[Log] Bathroom Ettiquette
Posted: Wed Nov 29, 2017 2:26 am
Bathroom Ettiquette
Or, How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love The Roll.
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A red-faced troubadour approaches Farra and bows, practically stumbling over his words, "...Ah, ahem-- excuse me, my Lady, I-- there is something-- could you please go to the baths at the Hollow Globe? There is a-- a problem, my Lady, and I can think of no one appropriate to... sort it." [Message]
An Airy, Tiled Bath
[Steamy and warm]
This airy room is dominated by a single feature: the large bathing pool
set square in its center. The walls are covered in white tile, decorated
near the ground with a colorful mosaic in brilliant greens and blues that
depicts a seaside scene. The floor and the bath itself are constructed of
deep cerulean tiles, speckled with sea creatures both fanciful and real.
Cleverly concealed firepits keep the water mildly warm, whatever the time
of year, and a faint haze of steam seems to hang in the air. A door to the
north leads back into the guildhall proper.
Recently:
(The floor is freshly-polished and exceptionally steaming, preparing a dangerously slippery surface for passing Bards.)
[ Exits: north ] [ Air exits: none ]
Emma ab Courtland has fallen and she can't get up. [P][App: 5]
She appears to be pregnant.
Farra has arrived.
*Click; Click* sound the low square heels of dark burgundy slippers upon the white tile of the Bath at the hollow globe when Farra arrives, in low but irritable discussion with a red-faced troubadour explaining to her: "It's just-- I really should not say more, my lady. It's-- you'll see when you're-- no; oh, Yes please I'll wait outside." And so she seems to share the messenger of ill news just outside, moving into the baths with a stony-faced expression that speaks of building storms and threatening lightning. Pale eyes peek inside, obviously expectant of some kind of joke; and why should she not be, bards being what they are. [Farra]
Not quite sprawled across the tile but neither in a position receptive of visitors, Emma ab Courtland lies upon her back with her red-flushed face turned up toward the ceiling, rolling from side to side in little increments; little increments become slightly wider ones the more desperate she's feeling, and it seems she's feeling pretty desperate by now. The weight of a child-in-the-works rests squarely above her midsection, looking particularly pumpkin-like in her upturned and utterly undignified predicament. The words, "...Oh, please help," are murmured with silvery agitation, though only after the doors have been shut to seal away the eyes of the nameless troubadour.
Farra handily succeeds her charisma check!
Farra fails her dexterity check!
"--What," begins Farra's irritated exclamation, out-of-sight of the rotund, ball-esque build of a baroness's view. The woman's tone is such that the aforementioned terseness can itself be heard melting away in the warm, comfortable steam of the bathing room. "-= Emma?! =-" she exclaims, filled with the awe and concern one might give upon seeing a very pregnant woman sprawled out upon very polished tiles. There is no further pause made, no moment's hesitation as, bravely, the Countess of Hevstina gathers her skirt in one hand and steps forwards, ever the knight-in-shining armor poised to rescue fair damself in distress..
.. and falls herself, the squeaking protest of her slippers upon the slick floor evoking a yelp as she looses her footing, tumbling down onto the tile next to the former merchant. A remarkably foul curse echoes in the confined tilescape, something hissed in Vavardi about three widows and a .. kingfischer? It doesn't bear for repeating. Fortunately, the rather less-plump noblewoman is able to partially catch herself, breathing heavily and ungainfully sliding to Emma ab Courtland's close proximity. [Farra]
In good news for the survival of bards in general, none of them are present to witness the preposterous fates of either Emma ab Courtland or her wayward rescuer. This lack of witnesses contributes, perhaps, to Emma ab Courtland's willingness to loose a pathetically chesty moan that says everything about her mood that words simply couldn't. The sound is a perfect companion to the realization that Farra is not only swearing, squeaking, and sliding across the floor, but that she has toppled into a predicament all her own. Silk-swathed arms pump uselessly into the air alongside the blonde baroness, like by moving them she believes she might gain the momentum to roll over. Nothing of the sort is accomplished. "Lord help us!" is cried out toward the 'heavens' that are currently comprised solely of ceiling, "Lady Farra-- are you alright?" In lieu of rolling, her head turns toward the brunette. Hugely enlarged blue eyes flicker rapidly over her her cohort, no doubt scanning for damage.
A muffled sound comes from the other side of the door -- "You stay out of this, you Arien-faced..." -- but is silenced at a sharp retort by the somewhat less helpless noblelady. It takes some doing, but eventually Farra is able to wriggle, wraggle, slither and squiggle her way to Emma ab Courtland's side. Red-faced from both the exertion and the heavilly-humid climate, the Lady of Hevstina draws herself to a knelt-down position by the child-creating woman. Where an off-shoulder neckline is meant to delicately caress the collarbones it is instead horribly askance, and the burgundy netting atop luxurious brunette hair is all wrong, but the woman herself can only gape, mouth opening and closing with little more than a squeak coming out initially.
