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d a h l i a x b e d a c h o l l i
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t h e x d e a l m a k e r
#C48495 || Outfit || Location
#C48495 || Outfit || Location
"You look absolutely ravishing, bella donna," Roman complimented her as his lips found their place tentatively upon Dahlia's knuckles. Most women might fawn over him for such expression of praise coming from a man such as he. However, she knew that she was ravishing already because he had uttered such words before. The more traditional Witch was inclined to say nothing, as it was duty to be appeasing.
When his lips fled her knuckles, she hooked her arm through his, her fingers gently grasping his bicep. They were not each other's keepers, but she could not see her accompanying anyone else to the Desecrated Church. No other Warlock would touch her, and she was neither a friend nor acquaintance to many of her own Witch peers. Roman was not the last resort, of course. He'd always be her first choice regardless of her popularity among the rest of the coven. She didn't still understand what he wanted of her, but she believed that he would bend the knee to the old ways when his name was signed in the Book of the Beast.
Is it an awful thing to hope for that? She wondered this as their steps carried them quietly down the corridors of the Academy. Some Witches and Warlocks change in certain ways after signing their names. The woman's deep chestnut gaze sought him sidelong for only the most fleeting of seconds, a small smile gracing naturally dark rosy lips devoid of other false shades for this special night. She watched the array of expressions that venture across his features and even those that might not. During one brief second, the long crimson nails of another hand stroked quietly at his wrist. Then it all fell away; her fingers, her curious and hopeful eyes. She kept hold of him, of course, until they were at the threshold of the Desecrated Church.
Dahlia released Roman entirely so as to not seem attached to him by others. She wouldn't want to give off any wrong impression, and the man had a reputation to keep. She walked with him, however, her pace keeping in line with his. She'd not speak out of turn, so she stayed in the realm of silence until words were directed to her.
"Roman Black, punctual as always," addressed the Warlock first, of which she had no qualms with. Her hands fell in front of her at the lap of her dress, one folding over the other. Dahlia did not pick up on many social ques, and she didn't care for whatever drama took place at the Academy. Father Proctor, however, was a handsome man to place eyes on. Not that she'd give him some sort of leering gaze while at Roman's side, nor would she ever.
The two men exchange their pleasantries - or the lack thereof - before the High Priest brings Dahlia's knuckles up for a kiss, "We will beginning at sundown. Until then, feel free to mingle. Although Ms. Bedacholli will not be able to accompany you during the ceremony." "Certo, Padre Proctor," she spoke in her native tongue, as it came more easily. Just as swiftly as the Italian words departed, as did the High Priest, and she watched him leave as Roman's mother stepped toward them to impart some last words on her son before his momentous occasion.
"Roman, my love. You look so handsome. I cannot believe the day has finally come," she praised him, complimenting it all with those loving and proud maternal kisses on his cheeks. "I agree. His looks must come from mother," she replies with an obligatory smile. "Dahlia, darling, you look beautiful," came a slightly more unexpected line from Vanessa Black. Surprising because Herbalism was not her best course by any means. Maybe the woman was just being kind, just as Dahlia was. "Grazie, signorina Black," Dahlia thanks her.
She turned her body toward Roman, but is also careful as to not intrude upon his mother's space. After she rolled to the tips of her toes, she placed a departing kiss on the side of his mouth while grasping at him for a little leverage. She whispered something quietly in his ear, "We celebrate later, hmm? Find me." Then she pulled away from him and stepped backward a couple of times before turning around to find a pew to place herself on. She was going to give him and his mother a bit of privacy before the flood of Warlocks and Witches began to fill the space, and he was the social sort. Dahlia was not. He attracted people to him, and she wanted to keep most of them away. It was just for the best.
Her attention all but slipped away; the mother and son interaction melting into the background as her thoughts venture to other places.
When his lips fled her knuckles, she hooked her arm through his, her fingers gently grasping his bicep. They were not each other's keepers, but she could not see her accompanying anyone else to the Desecrated Church. No other Warlock would touch her, and she was neither a friend nor acquaintance to many of her own Witch peers. Roman was not the last resort, of course. He'd always be her first choice regardless of her popularity among the rest of the coven. She didn't still understand what he wanted of her, but she believed that he would bend the knee to the old ways when his name was signed in the Book of the Beast.
