Into the Mists of Avalon
WHO: ATTHIS AND ALL OF LIBERTAS'S FEMALE ACCOMPANIMENT (WILM ALSO PERMITTED; GATE CRASHES SHALL FEAR FOR THEIR GENITALIA)
WHEN: TONIGHT, THE TWENTY-FIFTH OF JUNE
WHERE: THE PETALLIDES ESTATE
WHAT: ANOTHER OF THE MISTRESS ATTHIS'S FINE SALONS FOR THE FLEET MINDED (AND FULL BODICED?)
RATING: THIS MAY BE NECESSARY
Picture, dearest citizens, a gala of decadence not for the eye but for the brain. The walls lined with leather bound tomes of languages buried and tongues reborn, of the lost and the found and the morally intrepid or the conservatively profound. Electric bulbs created in the shape of candle flames illuminate the rooms of the manor from above, a pleasant golden glow casting halos around the angels which pass beneath. Fresh flowers flourish in vases perched just so between plush armchairs of aquatic blues and valley greens. All over the air is electrified with science, socializing, words, song, illustrating gestures of the hands.
And other body parts.
Within the crowd which ebbs and flows as visitors pass in groups or individually from room to room, is one woman with the most serene of smiles on her painted lips. She is most reserved in her presentation- her dress, at least, with only the top most button of her bodice undone as though quite on accident. To each who comes into her home, she offers them a greeting so very intimate to the ordinary observer. A lingering kiss upon the cheeks and a whisper: "Welcome, flower, to my garden. Please, enjoy the bread of the philosopher, the mead of the poet."
Then- with a breezy, elegant pivot on her heels, she's vanished. A treasure to be re-discovered.
Or a predator on the prowl.
[[Don't worry about the tense used in the opening; just respond as normal, my friends. This will operate like the kissing booth thread in that none of the segments will overlap. It's just a one on one with Atthis and it can be as steamy or as innocent as you'd like~]]
WHEN: TONIGHT, THE TWENTY-FIFTH OF JUNE
WHERE: THE PETALLIDES ESTATE
WHAT: ANOTHER OF THE MISTRESS ATTHIS'S FINE SALONS FOR THE FLEET MINDED (AND FULL BODICED?)
RATING: THIS MAY BE NECESSARY
Picture, dearest citizens, a gala of decadence not for the eye but for the brain. The walls lined with leather bound tomes of languages buried and tongues reborn, of the lost and the found and the morally intrepid or the conservatively profound. Electric bulbs created in the shape of candle flames illuminate the rooms of the manor from above, a pleasant golden glow casting halos around the angels which pass beneath. Fresh flowers flourish in vases perched just so between plush armchairs of aquatic blues and valley greens. All over the air is electrified with science, socializing, words, song, illustrating gestures of the hands.
And other body parts.
Within the crowd which ebbs and flows as visitors pass in groups or individually from room to room, is one woman with the most serene of smiles on her painted lips. She is most reserved in her presentation- her dress, at least, with only the top most button of her bodice undone as though quite on accident. To each who comes into her home, she offers them a greeting so very intimate to the ordinary observer. A lingering kiss upon the cheeks and a whisper: "Welcome, flower, to my garden. Please, enjoy the bread of the philosopher, the mead of the poet."
Then- with a breezy, elegant pivot on her heels, she's vanished. A treasure to be re-discovered.
Or a predator on the prowl.
[[Don't worry about the tense used in the opening; just respond as normal, my friends. This will operate like the kissing booth thread in that none of the segments will overlap. It's just a one on one with Atthis and it can be as steamy or as innocent as you'd like~]]