But composure returns; the woman gathers herself, sitting up straighter, smoothing the shock and dishelvelemt from her expression. It's an absolutely absurd picture: the noblewoman as expressionless as if she were holding court, sitting on her knees in a spotless white bathroom next to a wiggling round woman supposedly near-equal to the exalted Countess. "My Lady ab Kovar," she says with a small sniff. "Congratulations; I hadn't heard you were expecting again. I don't think I heard you were expecting again. Did, uhm. Did you need my help with something?" [Farra]
"A pay rise for whomever is responsible for polishing the floors," Emma ab Courtland utters with a tone of entirely uncharacteristic dryness, though as soon as the statement has rolled from her tongue she loses whatever edge had inspired it. Her delicate features contort into a final mask of exertion, one hand planting its gloved digits against tile, and with every ounce of strength she possesses she endeavors to push herself at least up onto a hip. It fails. She lies down without further exercise, closing her eyes to allow golden lashes to feather out across her cheekbones. A pair of slow, almost meditative breaths inflate her chest, are held for several seconds, and released across a similarly extended span of time. "My Lady, if you would be so kind as to offer me a hand," the less damp of her two digits lifts up, tiny fingers relaxed and bent, "I would be much obliged for whatever aid you might be provide, to the end of getting me up off the floor." While her tone is calm and her face granted an air of calm so excessive it must be forced, when she opens her eyes they betray a far too obvious distress.
Farra fails her dexterity check!
"Someone is attempting to impress Madame dul Valencia, I expect. Or took the Seneschal's mentions of an improved infrastructure too-well to heart and not too-well to place." Watching Emma ab Courtland there on the floor, Farra is finally unable to entirely keep up the charade. A small siggle escapes from between tightly-closed lips as the warm amber segments of her eyes radiate a delight of the absurdity, acknowledged further by the titter to her shoulders indicative of a feircely-repressed bit of laughter. Not entirely heartless, the Countess places a hand on the floor, pushing up and trying to gather herself upon the too-smooth tile. She manages one wobbly foot before it slides out from beneath her; her knee *qhwaps!* against the tile, padded, thankfully, by the layers of silk composing her skirt. She still gives a small squeak of pain, sniffling as she formally intones: "Alas, my dear Lady of Rosewood, it appears I lack sufficient office to assist you in this capacity." She gives a small sniff. "Shall we scream, do you think?" [Farra]
Hope wells in Emma ab Courtland's Lithmorran blues that is swiftly dashed. With each Lady defeated on their own merit - a flash of panic again striking the fairer-haired of the pair when her cohort again finds her way to the floor, flickering and passing - Emma ab Courtland clearly admits physical defeat. Her limbs go dead-weight and her head drops back against the misty tile, pushing the brim of her hat up so the edge gapes away from the haze of perspiration beading across her forehead. Complexion dangerously near 'violent tomato' and body limp as a wilted leaf on the floor, it's all that she can do to shed a single, pathetic tear. It has no sooner slid down her temple into her hairline then it turns into a weary exhale - the exhale transforms to a similarly sudden burst of giggles, and from there it's all downhill. "I cannot see that we have any other option. Must we kill the man to come to our rescue lest he speak of what he witnessed? I have gone this far in life without committing murder, but this time I cannot see another way..." She turns her head again, peering askance at Farra. Blue studies the matured yet familiar features of the Countess' face, and one side of her mouth manages a tentative upward quirk.
A wary rap on the doors confirms that there is at least one witness in the making lurking not far away. The fellow whose name must be 'Damned if he does, damned if he doesn't' calls out, "...Is all well? Do you need help?" [Emma ab Courtland]
Farra's tongue wets her lip as she considers the alliance offered by the Baroness. Daintily one of her hands lift to adjust the sit of her off-a-shoulder neckline, presenting a less-scandalous ripe body to an audience which is (for now) compromised only of a single over-ripe witness. "My husband always says," she settles upon saying in a crisply Lithmorran voice that speaks of a practical, scholarly learning of the Kingdom's primary language, "that when stuck on a slipper floor, a proper noble is served through tenacious effort first and foremost. I assume that's what he's saying when he goes off in Vandagan to his brothers, that is. So, allow me one more effort, lest I be labled anything but a 'proper noble'." And so she gathers herself one more time, inhaling a deep breath, bracing herself with a palm, and pushing upwards..[/color]
Farra succeeds her dexterity check!
..and, miraculously -- Springs Above Open! -- she gains her footing, though not without a few near-misses that threaten her falling over onto the hapless figure at her side. Victory flashes upon her fair Vavardian features, her stern smile turning viciously pleased with herself until honeydew eyes drop onto Emma ab Courtland's as-of-yet unrescued predicament. It is then that she seems to consider the lion's share of any rescue: this is a woman barely taller than the once-gentrywoman's own petite height and she is at the moment considerably less.. mass.. than her pregnant compatriate.
Farra appears to be of Stunted strength.
The realization that strikes Farra is shared by Emma ab Courtland - all the victory that inspired a quick cry of glee when the Vavardi plants herself successfully onto her heels turns to ash in the span of a few seconds. Moodiness was apparently not limited to brief windows of tears, giggling, and depression. Her gaze slides along the brunette, every inch of her studied furthering a confirmation: this is not going to happen. "I will have to live on the floor," she all but wails in very sudden and utterly over-emotional distress, "I -cannot-, Farra, I -hate- it here. This is the -worst- floor and the -worst- building and I hate it; I hate tile and I hate-- I--" The door cracks open to reveal the panicked face of the troubadour-courier, peeking in and immediately looking to Farra for guidance. Emma ab Courtland mewls the last few lines of her anti-floor protest in sodden Lithmorran; something about 'don't tell Gaven' is almost certainly in there.
