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Author Topic: Sense & Sensibility — Geneviève Ambroiseux  (Read 1180 times)

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Sense & Sensibility — Geneviève Ambroiseux
« on: September 06, 2022, 06:17:12 PM »
Quote

“Providence has willed that man should be the head of the home,
even as woman is its heart.”             — Miss Florence Hartley, 1860

Geneviève Chaboteaux (née Ambroiseux)
b.759 - d.778
                                                                                                                                             
Spoiler: show

((OOC Disclaimer: None of the art/images used in this bio. are mine unless otherwise stated. Credit linked where possible.))
Click for portrait // writeup
« Last Edit: February 03, 2023, 08:27:50 AM by bunnie »

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« Reply #1 on: September 08, 2022, 08:24:57 AM »



















     
Rêver (y. 773)
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Geneviève Ambroiseux was an airhead.

An abrupt door-opening caused a jump, which caused a prick. The prick of the needle caused blood to bead. She exhaled a restless breath through her nose and pressed the offending fingertip against her lips, ensuring the purity of the embroidered cloth stretched out upon the hoop. The little woven flower that had held all of her attention had been jostled irreparably by the surprise, delicate threading split.

“Are you truly not ready, Geneviève?” The elder questioned in a huff, rushing her. “We are already running late.”

A look was directed toward the elder, then; unhappy. She began to turn the fabric hoop over, plucking at the threads with the end of her needle until they came loose.
“It is uneven. I need to finish it..- You need to learn to knock, it's polite.”

“Father will be cross if you are not on time, again. It is polite to be punctual.” Her arms crossed over her chest, turning on her heel with the clear expectation of the younger in tow.

Lips pursed as the youth rolled her eyes and begrudgingly set the hoop atop her dresser. To say she hurried behind would be an overstatement, and thus the already late Ambroiseux was even later, strolling through the corridors as her attention was snatched. Her father's frustrated words were expected, yet hurtful. She wept within the pages of the book.

'Punctuality is a mark of politeness, and disobedience to the notion is found most disagreeable.'


« Last Edit: November 05, 2022, 08:17:09 PM by bunnie »

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« Reply #2 on: September 18, 2022, 09:14:06 PM »
Partir (y. 774)
Quote

Geneviève Ambroiseux was an airhead.

Out of necessity, it could be said. There is only so much for one to look at from a windowsill, from a chaise. Each step was a frustration, each praise repetitive, mocking. Who knew accidents could make things so woefully, woefully boring.
 
“She is doing well, madame. Better.” Muffled, through the door.

“For how long? Will she require a cane, this time - the next?”

Her eyes rolled, red ringed and swollen from her routine pain management. She did not intend to fall. That would be clear, or, at least she did hope so. Mother knew she was prone to these accidents. She gnawed on the inside of her cheek with distaste for the entire situation.

Fingers twitched. She smoothed her chemise down over the sutured leg, plucking at the fabric rather than each stitch. They were uneven, she could feel, but it would not do for her to pick again. That would cause another issue with them, and she was so tired. And so bored.

Tired and bored. Bored and tired. Her eyelids drooped from the effort of staying in focus.

In absence, her fingers found the stitching, and plucked.

'A lady had better keep her room if she is too feeble to sit up in the drawing-room.'

     

















« Last Edit: November 05, 2022, 08:16:44 PM by bunnie »

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« Reply #3 on: October 07, 2022, 09:14:44 AM »
 
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And in that moment, her dearest confidante encouraged..
It will be alright. Take your time.
Make the choice.
                                                                                                                                             
« Last Edit: November 05, 2022, 04:42:41 PM by bunnie »

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« Reply #4 on: November 05, 2022, 08:08:44 PM »






















     
Vouloir (y. 775)
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Geneviève Ambroiseux was an airhead.

Foolish it was to find fondness for man; for the physician’s assistant; for the tutor. She preened and fussed as her vanity was stoked, the rosiest flush upon her cheeks with each word shared. Little sighs of contentment and flattery. She knew her sisters noticed. At the least, Florentine did. The softest feathers do not make a cruel bird kind, and for all her beauty; she lacked warmth.

It began with a smile; a brush of the arm. On the route of badgering her littlest sister did Florentine find the will for affection. And one by one would they twist their wantings from one sister to the other. Mayhaps it was protection - she named it thievery.

His name was Antoine. He was the kind of young man whose handsome face had guided him where he was needed in life. Filled with a passion for his tutelage, and an appreciation for her mind. She felt for him the timid affections of a youth, and yet.. Accordingly, he was needed in her sister’s room, and that was that.

His name was Claude, and he assisted the docteur. A bright young mind, though not one with an overt need to emote. They spoke in private when her dressing required mending, then oncemore for her biweekly checking-on. She felt for him the gentlest of likings, and yet.. Her sister burnt herself, the poor thing. Lend a hand.

His name was..

'Think not that your empire over affections thus wasted can be a real one. It is transient.'


« Last Edit: November 05, 2022, 11:09:14 PM by bunnie »

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« Reply #5 on: November 08, 2022, 08:07:51 AM »
Obéir (y. 776)
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Geneviève Ambroiseux was an airhead.

A fool. A joke. A puppet whose worth rested only on obedience. It did not matter who it was that pulled her strings; her grandfather, her sisters, her friend. She was - is - reliant on the dutiful will to comply, and to fit in.

Her hand found her sister's arm in all idleness, a timid cling amidst a crowd of far too many. She was not yet accustomed to new company, they said, sequestered away by her mother. A recluse. Socially awkward. Each murmur and look overwhelmed her senses. It was all too much. Far, far too much.

