stormaktstiden | A novel about werewolves, vampires, and probably a few others

A novel about werewolves, vampires, and probably a few others

The Parasol Protectorate Universe meme

Where?
1. Canon. Home sweet home, and all that.
2. AU. For example coffeeshop, an existing RP's setting, or an alternate timeline.
3. Jamjar. What if they were in a generic jamjar, a specific jamjar, or a made-up jamjar?
4. Wildcard.

What?
1. Insomnia. It's cold, you have nightmares, someone dumped a preternatural mummy on you - for whatever reason, you can't seem to fall asleep. And as we all know, misery loves company.
2. Hurt/Comfort. Someone got hurt. Maybe both of you got hurt. And now it's time to take care of those injuries, be they of the physical or the mental variety.
3. Rain. It's raining, and you are stuck inside, or stuck outside, or maybe you just got a reminder of just how badly wet wolf smells... Or maybe it isn't rain. Maybe it's snow.
4. Taking a bath (together). Did you want to do this together, or are they intruding? Is the bath nice? Or maybe you are in a lot less savoury waters - we heard the Thames is rather muddy at this time of the year, and the ocean is rather cold. Are you in there of your own free will, even?
5. Tea. Maybe you're drinking it, maybe you're fighting over it, or maybe you're bitching about how it was prepared. Maybe you (*gasp*) prefer coffee?
6. Courting. Believe us, we are great at this.
7. Friendship is the best ship. Helping, teasing, sharing, fighting - many things can be done between friends.
8. Immortality. Want it? Hate it? Either way you just have to opine on it right now.
9. Welcome home. Or are you actually welcome? How long has it been? Or maybe this just your regular excuse to enjoy (married) life...
10. Fashion. Or the absence of it.
11. Wildcard.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Oh, no, no, no, this simply will not do." Akeldama sweeps on Lord Maccon as he exits what Akeldama will probably forever think of as his third best wardrobe (after all, this is only a temporary arrangement). "My Lord, please tell me which of my dearest boys it was who had a hand in your dressing. Why, look at your cravat! It's positively askew!" And without so much of an apology or a pardon me, he applies himself to said cravat, straightening it with pale, cold, (dead) fingers.

"And really, the tartan waistcoat with that jacket?" He tsks his tongue as he works, apparently not concerned that he's so close to the werewolf. After all, propriety is one thing, but when you are in a three way parenting situation, and said werewolf is living in your closet, rules go out the window. What if Prudence saw him in such a state? Akeldama couldn't live with himself. "I'm surprised my darling cornflower didn't swoon at such a sight." Said cornflower, of course, being Lord Maccon's wife.

"I can dress myself," he responds irritably, and only doesn't bat the vampire's hand away because there really is no point. This arrangement has lasted for long enough now that he knows with certainty that he won't be able to get on with anything, including leaving Akeldama's house, before at the very least his cravat has been fixed.

"And my Alexia doesn't swoon. You're thinking of your drones, here." Really, though. To the best of his knowledge, his wife's constitution is way better than that. It takes something as serious as a pregnancy to get her even close to swooning. And he would know if she was pregnant again, he does learn.

Akeldama quirks an eyebrow, but doesn't feel like the very idea of Conall being able to dress himself deserves answering. Very clearly he can't, and this should be all the evidence that he needs. What an absolute state! It's positively indecent.

"Should she see you in this little get up, my dear, I rather think that she might start. Really!" But he finishes straightening the cravat and with a straightening tug of Conall's jacket, takes a step back, and at least somewhat out of his personal space. It might be fun to annoy him, and Akeldama might be more used to his (and the other werewolfs') presence than before, but there's only so long he can get up and personal with them. "And you'll clash dreadfully with our dear little button."

Edited 2018-03-10 07:14 (UTC)

Conall has learned to stay calm (well, as calm as he ever is) when Akeldama gets all up and close with him to fix his wardrobe, but that doesn't mean that his hackles don't rise at the smell of old, dead blood up so close. Still, it's grown almost normal, and so it does nothing than make him even grumpier.

"I will not be seen at her side in public today, so there is hardly any reason to," and here comes the most irritably exasperated tone, "colour coordinate with her."

He loves his daughter, but political arrangements do cause them to rarely appear together in public, and even without any Prudence-related coordination enough of his wardrobe has been disappearing, only to be replaced by something Akeldama's household would approve of more. After some attempts at protesting, he has decided that that has to be his sacrifice to the situation - but he's drawing a line at his tartans, and after the first time someone tried, they mysteriously reappeared and never went missing again.

At least Conall could acquire some nicer tartans. After all, some are perfectly lovely, but that horrid one that the dares to claim as his own - Akeldama simply shudders to think of it.