There are certain reputations the two distressed women have earned throughout the years in Lithmore, and when Farra looks to the opening door hers is certainly reinforced. Fury springs onto her fair features as if she has it simply tucked away just beneath the surface: her eyes narrow and her upper lip peels back in a snarl as she confronts the dark eyes of Monsieur Damned-No-Matter-What. "You stay out of this," she all-but-hisses in her native-tongue turned nigh-arcane-curse, "or I swear to the heavens I will find your ancestor's bones and find ways to descecrate them so that Dav himself-- Actually, sorry, please. Look away, but come in." She's demented, this Countess, certainly, slipping from scorch-the-earch-and-salt-the-soil to composed and motherly kind to the wide-eyed man in the space of single syllables.
"I might need your help," she continues to the quivering fellow, then to Emma ab Courtland: "Give me your hand?" One way or another the Countess's fingers of both hands do lace around one wrist of the smaller woman and she tries: Lord bless her but she tries to haul the ball of hormones to her feet.. [Farra]
Farra horribly fails her strength check!
.. And fails. Utterly fails, her grip slipping in the first exertation and sending her backwards, backwards.. "Hheell--" *SPLASH!* Apparently deciding it is worth the risk of eternal curse, the troubador-courier yelps, turning around and -carefully- (he's smart, this hero) moving to assist.
Emma ab Courtland fails her luck check!
Emma ab Courtland horribly fails her dexterity check!
At a grand total of ninety-eight pounds soaking wet, Emma ab Courtland remains a difficult load for Farra's limited strength - things are made considerably more difficult when one considers that the blonde's center of balance is practically alien. Her delicate hand, considerably moistened by steam, slips out of the Countess' grasp within moments of her burdened figure leaving its dreary placement on the tiles. Having gone from fearful to bone-quaking levels of terrified, the troubadour darts forward toward the splash that rises around Farra first and foremost, pivots on the spot toward the unwieldy, mid-air topple Emma ab Courtland has found herself in the midst of, and in the end succeeds at preventing neither disaster from fully unfolding. The diminutive blonde and her immense, living load go sprawling after Farra. A second splash washes over the edge of the bath, soaking the ill-fated troubadour's feet. There he stands with one hand over the gaping hole of his mouth and the other extended, nowhere near close enough to assist. [Emma ab Courtland]
A passing bard peeks his head in through the doors, gets a quick look at what's transpiring and takes off like his arse is on fire. [Message]
Farra horribly fails her luck check!
The deep cerulean tiles of the bath are speckled with sea creatures mythical and mundane but all gracile animals of the waters. And so Farra finds herself in entirely alien company with those motifs as she flails about with all the grace of, well, of a pregnant woman cannon-balled into the depths. Nowhere near enough to cause an actual problem, the reknown Countess of Hevstina --who captured the minds of many of her fellow nobles in support of her ultimately flagging bid as Seneschal-- is reduced to a flailing, writhing creature of clinging burgundy silk and resplendantly soaked golden thread. She sputters, gasps, gags and flounders; finding the first thing to help stabilize her in the steaming waters: Emma ab Courtland's own figure, who she clings to and tries, as best she can, to help stabilize like two entirely incapable bouys in the storm. [Farra]
Farra appears to be inept at swim.
Emma ab Courtland Naturally, there is no chance whatsoever that the pampered, never left her father's estate until her en passant blonde knows how to swim; painting pretty pictures and embroidering things? Absolutely. But swimming? The closest she comes is sloshing her short legs through layers of increasingly heavy silk, swishing layers of angelic white fabric that no longer feel quite as heavenly, and arching her slippers down to ensure that her toes can occasionally touch bottom to keep her from going under. The Countess' move to cling to her is fortuitous and reciprocated; small arms slink tight around burgundy silks and slim biceps, clutching to Farra like her life quite literally depends on it. She has the presence of mind to turn her red-wearied face away from the brunette to sputter out mouthfuls of bath water, mumbling, "Our gowns are -ruined-" like it is the actual end of the world. The Troubadour-Courier takes a shaking knee and holds out his hand a little further over the edge of the pool, beckoning the ladies to toward him.
Emma ab Courtland appears to be incapable at swim.
Monsieur Probably-Going-To-Save-The-Ladies-The-Trouble-And-Off-Himself either has the incredible decorum or lacks the sanity metrics to stare at the figures of the two women as silks cling to noble figures; in Farra's case the two witnesses could probably say they've seen the Countess naked, now, and not be lying (though probably marked for death). "If I am found dead on Church Street, my Lady ab Kovar," the Countess pants, coughing out her own mouthfuls of swallowed liquid, "I ask you find a way to pardon your cousin, as Astor will be well within her rights to murder me. You.. you are alright, aren't you, Emma?" she asks more softly, worry creeping into her entirely ruined composure. "After you; I'll push." The troubadourier whimpers, terror painted on his face by a master artist: "My ladies, pleeaassee." [Farra]
A loud knock sounds from the northern door.
