a suit by La Maison Gris, complete with a dyed sable pocket square instead of the usual silk. Tragically, he had both buttons done on his jacket, a glaring faux pas that required all of your limited reserve to overlook. You could take the man off the farm, but you couldn’t dress the farm out of the man.

Aspiring models stalked through the crowd on mile-high legs like otherworldly creatures, eager to impress designers for a chance to walk down their runways. And there was Jacques Le Gris, standing in the middle of an entire harem of them. A flock of scantily and colorfully dressed models surrounded him like birds at a feeder, some batting their eyelashes, others stroking his body, others still giggling vapidly, all desperate for any crumb of attention he deigned to toss their way. Though you couldn’t hear what he was saying, he was gesturing magnanimously, smiling and laughing at his own infectious humor, and very much enjoying the attention.

The spectacle of the fawning models was enough to make you return Clark Kent’s smile just long enough to encourage him to make an approach. Your timing was perfect; like all the best predators, you had the gift of precision. Jacques noticed you just as the handsome actor made a beeline for you and procured a flute of champagne from the tray of an obliging waitress who flitted by on his way. The actor was only the first to approach you. Within moments, you too were encircled by a mass of noisome people, even larger than the group that surrounded Jacques. Everyone wanted your attention, your approval.

At the sight of Clark Kent sidling up to you, a dark veil passed over Jacques’s dashing features, turning them murderous for the breadth of a second. It went unnoticed by most if not all, but you saw it and you smirked. Clenching his jaw, Jacques pushed through the throng of humanity and shooed away the plumage of women, heading not toward you but to the bar.

You smiled as the actor handed you the champagne, trying not to dwell on the state of his tackily buttoned jacket. But you drew the line at champagne, telling him with your usual stridence, “Oh, you can keep that for yourself. I don’t drink champagne, but I’m sure a large country boy like you can handle mine and yours and many more after.”

The poor pretty idiot didn’t know if you were serious or teasing, but since he had no basis in experience dealing with such a direct and assertive woman, he took your harshness for humor and laughed. He would be so easy to rip to shreds, which could be a fun passing amusement. He was exceedingly lucky you were in a good mood tonight. Adding to your relative levity was the towering figure of the CEO of La Maison Gris striding purposefully toward you and fighting to keep his composure and grin through his jealous anger. He held a drink in each hand, filled with amber and ice.

“This is my party,” he said by way of greeting you, making his voice notably deeper than the actor’s. Jacques was taller, but only just, which added to your amusement when he tried to look down his charmingly hooked nose at his more classically handsome opponent. “How is it that you just waltz in here and everybody gravitates toward you like you are the sun.”

“I’ve found that Nietzsche’s herd concept applies in a variety of ways.” You smiled icily back. “The human herd often has a collective sense of who’s the most important person in the room.”

Still looking at the actor, Jacques wordlessly handed you one of the two drinks he carried. You accepted it with a raised eyebrow and lifted it to inhale its aroma. Then, you gifted him with a genuine smile. “You’ve done your homework.”

“I have. Your drink of choice is an old fashioned made with Midleton Single Pot Irish Whiskey and garnished with an orange peel.” He took a sip of his own drink, the same as yours, closing his eyes briefly to savor the taste. “But I think you’ll like this better. I prefer Redbreast twenty-seven year old Irish Whiskey.”

You took a skeptical drink, your eyes not leaving Jacques’s. The old fashioned was remarkably flavorful. “It’s tolerable, I suppose.”

“I better get a nicer review than that from you after I’ve given you a taste of something else that’s full-bodied and old fashioned.” Jacques winked at you as he took another drink.

“I’ve already been here fifteen minutes, and already this is growing dull.” You pointedly looked at the Breitling watch strapped to Jacques’s thick wrist. “When are you going to make it worth my while to have come at all?”

“Finish your drink,” he challenged and downed the better part of his own. He gave the actor a dangerous glare, but the other man was too focused on you to notice, still standing beside you, hopeful and oblivious.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you said to Clark Kent with unveiled sarcasm, the man was utterly clueless. “I forgot you were there. You may go now.”

“I may actually grow to like you.” Jacques grinned and took your elbow, his large hand squeezing you for emphasis.

“I would expect so,” you replied haughtily. “It is a sentiment I acquire often but return sparingly.”

“Carpe nocturne, ma jolie fille,” he growled as he pulled you through the crowd and out of L’Arc to his waiting car.

*******************************************************************************************

Enroute to a more comfortable and conducive location, you and Jacques each downed two more old fashioneds as his driver maneuvered through the labyrinthian Parisian streets, overfull with tourists for Fashion Week. With his drinks, Jacques smoked a thick cigar on the drive, billowing smoke from his nose like a regal dragon through a cracked window. It came as no surprise you were both staying at the Ritz Paris, after all, it was the finest luxury hotel in Paris and some say in the world. You discovered it had been Jacques who had sniped the Suite Imperiale, the finest suite in the opulent hotel, out from under you, leaving you to book the only slightly less decadent Suite Windsor for yourself.

Jacques strode with you proudly through the lavish hotel, past numerous celebrities and icons. His hand rested possessively on the small of your back, leaving no doubt as to the nature of your evening.

“People are staring,” you said without a trace of shyness, relishing the attention.

“Let’s make it worth their while.” Jacques took your hand and twirled you like he was dancing with you and then dipped you for a passionate kiss in full view of the bustling lobby.

People indeed stared, their captivated gazes following as he then led you to the bank of elevators. Inside the elevator, he pushed you against the wall and propped his hands on either side of your head, caging you inside his arms as he loomed over you.

“Want me to say goodnight, jolie fille?” he asked, his voice dripping with husky desire.

Biting your lip as you paused to consider his words, you looked up at him. “Not for a few more hours.”

A broad toothy smile broke across Jacques’s features as the elevator chimed and you stepped out of his arms, enroute to his suite.

Jacques walked so closely behind you as you approached the door to the Suite Imperiale that you could feel the heat radiating off his massive body. Hot breath huffed on the back of your neck, raising goosebumps and sending electric currents down your spine. At his door, he handed you his room key and let you fumble with the lock while he trailed his hands down over your hips and then back up your thighs. Hooking his fingers in the hem of your dress, he pulled it up over your ass, the cool air on your skin a stark contrast to his hot hands. His broad chest pressed into your back and his head fell to your neck. His lips teased at you tantalizingly as he dug his thick fingers into your soft hips, pulling your ass back into the massive bulge in his pants.

“I knew you had a luscious ass,” he growled into your neck. He teased you with the scratch of his beard near your ear and smiled against your skin when he dipped his hand between your thighs and felt the moist heat of your arousal. “It would be a shame to ruin your lovely clothes. We need to get you out of them before they get too wet.”

You laughed breathily as you opened the door and stumbled inside with Jacques still pressed to your back. He kicked the door shut and spun you to face him, crashing his lips to yours as you each clawed at each other’s clothing. His jacket and shirt were the first to be discarded. You wanted to see his body before revealing yours, and you were not disappointed when he peeled his shirt away. His chest was larger and more impressive than you had guessed and his arms more thickly muscled. He had the finely sculpted look of a performance horse, massive, sleek, and powerful all at once.

Backing away from him sultrily, you slowly unzipped your dress as you angled toward the bedroom. Inspired by the Chateau de Versailles, the living room of the Suite Imperiale was done in burgundy and cream, with vaulted ceilings and enormous airy windows. The burgundy and gold drapes were open, letting the lights of Paris glimmer into the otherwise darkened room.

Before you could step out of your dress that had fallen to your feet, Jacques lifted you up into his arms, all but yanking you off the ground in his fervor. He was so powerful and solid that he made you feel weightless in his arms, a feeling that heightened your anticipation as much as his expert touch.

Jacques twirled once inside the suite’s bedroom with you still in his arms, taking every advantage to show off. This room was decorated in cream and mint with a green and mint brocade canopy enshrouding the lavish bed. Jacques laid you gently down onto the plush bedding and traced hot kisses down your throat and chest as he rose back to brusquely discard the rest of his clothing. You eyed his body shamelessly, very pleased by every magnificent part of him. His aurous eyes were even hungrier than yours as they devoured the sight of you.

“I’ve never seen true beauty before tonight,” he said reverently in a voice that was all smoke and darkness.

Jacques crawled over you, a predator over his prey, caging you beneath him with his impressive arms on either side of your body. When you put your hands on him, you could feel his heavy muscles tense and flex as he moved. The feel of him alone was a potent aphrodisiac. He could read all the signs of your body, the way you moved and sighed and responded to his touch. He knew you wanted him, and wanted him now. But Jacques wanted to savor you, to spend as long as he could possibly stand it, to sear every moment of this night into his memory like a firebrand.