"Ah, you have not planned to, but who knows what the night shall bring?" Akeldama points out. "A gentleman should be prepared for all situations." If hard pressed, Akeldama might just admit that most gentlemen probably wouldn't be prepared for such situations, but that they should.

"Biffy, my sweet?" Akeldama's voice caries from the parlour, sugar sweet. He has been waiting for his drone's return, for multiple reasons, not least knowing that he carries important information.

The vampire is seated in his best chair, decked out in a beautiful purple and rose suit, his cravat pin a twinkling white diamond, and for once the dusting of pink on his cheeks is caused not by rouge, but by blood. What he wouldn't give to see Queen Nadasdy in such a state (although, obviously, not half as fabulous), but he will not risk leaving his home tonight.

"Come and take tea with me and tell me of all the wondrous going ons of London tonight." He pats the chair next to him, smiling a smile that no longer contains delicate fangs. Tea has been laid out in front of him, a saucer of cream already provided for Madame Pudgemuffin.

Moments later, Biffy entered the parlour, having already taken his hat and coat off and straightened out any crinkle that the evening's investigations had caused his jacket or waistcoat distress with. He can't do much about the smell, but luckily the general airing that the walk back to his master's house constituted as has removed most of it. A werewolf would still be able to tell, or someone stepping very close, but at least the former is not really a worry right now.

Which, surprising to say for someone like him, is indeed a worry.

Not because of the werewolves, of course, but it leaves the vampires in quite a pickle, too. A very rosy pickle. It is strange to see his master like this, as well dressed and manicured as ever and yet...

Only humanely beautiful, the supernatural beauty gone. Mortal. If someone decided to attack the supernatural element of London this night... He shoves the thought away. Unlikely; even with them less capable of defending themselves than normal, they are not without protection. Both private and public.

And he knows Lord Akeldama well enough to know that his master will breach the topic should he wish to. And that it must frighten him a lot, enough that Biffy does not wish to cause more upset and thus will not address it unless his master explicitly wishes him to do so.

So instead, he echoes his master's smile as he sits down, all mischievous gossip in his posture. "Oh, you would not believe what I saw just outside the Pickled Crumpet." With any other man of breeding or rank (or both), he would describe the area rather than name the pub in question, for no man of any standing would be found dead there.

Well, some roves could be found there, but that did not strictly contradict that statement.

Breaching protocol, as he often does privately amongst his favourites, Akeldama leans forward and pours the tea for Biffy. There is cake on the tray as well, though the plates are stacked beside it unused. Despite being human for now, some habits die hard, and while he might take some in company, it's mostly there for the look of the thing, and for his drones. He would never serve that though, knowing that his darling drones simply must keep an eye on their weight, and if he served it for them they would just have to eat it, and that wouldn't do.

Sitting back with his own cup again, he settles down for some good gossip. "Oh, tell me darling, do! Who has been such a naughty little thing as to be caught down there?"

Biffy's eyes twinkle as he picks up the tea with a nod of thanks, knowing that his master's enjoyment of all of this will be far greater if he does not give up all the information at once and lets Akeldama figure out some of it himself.

"Oh, I do not believe that he expected to be caught, skulking through the back alleys as quietly as he could." He takes a sip and then drops a hint that is almost a complete information, his eyebrows rising in an expression of mock indignation. "In all his glory, which, I can confirm, is quite substantial."

"Oh goodness~" Akeldama plays along quite happily, covering his mouth with his hand. "Tell me not that you found a gentleman caught short. And by the Pickled Crumpet, no less!" He pulls a fan from his waistcoat pocket, snaps it open, and flutters it by his face as though flustered, all in one elegant, smooth movement.

[Does 1-3 sound good to you?]

[Yup, fine by me!]

If you asked her what the single worst thing about Britain was, she wouldn't answer the rain. She is not that pissed off by the rain. Scientists and certain aspects of British law and politics are significantly worse.

Still, the rain would be a very good candidate if there were no grievances that threaten her very life and freedom. Especially when the constant drizzle that has been coming down ever since the arrived in London has suddenly turned into a torrent of water doing its best impression of the ocean dropping solidly on the country.

And she's stuck in the middle of nowhere. Just after sunrise (okay, maybe the rain has an advantage, it keeps the sun covered. She's only very begrudgingly granting it that). Naked. How did she-

...Ah. That's why. It was that time of the month, wasn't it? Ack.

Why does every part of this country look the same... She stops, as she steps out into a ...garden? And look, more water. This time in form of a lake. And a little makeshift house. She can't see much further in any direction, the rain falling so thickly that it really limits any kind of sense that she has, including sight. But there's a house-type-thing, and maybe she can get at least directions from them...