A rapping upon the bath's door sounds, a woman's voice projecting from the other side, "Ah... is anyone in there?" [Player (RPYell)] (To the north)
A great deal of splashes and sputtering are heard from inside the bathing room. [Emma ab Courtland (RPYell)]
Through the sputtering, one voice rises: "Enter at your own risk!" [Farra (RPYell)]
A young woman with dark hair and bright aqua eyes arrives from the north.
A strangely pale blond vandagan with regal stance arrives from the north.
Norrig Donoven arrives from the north, armed and armored.
[Action: Norrig Donoven has just arrived, a hand over his shoulder and near his steel warhammer. ]
An utterly depressed and breathy laugh breaks Emma ab Courtland's mood with incredible ease. She leans into the other woman, using one small hand to delve down under the water and provide a gentle, companionable squeeze to Farra's wrist. "I am fine, I truly am-- I will never complain again after this," she promises as she is pushed slowly but surely nearer to the quivering fellow's offer of salvation. Using whatever momentum Farra can provide, Emma ab Courtland places her hand into his uplifted one and relies wholly on the strength of the others to see herself hauled, dripping and harried, onto 'solid' ground. She immediately encircles her chest with her arms, concealing herself with as much dignity as she can muster. The Countess, meanwhile, is still fully dressed and chest-deep in the bath, awaiting aid from an extremely panicked-looking troubadour.
A strangely pale blond vandagan with regal stance enters in, face of thunder and blade at the ready, he points it into the room and yells "Stop right there vile dastard or... oh for fucks sake..." whilst the former bit of speech is filled with rage the latter of the sentence is simply irritation "Really milady? I was brought from the palace for something one of the globes attendants should have performed?"
[Action: a strangely pale blond vandagan with regal stance is looking mighty irritated right now ]
"Is everythin' all ri--oh," a young woman with dark hair and bright aqua eyes remarks, leading the charge for a motley assortment of hangers-on. She turns after coming through and catching sight of the bath-dunked noblewoman, looking to the others with a note of panic in her expression before whirling back to offer a low bow to the assembled. "Pardons, m'ladies! I... well, heard--" But a strangely pale blond vandagan with regal stance speaks, so she takes her position behind and, hopefully, out of the way. [a young woman with dark hair and bright aqua eyes]
[Action: a young woman with dark hair and bright aqua eyes tries to blend into the walls behind the fancy folks ]
The esteemed Countess of Hevstina, Watcher of the Eastern Walk, Lady of the Dawn-home is currently waist-deep in bathwater which has thoroughly drenched her burgundy silk outfit in ways that Vavardi fashion simply cannot contend with. The outfit clings to ever curve, is near-transparent in places and practically falling off in others. Her circlet is -gone-, spotted at the bottom of the clear pool trailing a fine netting that's helplessly knotted and ruined, but she nevertheless draws herself to her fully unimpressive height, the shock of her face falling away into cold, imperious authority. " - Anyone - " she says in a voice icy enough it might actually be able to quench an inferno, "whom values their life will be given a singular opportunity to back out of the door, turn around, and forget everything they have seen within this room. Those who choose otherwise will forfeit themselves to my fury." Calm and composed, she really looks like she's telling the truth.
Farra appears to be of Gifted charisma.
Norrig Donoven walks after a young woman with dark hair and bright aqua eyes and a strangely pale blond vandagan with regal stance, noting the distress of both noblewomen. However unlike his companions, his face remains neutral and inexpressive -- merely a raise of his black eyebrows denotes passing surprise. He lowers his hand from his warhammer, looks at the ground firmly and bows politely, saying levelly: "I have seen nothing but troubadours here. However if any lady who clearly isn't here would require my help with dealing with what has obviously never happened, I'll be happy to serve."
Norrig Donoven appears to be of Good charisma.
Farra yells, "GET OUT!!!"
A young woman with dark hair and bright aqua eyes's face does not look like she will ever forget the tragedy that she in no way bears any responsibility for, and since that technically counts as a dismissal, she wastes no time in following orders. Another - this time moving - bow and a young woman with dark hair and bright aqua eyes is out the door.
A young woman with dark hair and bright aqua eyes leaves north.
A strangely pale blond vandagan with regal stance lets out a sigh, sheaths his sword and, politely averts his eyes. blushing a touch "Miss Aya. Please find whichever apprentice thought it appropriate to bring me to -this- and thwack them around the back of the head for me. This has been both a waist of my time and an unnecessary embarrassment to the poor lady's." he then gives a bow to the two women "Applogies milady's."
Emma ab Courtland takes a knee upon the edge of the pool, sweeping her soaked skirts under her shins and offering her hand as a second potential anchor for Farra - apparently she believes she is immune to the threat of world-shaking fury, for here she remains. For now. A look that reads more cold than her dollish face should allow is directed across her shoulder toward a strangely pale blond vandagan with regal stance, but it doesn't linger long. "Come, let me help," she murmurs as quietly as she can manage, cheeks pricking straight up from pink to brilliant crimson. Her white silks are revealing absolutely everything, yet she maintains. "Farra. Come."
A strangely pale blond vandagan with regal stance then abruptly makes his way out.
A strangely pale blond vandagan with regal stance leaves north.