Is it an awful thing to hope for that? She wondered this as their steps carried them quietly down the corridors of the Academy. Some Witches and Warlocks change in certain ways after signing their names. The woman's deep chestnut gaze sought him sidelong for only the most fleeting of seconds, a small smile gracing naturally dark rosy lips devoid of other false shades for this special night. She watched the array of expressions that venture across his features and even those that might not. During one brief second, the long crimson nails of another hand stroked quietly at his wrist. Then it all fell away; her fingers, her curious and hopeful eyes. She kept hold of him, of course, until they were at the threshold of the Desecrated Church.
Dahlia released Roman entirely so as to not seem attached to him by others. She wouldn't want to give off any wrong impression, and the man had a reputation to keep. She walked with him, however, her pace keeping in line with his. She'd not speak out of turn, so she stayed in the realm of silence until words were directed to her.
"Roman Black, punctual as always," addressed the Warlock first, of which she had no qualms with. Her hands fell in front of her at the lap of her dress, one folding over the other. Dahlia did not pick up on many social ques, and she didn't care for whatever drama took place at the Academy. Father Proctor, however, was a handsome man to place eyes on. Not that she'd give him some sort of leering gaze while at Roman's side, nor would she ever.
The two men exchange their pleasantries - or the lack thereof - before the High Priest brings Dahlia's knuckles up for a kiss, "We will beginning at sundown. Until then, feel free to mingle. Although Ms. Bedacholli will not be able to accompany you during the ceremony." "Certo, Padre Proctor," she spoke in her native tongue, as it came more easily. Just as swiftly as the Italian words departed, as did the High Priest, and she watched him leave as Roman's mother stepped toward them to impart some last words on her son before his momentous occasion.
"Roman, my love. You look so handsome. I cannot believe the day has finally come," she praised him, complimenting it all with those loving and proud maternal kisses on his cheeks. "I agree. His looks must come from mother," she replies with an obligatory smile. "Dahlia, darling, you look beautiful," came a slightly more unexpected line from Vanessa Black. Surprising because Herbalism was not her best course by any means. Maybe the woman was just being kind, just as Dahlia was. "Grazie, signorina Black," Dahlia thanks her.
She turned her body toward Roman, but is also careful as to not intrude upon his mother's space. After she rolled to the tips of her toes, she placed a departing kiss on the side of his mouth while grasping at him for a little leverage. She whispered something quietly in his ear, "We celebrate later, hmm? Find me." Then she pulled away from him and stepped backward a couple of times before turning around to find a pew to place herself on. She was going to give him and his mother a bit of privacy before the flood of Warlocks and Witches began to fill the space, and he was the social sort. Dahlia was not. He attracted people to him, and she wanted to keep most of them away. It was just for the best.
Her attention all but slipped away; the mother and son interaction melting into the background as her thoughts venture to other places.
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j o h n x i t o
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t h e x h e r e t i c
#87975C || Outfit || His Room
#87975C || Outfit || His Room
Dorian was excellent company. In fact, he was the only company that John could stand for more than five minutes. There was one other, but that was a complicated matter. The loneliness of the the Gray Room was welcome because that meant that the two of them could relax without the threat of other Witches and Warlocks breathing down their necks. Many were happy for this day - they had waited for it all their lives, but there was a sense of dread here so thick that it could choke the air out of this room.
As Dorian helped himself to the bar and poured the glasses, John placed himself on a stool. His own tremorous fingers reached for the glass set for him, and they clinked glasses. They both must have locked eyes for a moment. They both wanted to say something to each other, but neither could summon the words that either of them needed to hear. John pulled his shot glass up to his lips, kicked his head back, and let the burning liquid slide hotly down his throat. After Dorian refilled his own, John soon followed and poured himself another. He'd have said something about Dorian's little spill, but honestly - they were both feeling the same anxiety for two different reasons.
"Are you sure you can go through with this?" The question jolted John as the shot glass was pressed to his lips as though the current thought was: should he be drinking? It wasn't a new inquiry, honestly. Not or him. He asked himself this same question so many times that he had lost track of what his answers were. He lost count of all the reasons not to go through with it, or to do so. He forgot how many times he asked God for answers, and then could not conjure the last time he felt his Faith could help him. It was so simple. Wasn't it? He could sign it. He could not sign it. He could choose to do so many things, but this would come back over and over again. He didn't want to give up certain things that he has become used to. If he were honest with himself, God left him a while ago. If He was even there to begin with.