“We shan't step away for long,” a whine, high pitched. Her attempts to drag her poor sister away were almost futile. “Please, Éléonore.”

She felt their hands on her back. A tugging on metaphorical strings, each pluck a command. She put on a pretty smile as they ushered her aside. Away. “You mustn't bother her, Geney, not when she's far too busy enjoying herself. Mother says you ought to sit with us, instead.”

Their voices mingled and mixed, demanding, condescending. “If you continue to make a scene, we may have to ask her to call for the physician. It will be shameful if you truly aren't ready. Aren't you ready?” Was she? Is she? Did it even matter?

“Go dance.” A command. The hands on her back nudged her, returning her to the crowd whence she came. She smiled, and danced, and did as she was told.

'A woman's innate desire is to please, to comply both gracefully and promptly with any wishes.'

     





















« Last Edit: December 03, 2022, 03:06:19 AM by bunnie »

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« Reply #6 on: November 08, 2022, 08:07:59 AM »
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« Last Edit: December 12, 2022, 12:46:46 PM by bunnie »

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« Reply #7 on: November 28, 2022, 08:02:55 PM »



















     
Décider (y. 777)
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Geneviève Ambroiseux was an airhead.

And he enjoyed her for it, wholly and purely. For the woman she was, not the woman she had to be, nor the woman she would have to become. An airhead, an artist, a woman of adoration and glee. A chatterbox. A lover.

His name was Solomon, and he was the loveliest man she'd ever met. A listener, a carer, who displayed such genuine interest in all she did. He was, and would be, like no other. And she was unused to it, as he was unused to the reciprocation.

Letters came and went, decisions made for her. She grasped his hand as she was made to admit every circumstance. “I will remain," he would assure. “I will never be far."

She knew. She was selfish, and would never get what she wanted, but she would have this at the very, very least. They would keep their lounge, and she would do as she had to. To ensure the blooms of prosperity blossomed for him.

All has a place, and in its place it would be, and so would she be; as was designated by Her.

She cherished him; her business partner. She cherished him until hurt oozed out in the form of ugly tears and stifled sobs, hidden away in their coveted spaces.

'The love of which was supposed far too strong to fall to disappointment, has expired in the fruition of its hopes and its dreams.'


« Last Edit: December 12, 2022, 12:47:55 PM by bunnie »

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« Reply #8 on: December 12, 2022, 01:41:29 PM »
Devenir (y. 777)
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Geneviève Ambroiseux was..

An ornament. Rosy-cheeked, pampered, and pretty. Her breaths came out in little gasps as her lady's maid pulled the lacing upon her corset tighter, and tighter, and tighter. Until her waist was tiny and her chest heaved with wheezes.

“Perfect,” came the assurances as the layers of her dainty white wedding dress were settled about her. “Just perfect, miss.”

All dressed up, she was collected, and delivered then to her betrothed, a bouquet of sweet yellow tulips in hand. A smile hidden by the veil of heavenly lace; perfect. Pretty. Pampered.

There were eyes, so many eyes, of her peers. Of people she knew, and people she didn't - and she felt them. All of them. But not so deeply as a certain pair, which bore into the bride in both body and soul. Thin fingers tightened about the bouquet, a queasy breath released, and that would be all. She had to play her part. She was nothing if not her part, and that part was not her.

So it must be. So it must be. So it must be.

A kiss, brief and proper, to verify their joining. Many congratulations, many thanks repeated in automation. She escaped when the time came, and the queasiness overtook her. Though she did not eat during their reception, she gagged, and sobbed at the retribution of her buried nerves.

'Submission and self-control are then the duty of the young sufferer—for a sufferer she truly is.'

     




















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« Reply #9 on: February 06, 2023, 09:00:36 AM »
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Geneviève Chaboteaux was not herself.

Every day in the tower was a blur, a lapsing of her mind in and out of proper cognizance. She heard their voices, she knew their words. She knew them, but not these renditions; birthed in the name of a plan uncertain. Creations of deception moulded in the appearance of those she loved. She would roll listlessly in the confines of her cot..

She peered, bleary-eyed, at the skeletal form of her friend, concealed by that horrid, horrid armour.

Battered lips struggled to purse. She wanted to speak - and yet all she could find the energy to do was cry. Cry herself back into that state of unconscious bliss, where she would no longer have to grieve for those standing right by her. Where they would still live, and smile, and pretend to hew lumber in her lounge.

She never really noticed the hands that found themselves about her throat. Perhaps she did not care to, perhaps she was too far gone by the time they came. Only a wheeze was uttered as her attention lapsed once, twice, with the changing light - and the changing scene. How long had it been? She wailed.

Another hand to her throat blessed her with attentiveness. The crisp air of the tower's top felt as if burst blisters against rarely freed skin, a buffet that reddened and bruised with fervour. She recognized so much in such a minute moment. These weren't her clothes, these weren't familiar captors; this was not where she was meant to be. The sullen Hawk before her raised his arms, and..

The offering felt him take..

The offering felt them hit..

The offering felt nothing, evermore.

A battered corpse. An unidentified sacrifice. How does a soul so marred, so pilfered, know its way home?

Dame Geneviève Chaboteaux was returned to her husband's arms with tears in her eyes, and a hit to her little head. “Poor thing,” was uttered. “Poor thing.”

 
« Last Edit: February 06, 2023, 09:04:09 AM by bunnie »