Norrig Donoven leaves north, armed and armored.
The northern door closes from the other side.
Or, How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love The Roll.
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A red-faced troubadour approaches Farra and bows, practically stumbling over his words, "...Ah, ahem-- excuse me, my Lady, I-- there is something-- could you please go to the baths at the Hollow Globe? There is a-- a problem, my Lady, and I can think of no one appropriate to... sort it." [Message]
An Airy, Tiled Bath
[Steamy and warm]
This airy room is dominated by a single feature: the large bathing pool
set square in its center. The walls are covered in white tile, decorated
near the ground with a colorful mosaic in brilliant greens and blues that
depicts a seaside scene. The floor and the bath itself are constructed of
deep cerulean tiles, speckled with sea creatures both fanciful and real.
Cleverly concealed firepits keep the water mildly warm, whatever the time
of year, and a faint haze of steam seems to hang in the air. A door to the
north leads back into the guildhall proper.
Recently:
(The floor is freshly-polished and exceptionally steaming, preparing a dangerously slippery surface for passing Bards.)
[ Exits: north ] [ Air exits: none ]
Emma ab Courtland has fallen and she can't get up. [P][App: 5]
She appears to be pregnant.
Farra has arrived.
*Click; Click* sound the low square heels of dark burgundy slippers upon the white tile of the Bath at the hollow globe when Farra arrives, in low but irritable discussion with a red-faced troubadour explaining to her: "It's just-- I really should not say more, my lady. It's-- you'll see when you're-- no; oh, Yes please I'll wait outside." And so she seems to share the messenger of ill news just outside, moving into the baths with a stony-faced expression that speaks of building storms and threatening lightning. Pale eyes peek inside, obviously expectant of some kind of joke; and why should she not be, bards being what they are. [Farra]
Not quite sprawled across the tile but neither in a position receptive of visitors, Emma ab Courtland lies upon her back with her red-flushed face turned up toward the ceiling, rolling from side to side in little increments; little increments become slightly wider ones the more desperate she's feeling, and it seems she's feeling pretty desperate by now. The weight of a child-in-the-works rests squarely above her midsection, looking particularly pumpkin-like in her upturned and utterly undignified predicament. The words, "...Oh, please help," are murmured with silvery agitation, though only after the doors have been shut to seal away the eyes of the nameless troubadour.
Farra handily succeeds her charisma check!
Farra fails her dexterity check!
"--What," begins Farra's irritated exclamation, out-of-sight of the rotund, ball-esque build of a baroness's view. The woman's tone is such that the aforementioned terseness can itself be heard melting away in the warm, comfortable steam of the bathing room. "-= Emma?! =-" she exclaims, filled with the awe and concern one might give upon seeing a very pregnant woman sprawled out upon very polished tiles. There is no further pause made, no moment's hesitation as, bravely, the Countess of Hevstina gathers her skirt in one hand and steps forwards, ever the knight-in-shining armor poised to rescue fair damself in distress..
.. and falls herself, the squeaking protest of her slippers upon the slick floor evoking a yelp as she looses her footing, tumbling down onto the tile next to the former merchant. A remarkably foul curse echoes in the confined tilescape, something hissed in Vavardi about three widows and a .. kingfischer? It doesn't bear for repeating. Fortunately, the rather less-plump noblewoman is able to partially catch herself, breathing heavily and ungainfully sliding to Emma ab Courtland's close proximity. [Farra]
In good news for the survival of bards in general, none of them are present to witness the preposterous fates of either Emma ab Courtland or her wayward rescuer. This lack of witnesses contributes, perhaps, to Emma ab Courtland's willingness to loose a pathetically chesty moan that says everything about her mood that words simply couldn't. The sound is a perfect companion to the realization that Farra is not only swearing, squeaking, and sliding across the floor, but that she has toppled into a predicament all her own. Silk-swathed arms pump uselessly into the air alongside the blonde baroness, like by moving them she believes she might gain the momentum to roll over. Nothing of the sort is accomplished. "Lord help us!" is cried out toward the 'heavens' that are currently comprised solely of ceiling, "Lady Farra-- are you alright?" In lieu of rolling, her head turns toward the brunette. Hugely enlarged blue eyes flicker rapidly over her her cohort, no doubt scanning for damage.
A muffled sound comes from the other side of the door -- "You stay out of this, you Arien-faced..." -- but is silenced at a sharp retort by the somewhat less helpless noblelady. It takes some doing, but eventually Farra is able to wriggle, wraggle, slither and squiggle her way to Emma ab Courtland's side. Red-faced from both the exertion and the heavilly-humid climate, the Lady of Hevstina draws herself to a knelt-down position by the child-creating woman. Where an off-shoulder neckline is meant to delicately caress the collarbones it is instead horribly askance, and the burgundy netting atop luxurious brunette hair is all wrong, but the woman herself can only gape, mouth opening and closing with little more than a squeak coming out initially.
