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Messages - Cygnet

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The Shanachie Theater / Re: The Green Room
« on: November 05, 2019, 09:31:17 PM »

Opening night of Sleeping Beauty, along with opening night of the ballet's latest season, deserved something a little special. And perhaps a bit of the White Cat's feisty playfulness still hung in the air from dress rehearsal as the Green Room and various dressing rooms mysteriously filled with a selection of anonymously gifted bouquets.

The corps' slightly more modest bouquets of delicate white and purple flowers with lacy heart-shaped leaves were accompanied by cards reading simply "D'un Chat Aux Petits Rats." Those who were more unfamiliar with the intricacies of horticulture would probably only realize after the show, based on the piqued interest of every street cat in the Sanachie's general vicinity, that the bouquet was entirely catnip.

The principals, on the other hand, received much more complicated and perhaps seemingly random arrangements of flowers; lilies of the valley for purity and the delicate grace of the Fairy of the Crystal Fountain, joyful and vibrant red roses for the Enchanted Garden Fairy and the forceful Fairy of the Golden Vine, wheat stalks for the generous Fairy of the Woodland Glade and the beauty-bestowing Enchanted Garden Fairy, feathers for the Fairy of Songbirds, pink carnations for the Fairy of the Woodland Glade (alternately called the Carnation Fairy), and of course lilacs. Oh, and more catnip tucked in amongst the rest for good measure. It wouldn't be fair for the corps to have all the feline fun.

Dragon's Tales / Re: Memories Like Rotten Ice
« on: September 22, 2019, 03:25:04 PM »
The vivid dawn ran together like a dripping painting into the wood floors and burnished gold of oil lamps she knew so well. The walls of the Imperial Academy of the Arts seemed to rise and break over them like crashing waves, bursting the soap-bubble opalescence of the Summer Palace and sending them into a close, almost velvety darkness. Hints of ornately gilded molding now crumbling and soot-stained flashed through the flickering light of the few oil lamps scattered across the empty studio. Thick curtains stiff with dust were drawn like folded wings over the windows to keep the smog and clanging of Belovodye at bay. And from the shadows, a wall of pocked mirrors winked and teased. But still she couldn’t catch a glimpse of the two of them as she fought to free herself from his whirling grasp.

Her free hand scrabbled against his chest, his arm, anything until she could break away. Fingers found purchase and pulled, wrenching free a handful of oily black feathers as the arm around her waist loosened for a moment in pain. It was all she needed to slip from his grasp, sliding down him until she found her way to pointe again. She hadn’t been in toe shoes back in the Palace, had she? But she could feel the familiar pull of satin ribbons about her ankles and the support of her half-shank nestled into the arch of her foot as she tried to turn away from him. With a chaîné that truly was chained, she whirled as far from him as his fist around her wrist allowed before she was whipped back against him.

The two ebbed and flowed, apart and together but always caught by the swipe of a leg or brush of a hand. Through the rich darkness, she couldn't see him. But she could feel him, like the drag of the tide. As if just the barest flash of skin meeting skin bound them, they crashed back together. Forceful hands grabbed her waist again, driving her down into a plié before she sprang back en pointe, flicking one leg to the side and whirling herself around. In a maddening string of fouettés, finally, she caught a glimpse of them in the dark mirror. As she spotted, the faint glow in the mirror winked back with the pale moon of her own face; frightened, small, just a blur against the shadows.

Plié. Whip. A roiling mass of black wings. Gnarled scaled claws caught in the tatters of her skirt. Her own clenched fist full of scattered feathers, dripping blood in spatters as her arms flashed open and closed. The glint of one sharp flint eye nestled in the shadowy wings; searching, hungry, pleading. Alyosha.

Plié. Whip. The hands around her were different now, calloused and nail-bitten and raw with cold. A slight frame dwarfed by a shabby overcoat. Thick eyebrows settled in a permanent frown over amber eyes that saw too much and revealed too little. Spiderwebs of hoarfrost crawling over unevenly cut chestnut hair, winding across freckle-spattered skin and extinguishing that warm amber fire to a lifeless white. The fingers against her hips burned with dead cold. Nadia.

Plié. Whip. Again the hands shifted, delicate with skin thin as lace and dripping in jewels. Pale gold hair as bright as her own piled high in perfected chaos, glinting in the shadows like a twin star to her own dancing curls. Lithe limbs dragged heavy with the rattle of chains, once shimmering skin dull with the iron sickness of fae. Tatiana. Her mother.

Cygnet tried to break away, to stumble down off pointe and free herself of the hungry grasp of their hands, to rid herself of what she’d done to them. But the call of the mirror and their wild eyes whirling past in the sickly candlelight would not free her. If they could not stop, she would.

Plié. Relevé. While she rooted her toes down into the floor and lifted her arms steady above her, still clutching fistfuls of feathers, the world around her spun like a wobbling top. The velvety curtains and rich wood floors melted into a claustrophobic, roiling darkness. Flickering oil lamps ran together into a nauseating aurora. And then, like a thousand stars falling to earth, the lights eclipsed the dark. For a moment, Cygnet was the only real thing in some primordial storm. And then the world was remade and she was thrust, blinded, into the cruel light of day.

Dragon's Tales / Memories Like Rotten Ice
« on: September 15, 2019, 05:26:04 PM »
“Cygnet.” The voice carried over the gentle breeze like a wayward gust of snow, just barely too light to grasp hold of. It wasn’t heard so much as felt, her own name thrumming through the heart of her like one lone chord reverberating through the cavernous curves of a cello. At once it filled her and left her empty. She couldn’t help it. She took a step.

