Already, they are late. The afternoon is early, sunlight peeking from sterling clouds to dust over the city in hues of lemon and gold. Streaks from a paint brush administered from the heavens. Every which way, cobblestone streets are filled with merchants and towns folk, all vying to get somewhere. Lords and Ladies. Scoundrels and beggars. All on the move, wandering. The great buildings of Kirkwall, France, looming like cliffs to a canyon overhead. Shadowing those who shelter here from the glory of Sol.
Orsino 'tsks' as he glances back down the lane. Displeased by the manners of his coming company. Rudely, he has been kept waiting. It is then, as though beckoned by his scold, that the carriage he seeks lurches into view. Pulling up to the Theater's shining marble steps. The driver tugs at the reins to halt the pair of fine dark horses that jostle the bits in their mouths. And, promptly, he leaps to the ground to open the door and help his passengers to step down from the coach.
What they lack in refinement, the pair of gentlemen that greet him make up for in flair. One a well muscled and stout man, his blond hair pulled into a half pony tail, no hair out of place and a well loved staff in his hand. Bianca, as it was dubbed. The other is a rather tall man with brown hair kept short, and his face clean shaven. Both were pale in complexion with hazel eyes, and both were dressed in expensive suits, sleek and well fitted. Orsino had taken notice of their class and disinterest in timely arrivals during their first business discussions at the local pub. A fact that should be remedied at the first presentable opportunity. As much as the public appreciates such displays of wealth and style, it will not do them well to be the last to show up for set appointments.
Patience at an end, he wastes no time of guiding them into the halls within.
A song reverberates throughout the whole of the establishment, sent to ricochet. The stage boasting a flurry of activity off of every wall. Painted faces, glitter, dazzling costumes, massive props, all swirling into one another in a fantastical presentation that lures the mind's attention to it all. Breathing life into the imagination and raising illusions into reality. Music runs wild like fire through the air. Racing to every corner. Velvet seats rimmed with gold create a sea of thrones for an audience, and the perches all adorn sculptures of writhing sirens.
Behind the scenes, dancers prepare for their turn, no more still than the action that is visible. Ladies knead their slippers in a box of chalk dust, splashing them with ghostly white to their rustic red color. Stage hands bustle about, altering effects and lighting. Inspiring further awe in their precision. Vying for perfection with every plot. And the complexity is intimidating to those unexperienced in the ways of production.
Orsino cuts through all of the intricate glamor and delights, calling attention from the performers to himself. Much to the dismay of the conductor. He voices his frustrations outright, his voice thick with Scottish accent.
"I am trying to run a rehearsal, gentlemen..."
"Sebastian, please, I have an announcement to make. I will have you back to your rehearsal shortly."
His blue eyes flash with irritation, but he stands down.
"I know there have been rumors of my impending retirement," Everyone moves to gather round, "I've come to put those rumors to rest."
He stands silent a moment, the gray in his features suddenly stark in the stage lights. Fogging over his lively voice.
"They are all true..."
Another pause and there is the accompanyment of murmurs as the diva smugly taunts the others with a flaunt. She had told them as such.
"I would like to introduce to you the gentlemen who will be taking my place as the owners of the opera house. Messere Varric, and Messere Donnic. As you may have heard, they recently made it big in the junk business-"
Varric leans in close to Orsino muttering, "Scrap metal, actually."
His short height does not quite make it to Orsino's shoulder, but his sturdy bulk is no less respectable. Orsino continues on without correction, none the less.
"I'm sure they will keep this place in top form and see you through many performances."
Varric and Donnic both give a slight bow of the head.
"And we are deeply honored to introduce our patron. Viscount Chagny." Announces the latter.
Their investor steps forward to make an appearance. And amber eyes capture his image as Hawke and Merril breach the stage, at the ready among the dancers. A man crowned in youth, his skin tanned by the sun's embrace. His hair as silver white as frost in the hills during winter's chill. And eyes, green, like the fronds of a fern or leaves swept off within a storm.
"It's Fenris," Hawke breathes in wonder, "Before my father died... At the house by the sea."
A smile lights her face in warmth at the memories.
"I guess you could say we were childhood sweathearts. He called me Little Mari."
"Oh! Marianna, he's so handsome." Merril coos.
"I am honored to support all the arts. Especially the world renowned, Opera de Polpulare." Chagny states, his voice deep and gruff with power and thought.
The diva approaches to greet him with a little curtsey. Her hair waves down her neck, glossy black like raven feathers. Her soft skin is caramel in color, and her eyes a sweet chocolate. Her gown leaves her bosom exposed and hugs her lucious curves that she displays with pride.
"Ah, this is Lady Isabela. Our leading saprano for five seasons." Chimes Orsino.
A few cheers are cast out for her ego. Cut off by a sharp, "ahem." The trio turn their attention toward the sound, Isabela's male counterpart.
"Messere Castillon."
He bows deeply, while cheers are thrown his way in turn. He is a rather average man, with blond hair and a foreign accent. His charm residing in his sensible nature.
"I apologize," Fenris begs his pardon, "I believe I am keeping you from your rehearsal. I shall be here this evening to share your great triumph."
He turns to depart, Sebastian calling for the cast to take up where they left off at his back. Fenris passes Hawke without so much as a glance as he exits, and her irises downturn in sorrow.
"He wouldn't recognize me..." She mulls.
"He did not see you!" Merrill counters.
Madame Elthina guides Varric and Donnic away from center stage afterward, dancers filling their places. Hawke is called from her misery by the musical cue that brings her forth to perform.
"We take particular pride in our ballet." Elthina states.