Agonizingly slow, he returned his lips to your skin, kissing and teasing every part of your flesh he could cover. He knew he would have you several times tonight, and he decided he wanted to make you moan with his tongue before he made you scream with his cock. It was quick work for him once he settled between your legs and hooked your thighs over his shoulders. He had barely traced his name into you a handful of times when he felt the shuddering rush of your ecstasy.

Positioning himself above you, he captured your lips as he thrust into you, fast and fluid but gentle too. Slow at first, he followed the pace you set as your pleasure deepened. He was a consummate lover, and he shifted his hips until he knew his angle was perfect, like a marksman hitting the bullseye. He saw your features rendered beautifully distraught by pleasure, and he thought that he had never seen anything so lovely in the world of fashion and art as the sight of you beneath him.

Your arousal mounted as vigorously as he pistoned into you. Everything faded from your world until there was only the handsome man above you and the pleasure that flooded you until you were bursting with it. Jacques crested with you when a powerful orgasm throbbed through you and he carried you through every delicious shudder until you were both delirious with exhausted bliss. He kissed you with a slow lingering passion and when he pulled back, it was to look at you with adoration. His gaze was brief, but the emotion was unmistakable.

In the sultry minutes between your first session together and the next of the evening, you lay across Jacques’s chest, listening to his steadying heartbeat and the resonant timbre of his voice that sounded much like a contented purr beneath your ear. His hair was tangled and wild, and his chest glistened with a light sheen of sweat. His arms were strong around you and his hands huge and comforting on your skin. The man was an absolute fever dream.

“This is only the beginning, ma belle amour,” Jacques whispered much later that night, careful not to wake you. Even in sleep, he dreamed of you and of the bright and glamorous future you would forge together.

*******************************************************************************************

Jacques prided himself on being part of the 5am Club, but this morning he felt that he had earned some extra rest after his robust performance the night before. You told him that he was incredible, and he couldn’t disagree with you. He was an exceptional lover – he made a point of excelling in all areas of importance to him – and he knew it. He had pulled out all the stops for you. He wanted you not only pleasured but impressed; hooked, and wanting more and more. He grinned sleepily at the realization that, perhaps for the first time in his life, he was just as hooked after this first time as you were sure to be.

An obnoxious beam of sunlight soldiered through a gap in the curtains to shine on Jacques’s face, forcing him to blink into consciousness. Groaning at the light, he rolled over to curl into you and pull you close to him, and maybe have you again for breakfast. But his hand fell on a vacant sheet, cool to the touch. That brought him into full alertness like a bucket of ice water dosed over his head. He propped himself up on an elbow and brushed the hair out his eyes as he looked around the room. All of your things had been collected and were gone, and no sound emanated from the open door of the adjoining bathroom.

Jacques was alone.

No woman had ever sneaked out on him before the dawn. Of course, he had done so countless times to countless women, the number of which he couldn’t have remembered or even closely estimated with a gun to his head. But no woman had ever given him the same treatment. It was unthinkable! Jacques had only ever slipped away from women he considered unimportant, disposable – which, admittedly, were most of them – but he would never have ducked out on you, not after the night the two of you had shared.

Last night was only the beginning, he told himself, knowing it must be true. Anything that felt that good, that right, had to be only the start of something great.  

A bitter thought slithered into his mind, worse than the gravelly morning-after taste on his tongue. Surely, he wasn’t a disposable fling to you. He couldn’t be. He was more than a one night stand, when he wanted more, anyway. It was unfathomable to think a woman, any woman, wouldn’t want more with him. It was blasphemous, even.

No, that couldn’t be it. Jacques knew you were a busy woman, you must have had things to do and places to be. He too was in demand and could hardly begrudge you the same. Throwing the covers aside, he stood and proceeded to walk around the room naked, looking for anything you may have left behind. He was sure he would find a letter or just a brief note, but there was nothing. He even fogged the bathroom mirror in the chance you were prone to mystery and had left a message on the glass that only mist would reveal. He called your suite, received no answer, and had no better luck calling reception. When he checked his phone to see if there were any messages from you, he realized with a sinking feeling that you had not exchanged numbers.

The room was as though you had never been inside it at all. Only the smell of your perfume on his sheets and the scratches you had traced across his skin were proof that last night had not been only a fantasy.

*******************************************************************************************

Never before had Jacques felt so compelled to chase after a woman, but he restrained himself. The rules of a burgeoning relationship were new to Jacques -- not that he ever played by the rules at anything -- but he thought it only fair that since you had been the one to leave, that the burden was on you to make the first contact. He waited for days for a call or email or text, at first angry and then despondent when nothing came.

Jacques Le Gris, the CEO of La Maison Gris, would not chase after a woman. But for this woman, this one singular woman, he consented to casually saunter in her direction. And he was not pleased about having to do so.

It was Friday morning, nearly a week after your evening together, when Jacques relented. He stood restless in his luxurious office, surrounded by walnut paneling, rich colors, and oil paintings. His office had a regal ambience reminiscent of a Victorian study but with a decidedly masculine touch. Every appliance was ultra-modern and colored in sleek carbon, contrasting chicly with the otherwise vintage style. Floor to ceiling windows looked out over the city of Paris, offering an unobstructed view of the Champs Elysees.

Being at the tops in your respective industries made you each easy to track down, even if then making contact was exponentially more difficult. Jacques called the main branch of Annees Folles Magazine in Manhattan and was given the runaround for the better part of an hour. Christ, it was worse than dealing with an airline. He wondered if he would have to fax a copy of his ID just to speak to a living human who had any authority at all. He was near the limits of his temper, his notorious good humor completely expended, by the time he was put through to your office.

“Editor in Chief’s office.” A curt nasally male voice answered Jacques’s call with a note of disinterest. “Armitage Hux speaking.”

“I’m calling to speak to the Editor in Chief directly, please,” Jacques said in his most diplomatic tone. He added his name, which alone opened most doors for him. “This is Jacques Le Gris.”

“The Editor is not to be disturbed. Furthermore, she only takes calls from those listed on her approved call list.” Came the snide reply. “There’ s no Jack.”

“Jacques,” he enunciated more clearly, adding more force to his voice. “Jacques Le Gris.”

“There is no le Grease on the list either.” A withering sneer could almost be heard through the phone.

“Le Gris,” Jacques corrected, fighting to keep from losing his temper.

“My apologies,” Hux answered without the barest hint of contrition. “Regardless, you are not on the list, Mr. le Grease.”

A frustrated growl slipped out before Jacques could stop it. “For fuck’s sake, ask her about me!”

“There’s really no need for profanity. I’ve already told you, she is not to be disturbed,” Hux continued in a tone that was now verging on bored. “Certainly not by people who aren’t important enough to be on her approved call list, Mr. le Grease.”

“Important?” Jacques laughed at the absurdity. “Do you know who I am? I’m the CEO of La Maison Gris!”

“I’m legally required to say that my opinion does not in any way reflect the views of Annees Folles Magazine, but I have always preferred Gucci,” Hux lilted in his superior manner.

“If Le Grease doesn’t spur her memory, tell her I’m the man she spent last Saturday night with!” Now, Jacques was pissed. Comparing his distinguished line to that family of garish Italians was like slapping a glove across his cheek. “She knew my name then because she was fucking screaming it!”

“Ah, maybe you’re on that list.” Hux smiled deviously, which could be heard on his voice.

Jacques ground his teeth until he thought they would surely crack while he listened to the other man’s unhurried keystrokes as he pulled up that list. Jacques made a mental note to clear that fucking list out for you real fast.

“Barber… McHenry… — forgive me, I’m skimming here — Mills… Ren… Zimmerman…” Hux read through each name with relish. “I’m terribly sorry, but I’m afraid that this list is Grease-free as well.”

“Listen, you trumped up little shit.” Jacques finally lost control of his temper. “If I have to get on a fucking plane, walk right in there, and kick the door down to her office —“

“Hold please,” Hux intoned, utterly unconcerned. Music only slightly trendier than elevator music assaulted Jacques across the line.

Jacques punched the end button with as much force as he could muster with his finger on the button that was too small for his thick digit. He caught himself just before he threw his phone across the room, and instead turned and swung a savagely powerful punch into the wall, slamming his fist straight through the plaster.