He didn't answer just yet, instead, he finally proceeded to tackle his drink in one swoop. "I can cover for you," Dorian offers.
Broad shoulders rise and fall to the slow cadence of a long, drawn-out and defeated sigh. John's eyes lock with his and he offers up a weak smile and a gentle chuckle. "I'll sign the Book," he relents, but he doesn't sound happy about it. He had hoped for a different path. The one that his parents took. The one that got them both killed. "I haven't come up with a Baptismal name yet, though. Maybe it will come to me when I get there."
He reached for the bottle of Absinthe, offering to pour Dorian's right after his own. "How about you, Dorian? Do you need me to cover for you?" Since they were both talking about conspiring to somehow beat this rite of passage. He leans forward toward him, a forearm sliding along the counter. His head tilts a bit and he traps his friend's gaze with his own. You know, he never really asked what the deal was with his own obvious nerves. They, up to this point, never pried into each other's personal lives. They had glimpses, maybe, of certain things but they never asked too many questions. "What has your nerves rattled? I know we don't typically... share these things, but if we can't escape signing the book, we will still be there to help each other. You can trust me, Dorian. I am the last person to judge anyone here for anything, I think."
That was all, and there didn't seem to be any pressure to entertain his inquiry. There was only a genuine wish to know, at the very least, about what troubles him. John's own conundrum was not so hard to notice if one was astute enough, but he could not pin down Dorian's own source of hesitation.
As Dorian helped himself to the bar and poured the glasses, John placed himself on a stool. His own tremorous fingers reached for the glass set for him, and they clinked glasses. They both must have locked eyes for a moment. They both wanted to say something to each other, but neither could summon the words that either of them needed to hear. John pulled his shot glass up to his lips, kicked his head back, and let the burning liquid slide hotly down his throat. After Dorian refilled his own, John soon followed and poured himself another. He'd have said something about Dorian's little spill, but honestly - they were both feeling the same anxiety for two different reasons.
"Are you sure you can go through with this?" The question jolted John as the shot glass was pressed to his lips as though the current thought was: should he be drinking? It wasn't a new inquiry, honestly. Not or him. He asked himself this same question so many times that he had lost track of what his answers were. He lost count of all the reasons not to go through with it, or to do so. He forgot how many times he asked God for answers, and then could not conjure the last time he felt his Faith could help him. It was so simple. Wasn't it? He could sign it. He could not sign it. He could choose to do so many things, but this would come back over and over again. He didn't want to give up certain things that he has become used to. If he were honest with himself, God left him a while ago. If He was even there to begin with.
He didn't answer just yet, instead, he finally proceeded to tackle his drink in one swoop. "I can cover for you," Dorian offers.
Broad shoulders rise and fall to the slow cadence of a long, drawn-out and defeated sigh. John's eyes lock with his and he offers up a weak smile and a gentle chuckle. "I'll sign the Book," he relents, but he doesn't sound happy about it. He had hoped for a different path. The one that his parents took. The one that got them both killed. "I haven't come up with a Baptismal name yet, though. Maybe it will come to me when I get there."
He reached for the bottle of Absinthe, offering to pour Dorian's right after his own. "How about you, Dorian? Do you need me to cover for you?" Since they were both talking about conspiring to somehow beat this rite of passage. He leans forward toward him, a forearm sliding along the counter. His head tilts a bit and he traps his friend's gaze with his own. You know, he never really asked what the deal was with his own obvious nerves. They, up to this point, never pried into each other's personal lives. They had glimpses, maybe, of certain things but they never asked too many questions. "What has your nerves rattled? I know we don't typically... share these things, but if we can't escape signing the book, we will still be there to help each other. You can trust me, Dorian. I am the last person to judge anyone here for anything, I think."
That was all, and there didn't seem to be any pressure to entertain his inquiry. There was only a genuine wish to know, at the very least, about what troubles him. John's own conundrum was not so hard to notice if one was astute enough, but he could not pin down Dorian's own source of hesitation.