So she wanders through the garden, careful to not step on anything that looks like it's supposed to grow, and then knocks at the door.

The door is not locked, and if she doesn't feel like waiting she can walk in. Genevieve pretty much lives in her hat shop/contrivance chamber, but it does take her a moment to hear the knock.

If she can't wait, she'll walk into a vast display of hats, most beautiful and elegant (and one really ugly yellow one in the corner), displayed artfully throughout the place. If she can, she'll see it as the background to a very pretty young woman, who is currently very much not dressed like a woman, but still quite fashionably decked out in men's trousers and jacket and her hair cropped quite short.

The proprietor takes in the wet woman on her doorstep, a somewhat lingering gaze moving over her current... state of dress. "Well," she says, cheeks dimpling, "I can guess what your trouble is." She moves aside, allowing the woman into the shop.

It's the morning after the night of the full moon. An top of that, it is summer and the sun rises early, so everyone (well, except for house staff, bakers, delivery persons, and other necessities in the background) only rolls out of their beds a good while after it has first peeked over the horizon.

Which is why Lefoux's hat shop will be lying quiet and bare of costumers until after noon and she only enters it as the sun has already climbed up high enough to send some rays down into the streets, filtering through the tall windows at the front.

...The first thing that she will notice is that one of said windows isn't quite in one piece any more. Something heavy must have smashed into it - unfortunate but not all that surprising, considering the heavy rain and stormy weather the night before. The area behind the broken window is, predictably, drenched, and water has soaked into the fallen flowers and ribbons, straw and cloth and felt and other materials on the ground.

Because stepping inside the shop, the window isn't the only thing that has suffered some damage. The whole shop has been... not savaged. That's wrong. Whatever happened to the shop, it wasn't mindless violence. Yes, there are claw marks on a wall, but it's in a very isolated spot of perhaps five feet high and three feet wide. Some things that sat on the counter have been knocked off it.

But the room, as it stands, is mostly in one piece. None of the cabinets or secret doors have been touched, either.

What has suffered are the hats that were dangling down from the chains. They have been batted around, torn into and ripped apart, and two or three of the chains have come loose where they are screwed into the ceiling.

There also is a soft sound of deep, regular breaths coming from the direction of the counter, and if she goes to inquire she'll find a very pretty, very asleep and very naked woman curled up underneath it, wedged in between a box of refreshments and some hat boxes.

Edited 2018-03-08 10:20 (UTC)

Merde, there are some things Genevieve really dislikes about the supernatural sect. Mostly when they get it in their heads to destroy beautiful pieces of technology, or... beautiful hats, in this case.

She moves through her store, tsking unhappily at the broken window and several destroyed hats (what a waste!) as she moves to behind the counter, looking down at the sleeping woman. Sleeping werewolf, if she were to make her guess. "I suppose it is good you've gotten out of the sun..." she says, more to herself than the woman who is almost certainly not listening. With a sigh, she drapes her jacket over the woman and gets a passerby to fetch someone to fix the window her, beginning to clean up and see if any of her poor hats can be salvaged. It is probably best to leave sleeping wolves lie...

Tasherit is, in fact, out cold and will sleep for a good while longer. But eventually, the window being fixed and general clean-up will cause enough of a ruckus to make her blink awake, raising her head lazily to peer out from where she's curled up.

Daylight folk and their propensity for causing noise so close to noon... She yawns and sits with the natural grace inherent to her kind, careful to stay out of the sunlight while also not hitting her head as she scoots out from under the counter and stretches. Ugh, she feels sore. ...And she has no idea where she is. Both of which is not entirely unexpected, but still incommodious.

At least she had the good sense to get inside while in the thrall of the moon. ...Or maybe that was just the rain working in her favour.

She looks around, trying to see if she can spot a better way to sleep. And perhaps something to cover herself with... The jacket someone has helpfully provided her with is better than nothing, but it's not exactly fully covering.

She whistles in surprise when she puts it on and notices that it almost fits - much better than it should, considering that it is a men's style. But cut for a woman? She runs her fingers along the sides of her chest and yes, there are the tell-tale seams that speak of breasts having been factored in.

Curious. And that curiosity is, in the end, what makes her poke her head around the counter, squint her almond eyes against the sunlight, and cast a glance around to see if she can spot the original owner.

Genevieve is in the middle of directly the workers to fix her window, her short hair and masculine clothes not doing anything to obscure the silhouette of a distinctly womanly figure. Once she feels like they have well enough in hand, she turns to collect the ruined hats and spots the young woman peeking out from behind her counter. "Ah, I see you're awake," she says, giving the woman a dimpled smile, "You must have had an interesting night. Unfortunately, you made a bit of a wreck of my shop."