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Bright and early the following Monday a fresh copy of the American edition of Annees Folles Magazine was delivered by courier to Jacques’s office. There was no accompanying note, but the magazine smelled of the sultry exotic perfume he remembered so well. Jacques knew with absolute certainty who it was from. It was longer than he wanted to wait for an overture from you, but at least it was something.

One of the subheadings on the cover read, A Special Editorial and Behind the Scenes Look into the New Fashion Line of La Maison Gris. Jacques seated himself behind his imposing desk, leaned back in his tufted leather chair, and propped his long legs on his desk, crossing his feet at the ankles. He intended to savor your special editorial on him and his fashion line, expecting to fall even deeper and more hopelessly into the abyss of his feelings for you, into this new and uncharted territory.

Jacques rustled through the pages, eager to find your editorial. Splashed across the page was an extra treat – a startlingly high-quality photograph of his runway with a model in a floral dress with fur cuffs, and front in center silhouetted by the runway lights, the pair of you stood side-by-side in the crowd watching the show. He decided to have it framed for his office, a memento of the night your relationship began. He imagined your smile when he showed it off to you in person.

Below the photograph, the article was not what he expected. It was five-hundred words of honeyed vitriol.

La Maison Gris, with CEO Jacques Le Gris at its helm, has been the rising star in the fashion industry and with good reason. His designs mix ultra-modern chic with the classiest and the most decadent styles history has ever seen. From Victorian era draping and corsets to Regency-esque frocks and slippers to beading and sequins that would flatter the most exuberant 1920’s flapper, Le Gris’s inspiration is regal and refined and imbued with his own signature twist and flourish.

Ascensions, however, are precarious. Climbing to the top in fashion is just as perilous as climbing Mount Everest. One misstep can cost one his career.

Confident in his own grandeur, Le Gris opened his show at Paris Fashion Week with a new line featuring a daring use of fur on every piece. Icarus, too, was daring in his flight toward the blazing Sun. Just like Icarus, Le Gris has reached beyond his capacity and will soon find himself plummeting back to Earth to crash and burn with so many other has-beens whose names are not worth remembering.

Swept up in his penchant for melding modern with iconic, Le Gris does not consider the advances that we as a society have made. No longer do we need to resort to the barbarism of the fur trade to clothe ourselves. Nor do we, as Le Gris would have us believe, need to resort to fur to dress ourselves in the finest fashion and haute couture. Rest assured, dear readers, La Maison Gris is not in the upper echelon of fine fashion and haute couture.

In addition to the heinous and overdone use of fur, Le Gris has the tastelessness to cobble together a kaleidoscope of florals ranging from pastel to electric. His florid color palette can best be described as ‘A Murder of Unicorns,’ as painted by Monet. It reminds one of a cheerily painted playroom inside a children’s mental institution. A more cultured eye will gravitate to Dolce & Gabbana for florals, to Burberry for iconic; and if one is looking for fur, a vintage fox, mink, or sable from a boutique will always carry the day.

Le Gris’s approach to fashion seems to be that a lack of quality can be disguised by flair and concealed with fur. This mirrors the man’s approach to life. A boisterous grandstander, Le Gris tries to project a distinguished air. However, like a magician’s trick revealed, all his flash and charm are little more than smoke and mirrors with no real substance.

A little fur here and there can make a girl purr, but an overuse, such as the spring line of La Maison Gris, is barbarous at best and utterly gauche at worst.

One wonders if Le Gris has the capacity to bear a defeat with dignity, but the smart money will bet on the negative. Like a scavenging hound, Le Gris will likely refurbish his failed spring line for another runway this coming fall or winter. He will certainly gain no traction on any runway of repute. With his brash sensationalism and garish taste, perhaps he shall find his true calling outfitting cosplayers or larpers.

Jacques crumpled the offending magazine in his fist as if he could choke the life from its Editor in Chief through the abused pages. He viciously ripped it in half, throwing each segment across the room in different directions. He wanted to punch another hole in his wall, but his knuckles were still scabbed and bruised from his recent outburst. Not for the first time, he decided to hang a heavyweight punching bag in his office. He glared around his office, looking for something to break. Why the fuck was everything his decorators chose some one-of-a-kind antique?

Sparing his knuckles further damage, he let out a savage growl like a wounded lion. Jacques was breathing as hard as if he had run a mile, his huge chest straining the buttons on his tailored shirt. As he tried ineffectively to calm himself, his shrewd mind began to calculate and strategize. After a few moments of huffing, he decided on his course of action. If you wanted to play dirty, he could roll in the mud with the best of them. Retrieving his phone, he dialed a familiar number.

“Jacques!” Pierre D’Alencon, the Creative Director of La Maison Gris, answered with friendly ebullience. “I was just going to call you. Drinks this weekend? I happened upon a gorgeous set of twins -- redheads, no less -- and of course I’m willing to share with my closest friend.”

“Put the twins on ice for now,” Jacques grumbled gruffly. “This is business. Did you see the editorial in Annees Folles?”

“I did, indeed,” Pierre’s voice lost a hint of its buoyancy. “Hence my offer of drinks and women to lift your spirits.”

“I’ve made a decision, and it involves you. If that glorified tabloid wants to blast me for using fur in my line, I’m going to single-handedly revive the fur-in-fashion trend! We’ll see who holds more power in this little game.” Jacques grinned devilishly at his own newly formed plan of attack like a knight finding a chink in his opponent’s armor. “Which is where you come in. I want to see designs for an entire line with fur on every piece by the end of the month. Get on it, Pierre! Give me your best.”

“Do you not think it best to respond with more dignity and sweep all this unpleasantness under the rug?” Pierre asked with a heavy sigh. ���This is why you have PR people.”

“Who was it that said any publicity is good publicity?” Jacques asked, unphased.

“That would be the American spectacle, P.T. Barnum,” Pierre replied with resignation.

“Smart man. I always admired his joie de vivre.” Jacques smirked as he paced across his vast office. “That’s exactly what I want. I want a spectacle. I want a public circus. I want a showdown. We’re going to revive the fur trend, you and I, and I’m going to rub it in that demoness’s face!”

“Ah, so this is all motivated by astute business acumen and professionalism, is it?” Pierre gave a laugh that was ignored.

“Use every kind of fur you can get your hands on. The crueler the fucking better! Lynx, fox, sable, Persian lamb – all the cutest and cuddliest animals. Are chinchillas still a thing? Those too. Can we still get leopard? If you can design a full-length coat made of puppies, do it! Dalmatian with a lynx collar, how about that?” Jacques ran a hand along the shimmering silver streak in his black hair, thinking. “And I don’t want faux anything in sight. I want it all real, all genuine fur.”

Pierre confirmed his understanding of his marching orders and signed off. For so long as their mission remained retaliation and war, anyway. He also decided on a side-quest of sorts, to put his second greatest talent to work while he created a runway line trimmed in fur. He would try his best at figuring out his friend and boss’s quarry, and aid him in hunting the most dangerous game of all, a powerful woman. Perhaps if Jacques could seduce her personally, there would be no need to batter her into submission professionally, and Pierre knew he was just the man for both jobs.

Jacques was still wound up after the call, but now he had a course of action, a focal point, a target at which to channel his anger and frustration. The embers of rage still alighted Jacques’s nerves and the sting of betrayal still burned in his chest. He still wanted to punch something, to find a release. It was a poor substitute, but he ranted and bellowed instead.

“That frigid bitch!” Jacques snarled, glaring out of his window over the streets of Paris. “That shrew. That succubus. Satan. That woman is fucking Satan!”

*******************************************************************************************

To be continued…

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© safarigirlsp 2023

Tagging some fashionistas:

@in-silks-and-flesh-and-leather @babbushka @mrs-gucci @mrs-zimmerman @iamburdened @gabesprincess @reborn-rekall @maybe-your-left @rynwritesstuff @candycanes19 @caillea @cas-backwards-tie @queeniebee @mythrielofsolitude @ghoulian13 @icarusinthesea @darkhairedmenrule @reyloaddict55 @fizzywoohoo @heartlight-starlight @richbrittstein @clydesfavoritegirl @bensolodyad @thepalaceofmelanie @celiholland @durangoninetyfive @reveluving @vedavan @fax4life27 @lumberjack00fantasies @kyloremus

#my stuff! #my writing #best #fic #valentine #jacques le gris x reader #jacques le gris x you #jacques

[shingyou]

Suis-je les rites mortuaires ?

Chaque jour, je me souviens encore un peu plus de ce que j’ai subi

Chaque jour, je comprends un peu mieux ce qu’a été ma vie

Je n’ai connu ni les fêtes de chez moi, ni la mort, seulement l’assassinat

Enfermé bien au-dessus des autres, et en réalité enterré ici-bas

J’apprends à crier, à chanter, à mettre le feu à leurs rêves

Amour destructeur et colère créative valent mille fois leurs fausses trêves

On souffre, et qui est ce « on », si ce n’est leur version du « vous » ?