But composure returns; the woman gathers herself, sitting up straighter, smoothing the shock and dishelvelemt from her expression. It's an absolutely absurd picture: the noblewoman as expressionless as if she were holding court, sitting on her knees in a spotless white bathroom next to a wiggling round woman supposedly near-equal to the exalted Countess. "My Lady ab Kovar," she says with a small sniff. "Congratulations; I hadn't heard you were expecting again. I don't think I heard you were expecting again. Did, uhm. Did you need my help with something?" [Farra]
"A pay rise for whomever is responsible for polishing the floors," Emma ab Courtland utters with a tone of entirely uncharacteristic dryness, though as soon as the statement has rolled from her tongue she loses whatever edge had inspired it. Her delicate features contort into a final mask of exertion, one hand planting its gloved digits against tile, and with every ounce of strength she possesses she endeavors to push herself at least up onto a hip. It fails. She lies down without further exercise, closing her eyes to allow golden lashes to feather out across her cheekbones. A pair of slow, almost meditative breaths inflate her chest, are held for several seconds, and released across a similarly extended span of time. "My Lady, if you would be so kind as to offer me a hand," the less damp of her two digits lifts up, tiny fingers relaxed and bent, "I would be much obliged for whatever aid you might be provide, to the end of getting me up off the floor." While her tone is calm and her face granted an air of calm so excessive it must be forced, when she opens her eyes they betray a far too obvious distress.
Farra fails her dexterity check!
"Someone is attempting to impress Madame dul Valencia, I expect. Or took the Seneschal's mentions of an improved infrastructure too-well to heart and not too-well to place." Watching Emma ab Courtland there on the floor, Farra is finally unable to entirely keep up the charade. A small siggle escapes from between tightly-closed lips as the warm amber segments of her eyes radiate a delight of the absurdity, acknowledged further by the titter to her shoulders indicative of a feircely-repressed bit of laughter. Not entirely heartless, the Countess places a hand on the floor, pushing up and trying to gather herself upon the too-smooth tile. She manages one wobbly foot before it slides out from beneath her; her knee *qhwaps!* against the tile, padded, thankfully, by the layers of silk composing her skirt. She still gives a small squeak of pain, sniffling as she formally intones: "Alas, my dear Lady of Rosewood, it appears I lack sufficient office to assist you in this capacity." She gives a small sniff. "Shall we scream, do you think?" [Farra]
Hope wells in Emma ab Courtland's Lithmorran blues that is swiftly dashed. With each Lady defeated on their own merit - a flash of panic again striking the fairer-haired of the pair when her cohort again finds her way to the floor, flickering and passing - Emma ab Courtland clearly admits physical defeat. Her limbs go dead-weight and her head drops back against the misty tile, pushing the brim of her hat up so the edge gapes away from the haze of perspiration beading across her forehead. Complexion dangerously near 'violent tomato' and body limp as a wilted leaf on the floor, it's all that she can do to shed a single, pathetic tear. It has no sooner slid down her temple into her hairline then it turns into a weary exhale - the exhale transforms to a similarly sudden burst of giggles, and from there it's all downhill. "I cannot see that we have any other option. Must we kill the man to come to our rescue lest he speak of what he witnessed? I have gone this far in life without committing murder, but this time I cannot see another way..." She turns her head again, peering askance at Farra. Blue studies the matured yet familiar features of the Countess' face, and one side of her mouth manages a tentative upward quirk.
A wary rap on the doors confirms that there is at least one witness in the making lurking not far away. The fellow whose name must be 'Damned if he does, damned if he doesn't' calls out, "...Is all well? Do you need help?" [Emma ab Courtland]
Farra's tongue wets her lip as she considers the alliance offered by the Baroness. Daintily one of her hands lift to adjust the sit of her off-a-shoulder neckline, presenting a less-scandalous ripe body to an audience which is (for now) compromised only of a single over-ripe witness. "My husband always says," she settles upon saying in a crisply Lithmorran voice that speaks of a practical, scholarly learning of the Kingdom's primary language, "that when stuck on a slipper floor, a proper noble is served through tenacious effort first and foremost. I assume that's what he's saying when he goes off in Vandagan to his brothers, that is. So, allow me one more effort, lest I be labled anything but a 'proper noble'." And so she gathers herself one more time, inhaling a deep breath, bracing herself with a palm, and pushing upwards..[/color]
Farra succeeds her dexterity check!
..and, miraculously -- Springs Above Open! -- she gains her footing, though not without a few near-misses that threaten her falling over onto the hapless figure at her side. Victory flashes upon her fair Vavardian features, her stern smile turning viciously pleased with herself until honeydew eyes drop onto Emma ab Courtland's as-of-yet unrescued predicament. It is then that she seems to consider the lion's share of any rescue: this is a woman barely taller than the once-gentrywoman's own petite height and she is at the moment considerably less.. mass.. than her pregnant compatriate.
Farra appears to be of Stunted strength.
The realization that strikes Farra is shared by Emma ab Courtland - all the victory that inspired a quick cry of glee when the Vavardi plants herself successfully onto her heels turns to ash in the span of a few seconds. Moodiness was apparently not limited to brief windows of tears, giggling, and depression. Her gaze slides along the brunette, every inch of her studied furthering a confirmation: this is not going to happen. "I will have to live on the floor," she all but wails in very sudden and utterly over-emotional distress, "I -cannot-, Farra, I -hate- it here. This is the -worst- floor and the -worst- building and I hate it; I hate tile and I hate-- I--" The door cracks open to reveal the panicked face of the troubadour-courier, peeking in and immediately looking to Farra for guidance. Emma ab Courtland mewls the last few lines of her anti-floor protest in sodden Lithmorran; something about 'don't tell Gaven' is almost certainly in there.