A woman in male clothing, in this part of the world? Interesting.

And also, she has to say, very good looking. This kind of figure hugging clothes really brings forward how muscular she is, and the easy command with which she instructs the workers isn't unattractive, either.

So when Genevieve turns around and seems neither angry nor scared (and what a beautiful smile), who can fault her for flirting away?

First things first, though, and she starts sincerely:"My apologies."

The severity vanishes when she stands, though, the smooth, elegant motion of a predator, and she gives the mortal woman brilliant smile, completely ignoring the workers in the background who stop to stare at the dark-skinned woman only wearing a jacket. "Had I known about this place's owner, surely I would have chosen the window of the next shop over.

Genevieve's eyebrows arch, but if the smile on her lips is any indication then it's surprise approval more than anything. "C'est la vie. My window will recover, though my hats less so. Still, otherwise I can't imagine how we would have been made acquaintances."

She ducks into a polite bow with a flourish. "Genevieve Lefoux, at your service. And you are...?"

"And what a pity that would have been." The men behind Genevieve, who are caught somewhere between openly staring and trying to ignore that there is a naked woman standing at the other end of the room, go completely ignored. Some things just become more or less background static after a few decades.

She tips her head in response, but doesn't quite return the greeting in full. Normally, she would not give her real name, but it is not like anyone would recognize it here, anyway, and she is rather intrigued by this woman... "Tasherit, at yours."

Genevieve gives her another winning smile. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Tasherit. Should I be contacting anyone in particular to let them know where you've found yourself?" She doesn't look like one of Woolsey's, but it's always possible they've got a new pup and she's just out of the loop.

Ivy is wringing her hands. Or more accurately, she is fiddling with her bracelet, tugging at her sleeves, and generally projecting the very picture of delicate worry. Or something like delicate. Maybe not that delicate. She thinks it's delicate. It's definitely clear.

Every once in a while, she glances towards the door that leads to the staff-only areas of the Hive, but it isn't the intermittent sound of a raised voice that has her worried. In fact, it's not even strictly the health and safety inspector and/or the bar's co-owner who have been fighting in the backoffice for a while now that are putting her in a state.

It is whom the inspector didn't bring with him when he arrived.

"Maybe he has fallen ill," she says nervously to nobody specific, though as there is only one person really close enough by to be counted as an audience, it's not entirely undirected, glancing towards the door as if "he" might step through it any moment, "but he wasn't here the last time the inspector came, either - maybe he has had an accident! Oh no, that poor young man, what if he is in hospital and I do not even know about it, I should send him a card - but perhaps that would be too much, but what if he is lonely, and hospitals have such terrible food, I should send some food as well, and perhaps a good book, he said he was fond of-" she pauses, and then shakes her head in despair, "oh, how terrible, what if he is in a coma?"

Edited 2018-03-05 22:31 (UTC)

Alexander watches Ivy fuss in fond desperation. He's seen enough of their awkward interactions (and heard enough of the rest) to know exactly what's going on here. And really, if she continues tugging at her sleeves like that, she'll pull the fabric, and that will just be a disaster.

"My dearest plum blossom, I really do not think that you need concern yourself. He is, after all, a very robust young man, and I do think Mr Maccon would mention the loss of such an able assistant. Perhaps he merely has other duties that snatch his attention?" It's cruel to tease, but he's watched Ivy flap around the poor lad for too long.

"I doubt that Mr Maccon would mention anyone that is not Alexia on his visits here," she disagrees, affecting a tone of censure despite the worry that she projected moments ago - only to return to the worried fidgeting seconds later.

"What duties could there be that could keep poor Tunny from Mr Maccon's side? No, I fear he has truly fallen ill..."

....Actually, she has a point there. Mr Maccon does have a rather one track mind, much to Alexander's amusement. "Sweetling, both you and I know that Mr Maccon is the cause of paperwork in other people, and your lovely Tunny rather catches the worst of it. It could simply be that he's caught up behind his desk, and simply doesn't have the time to go galavanting about after our raucous Mr Maccon.

But, orange blossom, why not simply ask after him? Surely by now he has provided you with his number?" Alexander's grin can only be described as shit eating. He'll eat his hat if they've managed to exchange more words than mumbled niceties so far. It's mean to tease, but oh, oh so fun.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

A novel about werewolves, vampires, and probably a few others

Conall Maccon | ota

1 / 10 sometime during Prudence's youth

that looks like he's rating Conall's fashion skills

Are you implying that he isn't

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Ivy | ota

Biffy | ota

You know the setting shh

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Major Channing Channing of the Chesterfield Channings | no romance/smut, ota everything else

Genevieve Lefoux | ota

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Akeldama | OTA

2 (you know the one) - very liberally interpreted 2

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