Tristes menteurs qui déversent du poison dans nos deux joues

Mais je ne veux plus être ces funestes célébrations

Elles m’ont été imposées jusque dans ma maison

Rites mortuaires, laissez-moi devenir les transes de la naissance

Qui renaît, qui grandit, qui forge notre essence

Vocalises et chants, rythmes et pas, ça sonne bien comme ça sonne mal

Brillent ceux dont la vue les rend pâles

#ego essem #egone sum #poème #poésie #poésie francophone #écriture #writings #poem #my art #poetry #writing #literature #my writing #art #french poetry #settler colonialism #racism #antiblackness #personal #personal writing

[christian-dubuis-santini]

Si «monde» est un mot (cf. infra), si c’est aux mots que nous avons toujours d’abord à faire, si ce n’est pas avec les «choses» que nous avons des problèmes mais bien avec les mots au moyen desquels nous nous représentons les choses, et si comme Beckett, nous en sommes arrivés à saisir que «tout ce qui se passe, ce sont des mots», nous aurons plaisir à relire ces quelques mots:

«Quand s'ébranla le barrage de l'homme, aspiré par la faille géante de l'abandon du divin, des mots dans le lointain, des mots qui ne voulaient pas se perdre, tentèrent de résister à l'exorbitante poussée.

Là se décida la dynastie de leur sens.

J'ai couru jusqu'à l'issue de cette nuit diluvienne.

Planté dans le flageolant petit jour, ma ceinture pleine de saisons, je vous attends, ô mes amis qui allez venir.

Déjà je vous devine derrière la noirceur de l'horizon.

Mon être ne tarit pas de vœux pour vos maisons.

Et mon bâton de cyprès rit de tout son cœur pour vous.»

(René Char)

Choses, que coule en vous la sueur ou la sève,

Formes, que vous naissiez de la forge ou du sang,

Votre torrent n’est pas plus dense que mon rêve;

Et si je ne vous bats d’un désir incessant,

Je traverse votre eau, je tombe vers la grève

Où m’attire le poids de mon démon pensant.

Seul, il heurte au sol dur sur quoi l’être s’élève,

Au mal aveugle et sourd, au dieu privé de sens,

Mais, sitôt que tout verbe a péri dans ma gorge,

Choses, que vous naissiez du sang ou de la forge,

Nature, — je me perds au flux d’un élément:

Celui qui couve en moi, le même vous soulève,

Formes, que coule en vous la sueur ou la sève,

C’est le feu qui me fait votre immortel amant.

(Jacques Lacan)

[thesonofdio]

For the Love of the Pranks

#harrypotter #fredweasleyxreader

Poudlard, Angleterre

"T/P T/N, étudiante en 5ème année à Poudlard, le célèbre collège de sorcellerie de Grande Bretagne. Meilleure amie de Luna Lovegood et secrètement amoureuse du jumeaux Fred Weasley. Adore les blagues mais aussi très studieuse dans ses études. Serdaigle et fière de l'être."

C'est comme ça que quiconque pouvait décrire la petite T/P. Timide mais bagarreuse. Généreuse mais diabolique. Cartésienne mais artiste dans l'âme. Plongée dans son monde mais ouverte d'esprit. Cette fille était tout et rien à la fois, elle touchait les extrêmes et s'assumée comme ça !

C'est donc, bras-dessus-bras-dessous qu'elle et Luna s'évadaient en sautillant de la bibliothèque après avoir recouvert Draco et ces deux sbires de pâtes gluante, collante... et verte.

Les deux amies gambadaient dans les couloirs en gloussant bruyamment quand elle rencontrèrent les jumeaux Weasley au détour d'un couloir. Les voyant rire sans en comprendre la raison Fred leur demanda qu'est-ce qu'il c'était passé.

- On a recouvert Malfoy, Crabbe et Goyle de pâtes-à-glue. Elle ne put se retenir plus longtemps et rééclata de rire se cachant dans la robe de son amie blonde.

- C'est vrai ?! Mais c'est génial ! Tu vois ce que ça veut dire Gred ?! S'exclama George.

- Notre produit fonctionne ! C'est fantastique Forge ! Il mis c'est mains en l'air et son frère vient les frapper avec entrain.

- Merci les filles ! Cria George.

- Oui ! Merci beaucoup, on vous doit une fière chandelle. Et il vint prendre T/P dans ses bras pendant que son frère enlacé Luna.

T/P répondit à son étreinte et respira l'odeur de marrons, de pétards et de caramel qui émanait du roux. Le serrant plus contre elle avant qu'il ne brise le câlin.

- Oh mais il n'y a pas de quoi. Leurs dit Luna ravit.

- Oui, c'était tout aussi jouissif pour nous vous savez. Avoua T/P.

- Vous auriez du voire leurs tête ! Terrible ! Répliqua Luna.

- Merci se nous avoir laissées tester votre nouveau produit. Termina T/P.

- Y'a pas de quoi, on vous contact si on a besoin de tester à nouveau la marchandise. Répondit Fred en posant sa main sur l'épaule de la jeune fille.

- Pas de problème. Répondit la concernée, des étoiles dans les yeux en fixant le Weasley.

Après cela, la vue reprit son cours normal et les semaines passèrent monotonement. Quand vint enfin la dernière semaine avant les vacances de Noël, la semaine que tous les élèves redoutait ; la semaine d'examens. Le stress montait dans chaque maison. Chacun des élèves, peut importe le niveau, redoutait la fin du week-end. Mais celle-ci arriva malgré tout et avec un emploie du temps plus que chargé :

- Lundi, métamorphose

- Mardi, potions et soins au créatures magiques

- Mercredi, sortilège et arithmancie

- Jeudi, divination et botanique

- Vendredi, DCFM

C'est donc lessivées physiquement et mentalement qu'étaient les deux amies quand elles rentrèrent dans la salle commune le vendredi soir, persuadées qu'elles avaient tout ratées.

T/P s'apprêtait à monter se coucher dans son dortoir quand soudain les jumeaux apparurent à leur tour dans la salle, surexcités.

- Bah les filles vous en faites une tête ! Vous êtes pas contentes ? Demanda George en s'asseyant sur un canapé aux côtés de la blonde.

- Nooooon ! Gémis Luna.

- On a tout foiré... Continua T/P en baissant la tête.

- Oh je suis désoler pour toi. Murmura doucement Fred en s'approchant d'elle. Mais je te rassure nous aussi. On a rendu copie blanches en faite... Reprit-il plus fort en riant un peut.

- Quoi ?! S'exclama la jeune fille.

- Bah ouais en fait on avait complètement oubliés qu'il y avait des examens, ces dernières semaines on était à fond dans nos produits de farces et attrapes. Dit George en appuyant sur la seconde partie de sa phrase en jetant des regards en coin à son jumeaux avant un sourire narquois.

Fred l'aperçu et lui lança des éclairs avec les yeux avant de se retourner vers T/P avec un grand. Et tout en lui prenant la main pour l'entraîner hors de la salle il dit :

- Mais ça fait rien les filles, parce que ce soir... Il y a une grosse soirée pour fêter la fin des examens !

- Oui ! Et c'est dans la salle commune des Poufsouffle ! Termina George.

T/P rit pendant que Luna se releva intéressée.

- Mais comment vous savez ça vous d'abord ? Et d'ailleurs comment vous avez fait pour entrer dans la salle commune des Serdaigle ? Qui vous a donné la solution de l'énigme ?

- Oh tu sais on a des contacts. Dit Fred en lui faisant un clin d'œil.

La jeune fille rit et alla vite se changer avec Luna. Puis elle et son amie se laissèrent entraîner par les deux roux jusque dans la salle commune à côté des cuisine.

George frappa une mélodie dur les tonneaux à l'entrer et le tableau s'ouvrit en souriant de toute ses dents. George et Luna entrèrent laissant les deux autres derrière eux. T/P n'était jamais allée à une soirée à avant, en fait elle n'était même jamais allée dans aucune autre salle commune que celle de Serdaigle. Fred passa sa main sur la sienne et noua leurs doigts ensembles.

- Première soirée ? Demandât-il.

- Ouais... Je suis pas très sociable en général avec les gens que je ne connais pas. Avoua la serdaigle.