Both men are nodding with approval as the women flit and leap about with grace. Well disciplined in every move they swing across the floor. Balanced in their poses and lovely as swans. Varric takes notice of Merrill, expressing appreciation.
"She is my 'daughter'," Elthina insists, despite the evident lack of relation.
Where Madame Elthina has brunette hair like oakwood, Merrill's hair is dusky black. Her eyes more dolled and ivy green with flecks of gold, as opposed to the rain cloud gray of Elthina's. And, although both were fair women, their complexions differed. An adopted child, no doubt.
"And what of her?" Varric points with his beloved cane, "An exceptional beauty."
The ballerina indicated is a young star, her short hair bright as the summer sun. Her flesh very fair, and dainty form well curved and defined. With eyes like sunset over the horizon, beaming full of passionate fire.
"Marianna Hawke. She has promising talent."
"A Hawke! Any relation to the famous musician?" Donnic questions incredulously.
"His only surviving child," she confirms, "Orphaned at a young age when she came to live and train in the dormitories. I think of her as a daughter also."
The scene finishes with gusto, and both men are fairly impressed. Smiling at the potential that surrounds them. Their pleasure is brought, swiftly, to confusion. Isabela has decided to put the new gentlemen in charge through their paces, stir a bit of trouble. An unexpected uproar of drama.
"I hope," she huffs to Orsino, "the audience is as entertained by dancing girls as your new managers. Because I will not be singing."
With a turn on her heel, she makes a fuss about leaving. Beating her hips side to side with accentuated care as she walks away from them. Varric and Donnic puzzle over what it is they have done, staring after her. Lost in the riddle presented in this game.
Orsino encourages them to grovel, secretly amused by the mischief. He knows her character, is aware of her devious nature. Something his replacements will have to come to understand on their own. And he watches the scene unfolding with a spark to his eyes.
They serenade her with compliments, even worship. She plays hard to get but greedily devours each remark with a triumphant spirit. Entertaining their pleas for a personal debut with a hidden ecstasy. And, eventually, she agrees when satisfied with their tributes.
On the march back to center stage, Donnic mutters an inquiry as to the reason Orsino is retiring. To which Orsino smirks, and scoffs.
"My health."
Within moments, Isabela is in position. She stands within the glow of golden light, the jewels of her outfit shining in glory. Music streams out from the piano and she begins her melody, tempo rising. It progresses well until a painted scene on canvas falls from above. Pinning her beneath it's weight on the stage floorboards. Merrill whispers, in fear, of the Phantom from where she stands with Hawke. Both seeking a glimpse in the rafters above. It sends the other dancers into shrieks of panic.
Donnic demands who is up there and a stage hand, Samson, replies. His redbrown hair is mussed, dark circles making a mask over his eyes. And the film of sweat glossing his reputation as a drunkard.
He claims, with assurity, he was not at his post, and there was no one else there except himself. Musing that, if there were, the 'blighted bastard' must be a ghost. A comment that unsettles nerves all around, but only earns a bemused disregard from Varric and Donnic alike.
Beneath his perch, an envelope sealed with a crimson wax skull has fallen. An item retrieved by Madame Elthina, who breaks it open to view the scribed letter inside.
"These things do happen..." Varric hums defiantly.
"For the past three years, yes. These things do happen," Isabela answers coldly as she struggles up from her misfortune, "And, did you stop them from happening? No!"
Her wrath is a blaze that cannot be sated no matter how much it burns. She storms off to collect her finery and her dignity, leaving without a look back their way. No flirty wag to her waist this time.
"Amateurs." Castillon quirks, and follows suit.
Orsino offers his sympathy, "Good luck to you. If you need me, I shall be abroad."
Sebastian gives a sigh in exasperation as the man trudges off to his less frantic future, now more than certain they are doomed. He is not the only one among their companions. The entire Theatre seems at a loss for hope, and terribly spooked.
Varric questions the conductor if she will return and only gets a shrug in reply. He nearly paces in his scramble to devise a plan, tapping 'Bianca' nervously. Elthina takes to his side, boasting the note in hand. She calls attention to it, less than disdained over the reaction it garners.
"Maker! You're all obsessed!" Donnic chides.
She recites her findings in spite of it, slow and deliberate.
"He welcomes you to his opera house. He commands you leave box five open for his personal use and expects his salary forthright."
They gawk at her in disbelief.
"Salary!"
"Messere Orsino used to give him several thousand franks a month," she informs them bluntly, "Perhaps you can afford more."
This breaks their moods into upheaval. Donnic rants as he hands the paper to Varric, furious about this 'ransom.' Varric only scans the ink scrawled across the page, turning back to his partner. Donnic roars about having to cancel the show, snatching back the card and shredding it in his fists.
"Well, surely, there must be an understudy." Varric suggests.
"There is no understudy!" Sebastian shoots.
The fit of yelling that responds, centered on the concept of refunding a full house, echoes nearly as far as the diva's fervent notes had.
"Marianna Hawke could sing it for you." Madame Elthina mentions when the tempest finally loses its thunder.
Hawke spins around, ripped from her conversation with Merrill in surprise.
"She has been learning from a great tutor."
"Who?" Varric asks Marianna, voice rather gentle.
She would rather not speak of it, certain no one would believe her claims. But, she answers him none the less, deferring to his authority.
"I do not know his name..."
"Let her try." Elthina requests.
They allow her to step forward in due course. She takes place in Isabela's stead. Afraid at first, but collecting bravery as she mouths the words. And the rhythm that escapes her throat as the piano plays out the rules of her song, is that akin to a canary suddenly inspired. Her silken voice carries far and caresses the ears with a gentleness undiscovered. Securing the part for her glory.
This was only the beginning.