“Cygnet.” His voice beat within her like another heartbeat, somehow burrowed deeper in her ribs than even her own pulse. Low and slow and rich as honey, he dripped through her until there was no room even for breath. Such was the way of Faer Speech, a language less of words alone than of life itself, that tingle of breath on skin or that electrifying rush of a fleeting touch. It called, pulling her deeper into the gardens nestled in the shadows of the Summer Palace. Above her, the eternal half-light winking through the shifting glass of the Palace walls threw dancing colors against the snow. They waltzed and twirled across her, over her, beyond her, guiding her between the glistening trees. Every shadow was him, and every shadow lied.

”Alyosha?” Her own Faer call rang hollow in return. Then again, it wasn’t for her. He would hear it like the perfume of a rose tucked between the petals, a command nestled within the layers of sound and color and even of movement. Faer was, in the end, a language spoken directly to soul, past what eyes could see, ears could hear, or even lips could speak. One could dance in Faer as easily as sing in it, and movement was the language Cygnet knew best. As she twirled between the rows of trees, hunting and hunted, her call hummed through the breeze left in her wake.

Morning clung to the rose-kissed world like a held breath as her unsure steps began to quicken. She could feel him, ever ahead. Expectation bubbled within her. Or was it desperation? Some small part of her bristled at how she darted between the trees with hungry abandon. Some unheeded part of her warned, he would catch her, and then he’d let her fall. But as she spun around one glistening trunk so wildly wisps of her curls snagged in the grasping branches, firm hands wound round her hips, pressing into the curve of her spine and lifting her in a weightless leap. That same wild part of her tensed like a rabbit in a snare. But as strong hands lifted her overhead and the tips of her toes brushed clear of the snow underfoot, the rest of her melted. Her back arched across an unseen shoulder, draping herself back against him so she could feel the cold kiss of his uniform’s insignias on her skin through her diaphanous gown.

”Alyosha.” His name came unbidden to her lips, ringing full of the thousand unsaid words her first hollow call had forgone. It was strange how she could fit a whole world in his name alone. Cygnet tried to twist in his arms to see him, to catch a glimpse of that glittering flint stare, that wicked little smirk which seemed so sharp it sliced pieces of her with every glance.

But as she turned, one hand snaked around her waist, pressing her deeper against his chest as the other trailed up her arm so she was pinned against him. The more she tried to glance behind her, the more he spun them across the snow. With the grasping silver branches overhead twirling into a blur, they became the still epicenter of a dancing world. Cygnet could feel the weight of him against her back, his hot breath along the curve of her neck, that looming pressure of Faer left unspoken between them which built like a thunderstorm. But she could also feel claws scrabbling through the thin fabric of her gown, the prick of feathers breaking through skin along his arm, the achingly gentle grasp of his hand about her outstretched wrist tightening like a vice. This wasn’t right.

”You’re desperate to be heard, aren’t you?” The voice jarred like a misplayed chord. His honeyed growl was there, and the thunderous rumbling weight of that unspoken hunger in the dwindling space between them. But there was another voice, caught in the undertones with a sharper rasp, like teeth gnawing bone. This wasn’t how it went. Her heartbeat fluttered in her throat like a frantic bird so loudly she could hardly hear him. Around her the overripe colors of eternal morning turned sickly bright as they spun, battering her with dripping peach and bruised plum shadow. Something was wrong.

”How long have you been screaming out in Faer without even knowing the words, hoping for an answer? How long have you been dancing like that, one lone swan singing half of a symphony waiting, not for applause, but for some call in return?” Cygnet fought to free herself from his dizzying grasp as the world melted around them. This wasn’t how it had been. Everything was wrong.

The Shanachie Theater / Re: AUDITIONS 2019
« on: August 29, 2019, 11:20:58 PM »
Company Applied for (Theater/Repertory/Ballet/Band): Ballet (Regular)

Name (inc. title): Cygnet Rassveta, though I respond to Siggy just as well

Address: Currently, I can be reached at the Inn

Is there anything concerning your medical history or state of health that is relevant to your application? Yes*/No (*If you answer Yes, please give details): No

How much notice do you need to give to your current employer, if currently employed? None

Previous training pertinent to this application (if any): 10 years at Belovodye Imperial Academy of the Arts. If authentication is required, my graduation sigil may be provided.

Previous experience pertinent to this application (if any): Belovodye Imperial Ballet Soloist

Do you have any criminal convictions? Yes*/No (If you answer Yes, please give details): None in Rhydin

Cygnet piled her audition form onto the growing stack and curtsied low to Anthony and Anastasia, bowing her head with a delicate flick of her wrists. It was an action deeply ingrained, as students of the Academy knew the consequences of forgetting and Imperial Ballet company members wished to show off the mark of their accomplishments borne on their skin. With her hair piled up in a bun, her own crown etched into the base of her neck was clearly visible against pale skin. Back home that needed no resume nor explanation. But here, in this strange new city, she was simply another face; not an Imperial Academy graduate, not a member of the Imperial Court, not Seelie property or Seelie castoffs. Here she was no one. Though she tried to convince herself it was freeing, there was still something comforting in the familiarity of the theatre. On the stage, she knew exactly what to do. As the trill of the violins from Aspicia's Act II Variation swelled through the room, she began to leap and twirl, feeling the give of the wood floor beneath her toes and the push and pull of her breath with the music. She couldn't help feeling like she was coming home.

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