- T'inquiète pas je serait avec toi pendant toute la soirée, promis. Il serra un peut plus sa poigne sur la main de

T/P et la jeune fille rougit, le sourire au lèvres et son cœur qui bat la chamade.

Les deux étudiants entrèrent dans la salle commune. A l'intérieur de la fête il y avait une tout autre ambiance : la pièce était tamisée et une douce lumière bleu vacillé sur les murs, tout les élèves dansaient sur la piste en sautant et hurlant sur la musique sorcière qui passait. Quand on levait les yeux au plafond on pouvait voir un épais nuage de fumer qui recouvrait toute la pièce.

- Regarde. Dit T/P on montrant su doigt le plafond. Soit c'est un sortilège de brume soit les poufsouffle sont en train de fumés. Déduit-elle en rigolant.

- J'opterais plutôt pour la deuxième option. Répondit-le roux en lui faisant un clin d'œil. Mais je te rassure, il n'y a vraiment pas que les poufsouffle qui fume ici.

Ils rigolèrent à gorges déployées. La soirée ce déroula dans l'anarchie la plus total. Sans mentir, la majorité des élèves abusèrent du wiskey-pur-feu, dont nos quatre compères. C'est donc à trois heure du matin que T/P, Luna et les jumeaux rentrèrent tant bien que mal jusqu'à la salle commune des serdaigles - les garçons avaient insistés pour raccompagner les deux amies qui était les plus mal en point. Seulement George qui portait Luna sur ses épaules (oui comme un sac à patate) fût plus rapide que Fred et T/P qui se tenaient la main, riaient beaucoup trop fort, se prenaient les pieds dans des tapis imaginaires et fonçaient dans tout les murs. Alors arrivés à un escalier tournant, les deux amis se retrouvèrent seuls, dans les couloirs, bourrés...

Sans savoir comment ils arrivèrent à retrouver le dortoir des serdaigles, ils se mirent alors à sauter de joie bruyamment. Mais maintenant il y avait un autre problème ; comment faire pour entrer si son cerveau et trop intoxiqué pour réussir à résoudre la nouvelle énigme ?

Fred prit alors la décision de les emmener à griffondor pas décider à laisser la jeune fille seule et encore moins à rester attendre avec elle par terre, devant le tableau, jusqu'au matin, dans l'espoir qu'un élève se décide à sortir de son lit pour aller déjeuner, au risque que Rusard les surprennent et leur enlèvent des points.

Alors, boosté par une dose d'adrénaline, Fred pris T/P dans ses bras et marcha d'un pas décidé jusqu'à sa salle commune. Arrivé devant il prononça le mot de passe à voix basse, ne voulant pas réveiller la jolie fille endormis dans ses bras.

Il monta difficilement les escalier et rentra dans son dortoir. Il retira la veste de T/P et des chaussures et la posa doucement dans son lit. Il alla ensuite prendre une douche dans la salle de bain et enfila seulement un pantalon de pyjama en toile avant d'aller s'allonger au côté de la C/C.

Le réveille du lendemain fût compliquer. T/P ouvrit les yeux avec difficulté. Elle se retourna dans son lit et grogna en voyant le soleil filtrer à travers les rideaux rouge. 

"Rouge ?! Comment ça rouge ? Depuis quand ils ont refais la décos à la griffondor ?! Attendez mais... Pourquoi Fred Weasley dors à côté de moi ?... Qu'est-ce qu'il passé hier ?" 

La jeune fille redressa paniquée. Elle regarda le roux dormir, il avait l'air tellement calme et apaisé. Ca changeait de d'habitude. Il dormait sur le ventre, torse nue, les cheveux en batailles, la bouche légèrement entrouverte et les bras entourant son oreiller. La jeune détourna la tête brusquement et remit ses idées en place.

 Il fallait qu'elle essaye de se souvenir de se qu'il c'était passé hier, alors, après avoir dansés pendant au moins une-demie-heure, elle et Fred sont allés boires au bar. Ils ce sont lancé un défis : celui qui bois le plus gagne. T/P est joueuse... Après bien une heure-et-demis à boire tout ce qui leurs passaient sous la mains, ils sont retourner sur la piste pour danser comme des dingues. Puis quand ils eurent envie de rentrer ils se sont lancés a la recherche de George et Luna. Ils réussirent a les retrouver après un-quart-d' heures de recherche "intensives". Puis les quatre amis sortirent en gloussant. Luna et George les semèrent pendant que T/P et Fred s'amusaient à faire peur aux tableaux en leur fonçant dessus. c'est donc après plusieurs chutes qu'il arrivèrent à trouver la salle commune de la C/C. Mais ils n'arrivèrent pas à la résoudre puisqu'ils étaient trop sou. Alors Fred la pris dans ses bras et là c'est le trou noir. Pas moyen de savoir ce qu'il se passe après, elle a du s'endormir dans ses bras.

Il l'a probablement emmener dans son dortoir, qui est d'ailleurs étrangement vide de ses autres colocataires. Mais est-ce qu'ils c'est passé ce qu'elle pense qu'il c'est passé ? Il faut qu'elle en ai le cœur net. Elle prit son courage à deux mains et posa la paume de sa main sur l'épaule du jumeaux. Rien. Elle le secoua un peut. Toujours aucun signe de vie. Bon... Elle pris alors une des mèches de ses cheveux flamboyants entre ses doigts, joua un peut avec, avant de tirer d'un coup sec dessus. Le concerné ouvra grand ses yeux et se redressa d'un coup en hurlant un "aïe" sonore. 

- Mais ça va pas la tête ?! T/P pourquoi t'a fait ça ? Cria t-il en massant ses tempes douloureuses de la soirée passée. 

- Mais c'est toi qui te réveillais pas ! J'ai paniquée ! Se justifiât-elle.

- C'est pas une raison pour me défigurer ! Criât-il une fois de plus.

- Arrête de hurler, j'ai mal à la tête. Lui dit-elle, soudainement prise de migraine affreuses. Argh... Qu'est-ce qu'il m'arrive ? Lui demandât-elle en posant une main sur son front douloureux.

- Simple tu a ce que mon frère et moi appelons la GDBSR. Dit le roux en se levant du lit. 

Devant le regard d'incompréhension de la jeune fille il rit et expliqua :

- La Gueule-De-Bois-Sa-Race. 

T/P approuva d'un signe de tête et se rallongea dans le lit en mettant l'oreiller frais sur son visage brûlant. Le roux se dirigea vers sa commode, sortis une petite boite de médicaments, en avala un avec un verre d'eau et alla s'asseoir près de T/P. Il retira l'oreiller de sa tête, lui tendis le médicament ainsi que son verre.

- C'est moldue mais ça fonctionne mieux que nos sortilège, tu verras. Murmurât-il doucement.

Puis il partis prendre une douche, le sourire aux lèvres. 

La jeune serdaigle avala difficilement la gélule et grimaça face au goût étrange. Elle se repassa les évènements d'hier en boucle dans sa tête. Elle et Fred avaient étaient très proche pendant toute la soirée, se tenant la mains, restant collés ensembles. Ils ont même dansé un slow, elle s'en souvient. C'était en deuxième partis de la nuit, ils étaient collés l'un à l'autre, leurs visages vraiment très proche. Il la regardait avec des étoiles dans les yeux, comme si elle était la plus belle chose qu'il n'est jamais vus. Mais T/P était persuadée que c'était à cause de tout l'alcool consommé et probablement aussi des cigarettes qu'il avait "secrètement" fumer ; il voulait, sans doute, que sa partenaire de soirée ne le vois pas mais c'était raté, parce qu'un Weasley et la discrétion ne vont pas de pairs, mais encore moins avec un jumeaux, Weasley et à moitié déchiré. 

Fred revint de sa douche, seulement une serviette autour de la taille et ses cheveux ruissellent. "Woaw... le rêve" pensa T/P qui le mâtait, la bouche ouverte en un "O". 

- T'a finis de me mâter espèce de voyeuse. S'amusa le jumeaux. 

- Tu rêve. Je mâtait pas. Dit-elle en détournant le regard. 

- Ouais bien sur, et Ombrage déteste le rose. Se moquât-il en enfilant un T-shirt ample gris.

- Fred, j'ai... J'ai une question... Un peut gênante en faite. Dit T/P avec une petite voix, après quelques minutes de silence pendant lesquels le roux s'habillait. 

- Je t'écoute. Dit-il en s'asseyant sur le lit à ses côtés, un sourire narquois sur les lèvres.

- Est-ce que... La nuit dernière... Quand tu m'a posée dans ton lit... Est-ce qu'on auraient... Elle finit sa phrase presque dans un murmure. 