There are certain reputations the two distressed women have earned throughout the years in Lithmore, and when Farra looks to the opening door hers is certainly reinforced. Fury springs onto her fair features as if she has it simply tucked away just beneath the surface: her eyes narrow and her upper lip peels back in a snarl as she confronts the dark eyes of Monsieur Damned-No-Matter-What. "You stay out of this," she all-but-hisses in her native-tongue turned nigh-arcane-curse, "or I swear to the heavens I will find your ancestor's bones and find ways to descecrate them so that Dav himself-- Actually, sorry, please. Look away, but come in." She's demented, this Countess, certainly, slipping from scorch-the-earch-and-salt-the-soil to composed and motherly kind to the wide-eyed man in the space of single syllables.
"I might need your help," she continues to the quivering fellow, then to Emma ab Courtland: "Give me your hand?" One way or another the Countess's fingers of both hands do lace around one wrist of the smaller woman and she tries: Lord bless her but she tries to haul the ball of hormones to her feet.. [Farra]
Farra horribly fails her strength check!
.. And fails. Utterly fails, her grip slipping in the first exertation and sending her backwards, backwards.. "Hheell--" *SPLASH!* Apparently deciding it is worth the risk of eternal curse, the troubador-courier yelps, turning around and -carefully- (he's smart, this hero) moving to assist.
Emma ab Courtland fails her luck check!
Emma ab Courtland horribly fails her dexterity check!
At a grand total of ninety-eight pounds soaking wet, Emma ab Courtland remains a difficult load for Farra's limited strength - things are made considerably more difficult when one considers that the blonde's center of balance is practically alien. Her delicate hand, considerably moistened by steam, slips out of the Countess' grasp within moments of her burdened figure leaving its dreary placement on the tiles. Having gone from fearful to bone-quaking levels of terrified, the troubadour darts forward toward the splash that rises around Farra first and foremost, pivots on the spot toward the unwieldy, mid-air topple Emma ab Courtland has found herself in the midst of, and in the end succeeds at preventing neither disaster from fully unfolding. The diminutive blonde and her immense, living load go sprawling after Farra. A second splash washes over the edge of the bath, soaking the ill-fated troubadour's feet. There he stands with one hand over the gaping hole of his mouth and the other extended, nowhere near close enough to assist. [Emma ab Courtland]
A passing bard peeks his head in through the doors, gets a quick look at what's transpiring and takes off like his arse is on fire. [Message]
Farra horribly fails her luck check!
The deep cerulean tiles of the bath are speckled with sea creatures mythical and mundane but all gracile animals of the waters. And so Farra finds herself in entirely alien company with those motifs as she flails about with all the grace of, well, of a pregnant woman cannon-balled into the depths. Nowhere near enough to cause an actual problem, the reknown Countess of Hevstina --who captured the minds of many of her fellow nobles in support of her ultimately flagging bid as Seneschal-- is reduced to a flailing, writhing creature of clinging burgundy silk and resplendantly soaked golden thread. She sputters, gasps, gags and flounders; finding the first thing to help stabilize her in the steaming waters: Emma ab Courtland's own figure, who she clings to and tries, as best she can, to help stabilize like two entirely incapable bouys in the storm. [Farra]
Farra appears to be inept at swim.
Emma ab Courtland Naturally, there is no chance whatsoever that the pampered, never left her father's estate until her en passant blonde knows how to swim; painting pretty pictures and embroidering things? Absolutely. But swimming? The closest she comes is sloshing her short legs through layers of increasingly heavy silk, swishing layers of angelic white fabric that no longer feel quite as heavenly, and arching her slippers down to ensure that her toes can occasionally touch bottom to keep her from going under. The Countess' move to cling to her is fortuitous and reciprocated; small arms slink tight around burgundy silks and slim biceps, clutching to Farra like her life quite literally depends on it. She has the presence of mind to turn her red-wearied face away from the brunette to sputter out mouthfuls of bath water, mumbling, "Our gowns are -ruined-" like it is the actual end of the world. The Troubadour-Courier takes a shaking knee and holds out his hand a little further over the edge of the pool, beckoning the ladies to toward him.
Emma ab Courtland appears to be incapable at swim.
Monsieur Probably-Going-To-Save-The-Ladies-The-Trouble-And-Off-Himself either has the incredible decorum or lacks the sanity metrics to stare at the figures of the two women as silks cling to noble figures; in Farra's case the two witnesses could probably say they've seen the Countess naked, now, and not be lying (though probably marked for death). "If I am found dead on Church Street, my Lady ab Kovar," the Countess pants, coughing out her own mouthfuls of swallowed liquid, "I ask you find a way to pardon your cousin, as Astor will be well within her rights to murder me. You.. you are alright, aren't you, Emma?" she asks more softly, worry creeping into her entirely ruined composure. "After you; I'll push." The troubadourier whimpers, terror painted on his face by a master artist: "My ladies, pleeaassee." [Farra]
A loud knock sounds from the northern door.
