Atlantic Roleplay Community Boards

[Cezanne Abella]

---

"All I know is something like a bird within her sang." ~Robert Hunter, "Bird Song" (Grateful Dead)

~*~

Cezanne shuddered and paused in the warm candlelit haze of Umbran night, nearly dropping the chamberstick she carried. Weeks had passed since the apothecary’s elixir had last blessed her tongue, but still, at times, she could nearly taste it. She closed her eyes, pressing her tongue against the roof of her mouth – an attempt to catch the bitter flavour before it could fade away. How she ached for just one more mouthful. How she trembled in the night for want of its soothing affects. And how she wanted free of the spell it still had over her, despite the weeks that locked the distance between her and her addiction.

And then it was gone again.

Althea snaked between her feet, rubbing against her ankles before becoming distracted by a new upshoot of hyacinth that the kitten seemed certain was not there just this morning. The black fluffball gave the cluster of buds a swift swat and trotted off with a trill more akin to birdsong than feline utterance. The sun had set hours ago, but Cezanne had been lured in by the campfire’s inviting warmth and light, and sat late into the night, her quill giving voice to her thoughts as she filled page after page with ink and hope.

At last, Cezanne had finished securing the camp and returned to her room in the theatre. The warm creak of the wooden stairs, and the familiar scuff of her soft-soled shoes on the hardwood floors always somehow brought comfort to her. She set her candle down on the dressing table in front of the mirror and loosed her dark curls, allowing them to spill down over her shoulders at will. She had thought to reach up and remove her earrings before bed, but as she did, the fiery stones caught the candlelight and flashed azure fire in the mirror’s reflection. Instead, she found herself again admiring the craftsmanship of the spiraled white gold serpents and the blue diamonds they clutched in their fangs. She smiled warmly and stood, removing her crimson dressing robe for bed.

As Cezanne slid beneath the blankets of the bed, Althea jumped into the windowsill – a black silhouette watching the moons race toward the pinnacle of the heavens. As comforting as the quiet of the theatre was, it resonated some great longing from within as she lay in bed wondering what emptiness ached at her center. She listened intently to the distant, plaintive cry of the mockingbird. A settling groan in the rafters of the theatre echoed her melancholy.

Images of the Bramble Rose Theatre, bustling with patrons – artistry and song filling the stage – flitted through her mind. Fire rekindling within her, Cezanne sat up in bed, startling the kitten from her nightsong reverie. A theatre is meant to be filled with song and story and light. And so am I. Perhaps it’s time we each saw our purpose fulfilled!

She lay back and settled again into her pillow, plans and posters beginning to formulate in her mind as she listened to the mockingbird’s night song. He cries for dawn, she thought, smiling. Don’t we all?

[Cezanne Abella]

---

“It’s time.” Aurelia’s face beamed, flushed with excitement as she rolled out the parchment with building plans on the stage of the theatre.

“Is it?” Cezanne looked from the plans to Aurelia. Cezanne’s pale green eyes were wide and apprehensive.

“Don’t you think it is?” The countess looked up at Cezanne inquisitively from her hands and knees on the stage as she held the parchment flat. Her lavender skirts spilled around her on the hardwood, and she blew a gossamer strand of blonde hair out of her face.

“I’ve lingered so long in the shadows here, Aurelia...” Cezanne trailed off, placing her hands on her knees and kneeling as her own dark skirts puddled on the stage around her feet. She looked over the plans for a moment, then brightened, looking back at Aurelia. “That’s what the theatre would look like, after?”

“If you like it, Cezanne. I can have the workers start it immediately.” Aurelia’s pale blue gaze looked over the theatre around her, imagining the planned changes. She smiled with an affirmative nod. “I think you’d love it.”

Cezanne leaned over the prints, her dark curls spilling down over her shoulders as she moved her fingertips lightly across the artistic renderings of one building after another on the oversized parchment. Each came to life before her, and Cezanne’s smile spread, slow and genuine, as Aurelia watched her. Finally, she stopped at the picture of the Bramble Rose Theatre, and looked up to the countess.

“It is time, Aurelia.” Then softer, “Thank you.” Cezanne’s cheeks flushed pink with emotion. So much hope lay in these plans. Plans for a future, a life beyond her solitary existence.

The dawn she had so desperately sought. The Dawn of Ashencrosse.