Elle ferma les yeux de gêne. Mais au leu de l'entendre s'énerver qu'elle ne s'en souvienne pas ou je ne sais quoi d'autre, tout ce qu'elle entendit fût un rire, le rire de Fred. Un rire franc. Elle réouvrit les yeux et le vit ce tordre de rire sur le lit. Puis il se releva, le fou-rire passé. 

- Attend, t'es sérieuse ? Demandât-il plus sombre. Tu me prend vraiment pour ce genre de type ? Il se méta une nouvelle fois debout et fît les cents pas dans la chambre. Le genre de type qui profite de l'ivresse d'une fille pour la... Pour la... Violer ?! Le genre de connard qui t'aurait saoulée dans l'espoir de te ramener dans mon lit ? Le genre d'un serpentard...

- Non ! Je sais que tu ais quelqu'un de bien Fred, crois-moi ! Mais je ne sais pas, on était clairement bourrés tout les deux, il aurait pu se passer n'importe quoi. Tu ne peut pas me reprocher de m'inquiéter ! Répondit-elle, sur le même ton.

- C'est vrai, excuse-moi. Dit-il en baissant la tête. C'est juste qu'il est hors de question qu'on me vois comme eux, surtout pas toi... 

-  Mais Fred, si ce n'est pas pour me droguer et me violer que tu m'a emmenée là-bas, c'était pour quoi ? Demandât-elle curieuse, sans relever la remarque du roux. 

- Et bien, je pense que tu t'en doute. Répondit-il nerveusement en se frottant l'arrière de la tête. 

- Non, sinon je ne t'aurais pas demandé. Fit-elle en riant.

- Sérieusement ? La jeune fille hocha la tête. Bon et bien c'est partis... T/P on ne se connait pas depuis longtemps mais tu a du remarquer, comme moi, que le courant passait très bien entre nous. Alors j'espère que ce que je vais t'avouer sera réciproque, sinon attend-toi a être oubliettée très vite. Continuât-il en riant nerveusement. T/P, c'est la première fois que ça m'arrive alors je ne sais pas trop comment mis-prendre sérieusement. Je n'ai jamais eu une telle alchimie avec quelqu'un, autre que mon frère, avant toi. Tu est magnifique, intelligente, drôle et gentille, à mes yeux. Tu est tout simplement parfaite en étant toi et... Je t'aime, T/P, par Merlin si tu savais ce que tu me fait ressentir ! Tu me rend dingue.

- Fred, tu m'aime ?

- Oui ! A ton avis, pourquoi on a passé tellement de temps sur nos inventions avec George qu'on en a rater nos examens ? C'était pour venir te demander de les tester pour nous ! Pour venir te parler.

- Oh Fred, je... Mais elle n'eut pas le temps de finir que le roux se ruât sur elle et l'embrassa. 

- Je t'aime Fred Weasley. IL se sourires mutuellement. 

Soudain dans un grand fraqua, la porte de la chambre s'ouvrit et George entra en trombe.

- Forge ! J'ai vu Ginny, notre petite sœur chérie, embrassa Luna ! S'exclamât-il. Oh salut T/P. Il lui fît un mouvement de mains.

- Salut... Répondit la jeune fille perdue.

- C'est génial Gred ! Non ? Demandât Fred.

- Non ! Tu comprend pas ? Non seulement nos neveux et nièces seront des bébés roux autoritaires, dictateurs et joueurs de Quidditch mais en plus ils seront perchés et adorerons les créatures comme Charlie ! En résumer on va vivre un calvaire de tonton-baby-sitters.

Fred pâlit et T/P vint l'embrasser en prenant sa joue.

- T'inquiète pas, je serait là pour vous aider en tant que super-tata-baby-sitter. Dit-elle en riant.

Fred ria a son tour et revint l'embrasser.

- Alors tout va bien je suis sauvé. Murmurât-il.

- Oui enfin si t'arrive à le supporter jusque-là. Commenta George.

Mais il se prit un oreiller dans la tête et fût virer de sa propre chambre.

A new one based on Harry Potter ! Did you like it ??

#fred weasley x serdaigle reader #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley #fred et george weasley #harry potter universe #harry potter #reader #serdaigle reader #soft romance #fanfiction #fanfic

[parisies]

La maison de Roxane, ou celle de Chimène ?

Ou encor Hermione, Clélie, ou Philomène ?

Les grâces ont vécu là. Passant, qui te promène,

Caresse le heurtoir, mets la main sur le chêne.

Christian cherche ses mots, Cyrano se démène,

Le laid forge les traits, et le beau les assène.

#rue saint honoré

[arsenicetvieillesenseignes]

Quand la modernité côtoie l'ancienneté. Longtemps, les Gueugnonnais ont pensé que cette tour était un pigeonnier. Mais c'était sans compter sur Claudette Dworaczek, la présidente de « Patrimoine et mémoires gueugnonnais » qui est revenue sur l’origine de ce curieux monument : « À l’époque, à la place d’Intermarché, il y avait des jardins et notamment le jardin paysager du château de la Fourrier. Le château d’eau servait à les arroser. Celui-ci n’a pu avoir vocation de pigeonnier, car il n’y avait pas de petits trous pour accueillir des pigeons ». La vérité est enfin rétablie ! Le château de la Fourrier a été construit dans les années 1890 par François Campionnet, Maître de Forges à Gueugnon. Le château d'eau date de la même époque. Le beau jardin paysager a disparu mais le château existe toujours, reconverti en maison de retraite.

#chateaudeau #patrimoine #1890s #modernite #anciennete #contraste #tracesdupasse #vieillefrance #gueugnon #saoneetloire

[kolajmag]

COLLAGE ON VIEW

Complicit with Chance

Pierre-Paul Pariseau at the Maison de la Culture Ahuntsic-Cartierville in Montreal, Quebec, Canada through 16 September 2022. Evoking Surrealism and Pop Art, Pierre-Paul Pariseau’s creative work invites us into a world of images where anything is possible. From the visual articulation of his thoughts, moods and emotions emanate dreamlike scenes and strange theatrical dramas that remain accessible. Happy coincidences and anecdotal events inspire the artist to create a phantasmagoria that he translates into images made of bright colors, surprising juxtapositions and hypnotizing reveries that are always convincing. MORE

*****************************

Kolaj Magazine, a full color, print magazine, exists to show how the world of collage is rich, layered, and thick with complexity. By remixing history and culture, collage artists forge new thinking. To understand collage is to reshape one's thinking of art history and redefine the canon of visual culture that informs the present.

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[inapat17]

“Averroès et Rosa Parks” : a proposition for filming psychiatry (Nicolas Phillibert, 2024)

“Averroès et Rosa Parks” is a documentary released on March 20, 2024. It focuses on the residents of the psychiatric unity of the Esquirol hospital in Val-de-Marne. Through interviews with 10 patients and psychiatrists, Nicolas Philibert takes us into the daily lives of these people, their thoughts, anxieties, and feelings about life in a psychiatric institution.

The director of “Averroès et Rosa Parks” is Nicolas Philibert. Born in Nancy in 1951, he studied philosophy before becoming an assistant director. He soon began co-directing feature-length documentaries. The first of these was “La Voix de son maître” (1978) which interviewed major industrial CEOs and highlighted power dynamics in the world of finance. He directed films such as “La Ville Louvre” (1990), “Le Pays des sourds” (1992), “Un animal, des animaux” (1995), “Être et avoir” (2001), “Nénette” (2010), “La Maison de la radio” (2013). Films that take the time to observe and bring to life the subjects they deal with, the better to show them through the camera. He has won different prizes, has received 120 tributes and retrospectives all over the world and has become a reference in the documentary.

With “Averroès et Rosa Parks”, Nicolas Phillibert is continuing a triptych about psychiatric institutions and their residents. In 2023, “Sur l'Adamant” was released in cinemas, presenting a day center for adults suffering from mental disorders, located on a building floating on the Seine. Also attached to the Saint-Maurice hospitals, some of Adamant's patients are also featured in “Averroès et Rosa Parks”, enabling the director to establish trust with the cared-for and follow their life trajectory. In “La machine à écrire et autres sources tracas…” released two weeks ago, Nicolas Phillibert accompanies care givers to the homes of a few patients suddenly helpless when faced with a domestic problem, a broken appliance, etc...Before that, in 2001, he presented “La Moindre des choses”, about the daily lives of residents and care givers at the La Borde clinic in Loir-et-Cher.