A rapping upon the bath's door sounds, a woman's voice projecting from the other side, "Ah... is anyone in there?" [Player (RPYell)] (To the north)
A great deal of splashes and sputtering are heard from inside the bathing room. [Emma ab Courtland (RPYell)]
Through the sputtering, one voice rises: "Enter at your own risk!" [Farra (RPYell)]
A young woman with dark hair and bright aqua eyes arrives from the north.
A strangely pale blond vandagan with regal stance arrives from the north.
Norrig Donoven arrives from the north, armed and armored.
[Action: Norrig Donoven has just arrived, a hand over his shoulder and near his steel warhammer. ]
An utterly depressed and breathy laugh breaks Emma ab Courtland's mood with incredible ease. She leans into the other woman, using one small hand to delve down under the water and provide a gentle, companionable squeeze to Farra's wrist. "I am fine, I truly am-- I will never complain again after this," she promises as she is pushed slowly but surely nearer to the quivering fellow's offer of salvation. Using whatever momentum Farra can provide, Emma ab Courtland places her hand into his uplifted one and relies wholly on the strength of the others to see herself hauled, dripping and harried, onto 'solid' ground. She immediately encircles her chest with her arms, concealing herself with as much dignity as she can muster. The Countess, meanwhile, is still fully dressed and chest-deep in the bath, awaiting aid from an extremely panicked-looking troubadour.
A strangely pale blond vandagan with regal stance enters in, face of thunder and blade at the ready, he points it into the room and yells "Stop right there vile dastard or... oh for fucks sake..." whilst the former bit of speech is filled with rage the latter of the sentence is simply irritation "Really milady? I was brought from the palace for something one of the globes attendants should have performed?"
[Action: a strangely pale blond vandagan with regal stance is looking mighty irritated right now ]
"Is everythin' all ri--oh," a young woman with dark hair and bright aqua eyes remarks, leading the charge for a motley assortment of hangers-on. She turns after coming through and catching sight of the bath-dunked noblewoman, looking to the others with a note of panic in her expression before whirling back to offer a low bow to the assembled. "Pardons, m'ladies! I... well, heard--" But a strangely pale blond vandagan with regal stance speaks, so she takes her position behind and, hopefully, out of the way. [a young woman with dark hair and bright aqua eyes]
[Action: a young woman with dark hair and bright aqua eyes tries to blend into the walls behind the fancy folks ]
The esteemed Countess of Hevstina, Watcher of the Eastern Walk, Lady of the Dawn-home is currently waist-deep in bathwater which has thoroughly drenched her burgundy silk outfit in ways that Vavardi fashion simply cannot contend with. The outfit clings to ever curve, is near-transparent in places and practically falling off in others. Her circlet is -gone-, spotted at the bottom of the clear pool trailing a fine netting that's helplessly knotted and ruined, but she nevertheless draws herself to her fully unimpressive height, the shock of her face falling away into cold, imperious authority. " - Anyone - " she says in a voice icy enough it might actually be able to quench an inferno, "whom values their life will be given a singular opportunity to back out of the door, turn around, and forget everything they have seen within this room. Those who choose otherwise will forfeit themselves to my fury." Calm and composed, she really looks like she's telling the truth.
Farra appears to be of Gifted charisma.
Norrig Donoven walks after a young woman with dark hair and bright aqua eyes and a strangely pale blond vandagan with regal stance, noting the distress of both noblewomen. However unlike his companions, his face remains neutral and inexpressive -- merely a raise of his black eyebrows denotes passing surprise. He lowers his hand from his warhammer, looks at the ground firmly and bows politely, saying levelly: "I have seen nothing but troubadours here. However if any lady who clearly isn't here would require my help with dealing with what has obviously never happened, I'll be happy to serve."
Norrig Donoven appears to be of Good charisma.
Farra yells, "GET OUT!!!"
A young woman with dark hair and bright aqua eyes's face does not look like she will ever forget the tragedy that she in no way bears any responsibility for, and since that technically counts as a dismissal, she wastes no time in following orders. Another - this time moving - bow and a young woman with dark hair and bright aqua eyes is out the door.
A young woman with dark hair and bright aqua eyes leaves north.
A strangely pale blond vandagan with regal stance lets out a sigh, sheaths his sword and, politely averts his eyes. blushing a touch "Miss Aya. Please find whichever apprentice thought it appropriate to bring me to -this- and thwack them around the back of the head for me. This has been both a waist of my time and an unnecessary embarrassment to the poor lady's." he then gives a bow to the two women "Applogies milady's."
Emma ab Courtland takes a knee upon the edge of the pool, sweeping her soaked skirts under her shins and offering her hand as a second potential anchor for Farra - apparently she believes she is immune to the threat of world-shaking fury, for here she remains. For now. A look that reads more cold than her dollish face should allow is directed across her shoulder toward a strangely pale blond vandagan with regal stance, but it doesn't linger long. "Come, let me help," she murmurs as quietly as she can manage, cheeks pricking straight up from pink to brilliant crimson. Her white silks are revealing absolutely everything, yet she maintains. "Farra. Come."
A strangely pale blond vandagan with regal stance then abruptly makes his way out.
A strangely pale blond vandagan with regal stance leaves north.
Norrig Donoven leaves north, armed and armored.
The northern door closes from the other side.