In his film, the director plunges us into the intimate lives of the psychiatric ward's patients: how they live their daily lives in hospital, how they perceive the future, how they feel about other patients and caregivers, and how they perceive themselves... No word is put on their pathology; we don't know, but we can guess as the interviews progress. Nicolas Philibert almost never asks questions: he films meetings between patients and carers (psychiatrists), as well as ward meetings between care givers and patients devoted to raising each person's needs and creating a space for dialogue.

In the interviews, time is allowed to really understand the people involved, as well as the particular moments or processes they may be going through. For example, the unit's managers suggested that one of the residents join a shared apartment where he would have his own room. The patient questions the psychiatrists: will he be able to keep up with his medication? Will he be able to continue coming to the psychiatric integration facilities he already uses? What will his roommates be like? Will he be able to practice his religion?...While we're all familiar with these issues, the film shows how difficult it is for them to integrate into society, and the specialized support provided by hospital staff to help them. Nicolas Phillibert explains: “If mental illness is a pathology of connection, filming interviews seemed to me a good way of showing how care givers try to support those who suffer from it, and to forge with them the supports that can help them get back on their feet, get back on track, re-establish a link with the world, if not with themselves, and reintegrate into the social fabric” (trad.).

What I really liked about “Averroès and Rosa Parks” was analyzing the relationship between caregivers and patients. Observing the attitudes of the psychiatrics, the way they approach patients and give them time. Finding the right words, asking the right questions, managing social relations. More than that, the department's approach is to try to make the unit as welcoming a place as possible, so that patients can feel as good as possible. The question of affection was raised at a meeting between caregivers and patients. Several of the patients explained that affection and physical contact like hugs was one of the things they were missing. That despite the kindness and attention that carers may have, the hospital remains a rather cold, transient place, where staff don't necessarily have the time, the opportunity, or the right to respond to what the patient would like. For affection, the question is a complex one: is this the role of caregivers? How respond to a need that the hospital cannot meet?

Please note that my summary is 100 times worse than the film, so you'll have to go and see it before it's no longer in cinemas…

[christophe76460]

Un jeune homme sollicita un poste dans une grande entreprise. Après l’entretien d’embauche de sélection, le directeur adjoint l’envoya vers le directeur général pour une dernière entrevue. Le directeur a bien regardé son CV : il était tout simplement excellent (de grandes écoles, de beaux stages…). Aussi, le DG lui a demandé : « As-tu reçu une bourse d’étude pendant ton cursus scolaire ? » Le jeune diplômé lui a répondu tout simplement « non ».

« Est-ce ton père qui a payé tes études ? »

« Oui » répondit le jeune.

« Où travaille ton père ? »

« Mon père fait des travaux de forge. »

Le directeur a demandé au jeune de lui montrer ses mains. Le jeune lui a montré une paire de mains lisses et parfaites.

« As-tu jamais aidé ton père dans son travail, ne serait-ce qu’une seule fois ? »

« Mon père a toujours voulu que j’étudie davantage. En outre, il peut mieux faire ces tâches que moi.»

Le directeur a dit :

« J’ai une demande à te faire : quand tu iras à la maison aujourd’hui, observe et lave les mains de ton père puis reviens me voir demain matin. »

Ni une, ni deux, le jeune s’empresse de prendre congé pour aller vite répondre à la requête du DG.

Quand il rentra à la maison, il se mit à chercher son père et lui demanda la permission de laver ses mains.

Son père se sentit heureux de la subite attention de son fils et les lui présenta avec bienveillance. Après un temps d’arrêt, le jeune homme entreprit de laver doucement les mains paternelles. Pour la première fois, il se rendit compte de l’état des mains de son père : elles étaient ridées et avaient tant de cicatrices qu’il pouvait à peine toutes les compter. Certaines d’entre elles étaient encore à vif et quand il avait le malheur d’y toucher, son père tressaillait de douleur.

Pour le jeune homme, ce fut comme un seau d’eau glacée lancé en plein visage ! Il se rendit peu à peu compte du sacrifice de son père. Car chacune de ces cicatrices représentait le prix à payer pour SON éducation, SES activités de l’école et SON futur.

Après avoir fini de nettoyer les mains de son père, le jeune commença à mettre de l’ordre dans l’atelier. Cette nuit-là fut un magnifique moment ‘père et fils’ durant lequel ils parlèrent très longtemps.

Au matin suivant et comme prévu, le jeune est retourné voir le directeur.

Ce dernier s’est vite rendu compte des larmes dans les yeux du jeune homme. Aussi lui-a-t-il demandé : « Peux-tu me dire ce qui te fait pleurer et ce que tu as appris hier en rentrant chez toi ? »

Le jeune a répondu : « j’ai nettoyé les mains de mon père puis j’ai fini par ranger son atelier… mais ce n’est pas le plus important. Je sais maintenant reconnaître ce qui mérite d’être apprécié. Sans mon père, je ne serais pas celui que je suis aujourd’hui. En aidant mon père, je me suis rendu compte de la dureté de son labeur et de mon arrogante indifférence. Aujourd’hui, j’apprécie son sacrifice à sa juste valeur et le trésor qu’est l’aide familiale.

Le directeur a dit : « Voilà ce que je cherche chez mon personnel. Je veux engager des personnes pouvant apprécier l’effort fourni par les autres, des personnes qui ont conscience de la souffrance d’autrui, des personnes qui ne mettent pas l’argent comme seul objectif dans la vie… Tu es embauché ».

Un enfant trop protégé à qui les parents donnent tout ce qu’il veut, développe « une mentalité de droit » et ignore les sacrifices qu’il a fallu faire pour en arriver là! Si vous vous reconnaissez dans ce type de parents protecteurs, pensez-vous agir pour le bien de vos enfants ou au contraire, les guider sur le mauvais chemin?

Vous pouvez donner à vos enfants ce qu’ils souhaitent le plus au monde : une maison chaleureuse, un bon repas, une grande école, un téléphone portable dernier cri… Quand vous devez faire le ménage ou peindre une chambre, pensez tout simplement à les mettre à contribution. Après avoir mangé, qu’ils lavent et rangent la vaisselle entre frères et sœurs pour apprendre la vraie valeur de l’entraide et les qualités nécessaires pour mener une belle vie. Un jour, quand vous aurez les cheveux bien blancs, vous serez heureux de voir vos enfants épanouis, suivre votre exemple et apprendre à leurs propres enfants l’expérience de la difficulté et l’importance du travail en groupe!

[latribune]

[notesjournalieres]

27 Décembre 1823

Le 23, nous avons été coucher tous à Ham chez mon frère. Nous avons dormi dans sa nouvelle maison. Il m’a paru que Desoize vieillit, il est pâle, cassé, 70 ans. Il a de la forme physique, du mouvement ; mais il est inquiet, morose, brusque. C’est la vieillesse. Moi aussi j’y entre, je le sens. On a de l’ennui, de l’inquiétude. Au reste c’était déjà comme cela dans ma jeunesse. Mais alors il y avant devant moi le vague et comme l’infini. Aujourd’hui tout est froidement positif. J’ai peu d’illusions. Je veux avant tout du bien-être et du repos. Le 24, nous sommes partis pour Paris à 6 h. 40 minutes ; arrivés dans la maison, rue de la Chaussée-d’Antin, à 6 h. très précises. Je ne suis pas sorti le 25. La journée se passe à arranger, à meubler. Ste-Aulaire et Girardin viennent nous voir. Il y a lieu à parler politique, car la dissolution a été prononcée par ordonnance aujourd’hui. Sainte-Aulaire voit tout en noir ; mais pour lui, avec ses habitudes et sa fortune, ce noir devient facilement rose. Il dit que nous avons le règne des ultras pour trois ou quatre générations. Girardin est dans un autre genre à peu près le même. Il ne doute pas de sa nomination à Rouen.

Le 26 au matin, arrivent mes deux garçons avec M. Dirchlet et Nathalie. Ils sont gais, bien portants. On ne dirait pas qu’ils ont passé la nuit dans la diligence. Je fais mes courses, beaucoup plus occupé de mon emprunt d’Espagne que des élections. B. Delessert me témoigne un vif intérêt. Il ne croit pas que cette affaire s’arrange ; il m’engage à vendre à 30. Al. de Lameth est excellent aussi, mais diffus, n’offrant rien de net. Il me fait entendre la lecture d’un écrit fort raisonnable qu’il vient d’adresser aux électeurs, vieux patriote semper idem.

On se remue beaucoup pour les élections à Paris. Il redoute beaucoup l’influence de Manuel. Tous nos amis que je rencontre ont pus d’espoir et de mouvement que je ne m’y attendais. J’ai vu chez Etienne un maître des forges de 2 lieues au-dessus de Soudrupt. Je leur dis de me faire passer à leur collège départemental si j’échoue à Vervins. Ils applaudissent à cette idée. Cela m’irait assez. Verdun où s’assemble le collège de la Meuse n’est pas loin de Laon. J’irai entre les deux élections.

Fréd. Hartmann vient le soir. Il pense aussi à me mettre à leur collège de département en place de Georges Lafayette. C’est encore une combinaison à saisir. Je pense que Sébastiani a fait ses arrangements avec le ministère pour la Corse. Il n’est pas homme à y passer six mois sans motifs et sans but ; et puis Mortelégier président ! tout cela est arrangé. — J’ai vu aujourd’hui Manuel qui me paraît fort occupé de se faire élire à Paris. Il juge bien la position et dit qu’il ne faut pas pour cela se laisser abattre. Corcelles, que je rencontre dans la rue, a jeté le manche après la cognée pour ce qui le concerne. Bondy veut que je m’interpose entre Robin Scévole et lui pour leurs prétentions respectives sur les collèges d’arrondissement. Népomucène Lemercier pense pour lui au collège de Bayeux. Moi, je suis plus occupé de mon emprunt d’Espagne que d’élections.

#il y a 200 ans #notes journalières #général Foy #décembre 1823

[bibliothecaire-en-decouverte88]

[mysteresurterre]

Entre brumes et neige - épisode 21

Episode précédent

___

Une fine bruine continue de tomber sur nos quatre héros. Le groupe explore les Limbes à la recherche de Téothos et s'enfonce toujours plus profondément vers son but. Des grandes statues d'un ancien temps se dressent autour du chemin, tantôt debout, entières, tantôt couchées ou défigurées. Aucune d'elle n'a le regard lumineux qu'avait la première qu'ils ont rencontrée. Après un temps, ils aperçoivent un cavalier plus loin sur la route. Un soldat armuré que Anthemos et Orvasa approchent avec prudence tandis que Cynthia et Andhiir restent en retrait, prête à porter leur soutien si un combat venait à éclater.

Main sur la poignée de son arme, le cavalier se retourne vers Anthemos. Sa monture est un cerf dont les bois d'argent ont été rabotés. Une conversation emplie de méfiance des deux côtés s'ensuit et si le cavalier donne sans problème son nom - Plumnos - et son allégeance - il sert Téothos ; il refuse de mener le groupe directement à son souverain. La seule chose que peut faire ce cavalier pour nos héros est de prévenir son maître et lui proposer une entrevue, cependant il sait que Anthemos n'a rien à faire ici et qu'il est bien vivant.

Anthemos accepte cette proposition sans être complètement convaincu d'avoir bien fait. Pendant qu'il discute, Cynthia et Andhiir se mettent à entendre le son du ressac, puis des embruns viennent sur leurs visages par dessus les statues écroulées. Elles s'avancent pour rejoindre leurs deux compagnons lorsqu'un bruit de bois brisé se fait entendre juste de l'autre côté des statues. Personne ne souhaite rester beaucoup plus longtemps dans les parages.

La route continue et amène le groupe jusqu'à ce qui ressemble à un petit village aux toits pentus faits d'ardoise. Les maisons à colombages se regardent de part et d'autre d'une unique rue protégée par des barricades en bois sommaires. Les fenêtres sont illuminées, les lumières sont accueillantes dans la grisaille de ce monde étrange. D'aucuns les jugeraient trop accueillantes et c'est d'ailleurs le cas d'Orvasa qui préfère s'avancer en premier pour jouer les éclaireurs. Il découvre une rue vide, une forge qui s'actionne toute seule et une porte ouverte sur une salle commune d'où sortent des marmonnements.

A l'intérieur du bâtiment, une silhouette accompagnée du tintement de bouteilles entre elles travaille au-dessus d'un chaudron. Un alchimiste dégingandé portant un masque d'argent avec une unique larme d'or au coin de l’œil droit. Ses murmures et exclamations sont tout à fait compréhensibles et Orvasa ne tarde pas à faire signe à ses compagnons de le rejoindre. C'est ainsi que les quatre héros font connaissance avec Gaël, un alchimiste étégaste qui avoue être là depuis longtemps... et la conversation n'a pas besoin de s'éterniser pour comprendre qu'il a vécu ici plus d'une centaine d'hiver. Il a vu les cerfs aux bois d'argent disparaître et s'inquiète de savoir si le groupe a vu des corbeaux. Incapable de rester en place, Gaël explique qu'il a perdu son reflet et qu'il met au point une potion pour le regagner et ainsi pouvoir sortir des Limbes par la porte qui se trouve loin.

Avides de comprendre un peu mieux le monde qui les entoure, les membres du groupe le questionne. Les Limbes ne sont pas stables, seuls quelques lieux restent vraiment à l'endroit où ils sont, explique péniblement Gaël. Au fil des générations qu'il a vu se succéder, il a mis au point des philtres et potions pour se guider. Il apprend aux héros qu'une caravane passe souvent par le village avec des tonneaux chargés d'une substance argentée visqueuse. Si lui n'a aucune idée de ce dont il s'agit, ses visiteurs savent très bien que c'est le sang des cerfs... Par contre, pourquoi Téothos en a-t-il besoin ? Cela reste un mystère.

Après une longue conversation, les héros décident de se reposer ici. Après tout, ils souhaitent attendre le passage de la caravane et la fatigue se fait sentir. Le "lendemain" - ce qui est difficile à jauger sans le soleil - une lumière rose baigne toute la rue et Orvasa voit dans le ciel dégagé une étoile filante... qui grossit à vue d’œil et va s'écraser pas très loin du village. Les murs et les vitres tremblent, les trois autres aventurières se réveillent. Une courte discussion avec Gaël suffit pour savoir que cette étoile filante est constituée d'un métal intéressant. Le groupe se met donc à sa recherche et revient avec une quantité suffisante pour Gaël et ses expériences, mais aussi pour forger eux-mêmes de l'équipement. Andhiir se met au travail, poussée par son instinct, elle active la forge et utilise les bons outils, et si ses premiers essais sont peu concluants, elle finit par créer une lame de toute beauté pour Orvasa.

#jeu de rôle #jdr #fantasy #rpg #d&d #d&d homebrew

[fuze-forge]

Téléchargez House Flipper sur Fuze Forge

Renouvelez des maisons et devenez un pro de la rénovation avec le jeu à télécharger House Flipper sur Fuze Forge. Transformez des demeures tout en vous amusant !

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[ashwinderslegacy]

Hameau de Irondale, région de POUDLARD.

Initialement, Irondale était un bourg vide, qui avaient abrité des moldus dans les temps anciens avant que la maladie et la vieillesse ne vide totalement le hameau. A l'abandon pendant une décennie, il fut réhabilité par des gobelins qui exploitèrent allégrement la mine qu'ils venaient d'y découvrir. Débordant de ressources, ils creusèrent pendant des années avant que l'avidité des sorciers ne les chasse de leurs demeures. Aujourd'hui, les maisons ont éclos alentours et les sorciers possédant mine et forges sont devenus riches. Mais ils creusèrent trop profondément, réveillant un mal qui hibernait.

Si le paysage entourant le hameau aurait pu être séduisant, entre la campagne s'étalant au bas d'un chemin sinueux et les pics rocheux surplombant les maisonnées, il était de plus en plus difficile pour les sorciers de se sentir à l'aise à Irondale. Les maisons ayant poussé autour de l'entrée de la mine, l'activité minière entretenait largement le hameau, produisant bijoux, armes et autres babioles de fer largement revendus par les marchands itinérants. Mais les chuchotements avaient commencé, d'abord surpris, puis inquiets et à présent, les autorités locales avaient dû instaurer un couvre-feu. Des hurlements remontaient des mines, la nuit, mettant en pause son activité profonde et inquiétant considérablement les parents, soucieux de ne pas voir leurs enfants jouer à la lisière de la mine. Monstre? Créature fantastique mythique ? Personne ne le sait, pour le moment..

En contrebas du hameau, et très prisé par les enfants et amoureux désirant convoler en secret, un pont s'élève au dessus d'un ruisseau courant entre les rochers avant de se jeter dans une rivière plus importante. C'est le pont aux fées, réputé pour sa capacité à réaliser les vœux et à cristalliser l'amour qui est déclaré sur ses pierres. Il est dit qu'au plus clair des nuits de pleine lune, des fées viennent en éclairer les promesses d'amour et vœux pieux.

https://discord.gg/XKycdMPu3Y

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