Un Chat Gris
Sep. 4th, 2013 11:46 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
emmyclaire in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
birthright_rpgThere had been a gentle tug at the back of Emmeline’s mind for days. She had meditated, prayed, thrown runes and drawn cards, all to no avail; the tug persisted but brought with it no fruition, driving Emmeline to distraction as her daily routine became more scattered and confused with her mind occupied elsewhere.
Jean-Samuel Montesquiou Sainte-Colombe was born sometime in the mid-18th century, on a palatial estate just outside of Paris. His mother died with his birth, though it was of little matter to his lord father, who just as quickly took another noble bride and set forth furthering his aristocratic line.
For his part, the eldest son – whose family and friends knew to call him simply Samuel – wasn’t the worst of the aristocracy of his age, though he certainly wasn’t the best. He drank and chased women as much as the others, though there was perhaps a certain jovial sensibility about him that left him well-liked in the local villages. In the end it didn’t matter; he was still of titled blood, he still lived in luxury beyond that of most, and when the riots and anger of Paris spilled out across the land, Samuel was just as soon found staring down at a bloodied basket that would momentarily collect his head.
Some part of him was never quite able to let go, and he watched as his family home was ransacked, taken on by the nouveau riche, nearly burned half a century later, and even occupied for a time by goose-stepping soldiers that turned Samuel’s immaterial stomach. When it became a hostel sometime later, Samuel amused himself by watching the comings and goings of young students and wanders who passed through his doors, until one day a young Englishwoman caught his eye and smiled, and he realized she could see him.
From that day on, the two were attached, and now, as Emmeline opened her mind to reach out into the ether, answering the quiet little tug at the back of her mind, Samuel flickered into being atop her bed, shaking his head as their eyes met.
“Sam,” she said with a wide smile. “Where have you been? I’ve felt you calling.”
The spirit smiled. “I have tried to speak with you, mon cherie. Your mind has not been as open as it usually is.”
Emmeline frowned, surveying the 18th century playboy that had become her spirit guide. He would have been handsome in life, tall and lean, eyes bright and blue, dark hair and a bright smile. Sometimes, like today, he appeared lively and well; other days he seemed faded, like an old photograph, or flickering in and out as though he were part of an old tattered film strip. Worse still were the days he was gaunt and broken, bloody and standing before her as he looked after the guillotine, head lolling on battered shoulders. But today Sam looked well, and Emmeline was glad for it; he had become a dear friend over the years.
“I was trying to meditate just last night!” Emmeline protested. She was still sat on the bedroom carpet, encircled with candles that flickered in the dim evening light. “In the quiet, candles lit, incense burning.”
Sam smiled brightly and shook his head, casting his eyes down a moment in affection. “Perhaps, Emmeline, your meditation might be more effective if you burned only your sage and sandalwood, no? Not those little plants you grow.”
“Oh,” Emmeline offered lamely. “It had been a… rough day.”
“Shall we talk then, ma douce? I have much to tell you, and I have not seen you in so long,” Sam responded.
Emmeline nodded eagerly; Samuel was her spirit guide, giving her safe passage into the ether, helping her learn and channel her own power. It had been some time since they had spoken, and she had been feeling worse for wear.
“Have you thought of taking on the form of a familiar, Sam?” she queried softly. “You could be around all the time, then.”
The spirit gave a deep hearty chuckle. “Moi? Un chat gris?” he responded incredulously. “No, no, I think not. Our relationship seems best as I remain… immaterial? Now, cherie… there is much to tell.”
Jean-Samuel Montesquiou Sainte-Colombe was born sometime in the mid-18th century, on a palatial estate just outside of Paris. His mother died with his birth, though it was of little matter to his lord father, who just as quickly took another noble bride and set forth furthering his aristocratic line.
For his part, the eldest son – whose family and friends knew to call him simply Samuel – wasn’t the worst of the aristocracy of his age, though he certainly wasn’t the best. He drank and chased women as much as the others, though there was perhaps a certain jovial sensibility about him that left him well-liked in the local villages. In the end it didn’t matter; he was still of titled blood, he still lived in luxury beyond that of most, and when the riots and anger of Paris spilled out across the land, Samuel was just as soon found staring down at a bloodied basket that would momentarily collect his head.
Some part of him was never quite able to let go, and he watched as his family home was ransacked, taken on by the nouveau riche, nearly burned half a century later, and even occupied for a time by goose-stepping soldiers that turned Samuel’s immaterial stomach. When it became a hostel sometime later, Samuel amused himself by watching the comings and goings of young students and wanders who passed through his doors, until one day a young Englishwoman caught his eye and smiled, and he realized she could see him.
From that day on, the two were attached, and now, as Emmeline opened her mind to reach out into the ether, answering the quiet little tug at the back of her mind, Samuel flickered into being atop her bed, shaking his head as their eyes met.
“Sam,” she said with a wide smile. “Where have you been? I’ve felt you calling.”
The spirit smiled. “I have tried to speak with you, mon cherie. Your mind has not been as open as it usually is.”
Emmeline frowned, surveying the 18th century playboy that had become her spirit guide. He would have been handsome in life, tall and lean, eyes bright and blue, dark hair and a bright smile. Sometimes, like today, he appeared lively and well; other days he seemed faded, like an old photograph, or flickering in and out as though he were part of an old tattered film strip. Worse still were the days he was gaunt and broken, bloody and standing before her as he looked after the guillotine, head lolling on battered shoulders. But today Sam looked well, and Emmeline was glad for it; he had become a dear friend over the years.
“I was trying to meditate just last night!” Emmeline protested. She was still sat on the bedroom carpet, encircled with candles that flickered in the dim evening light. “In the quiet, candles lit, incense burning.”
Sam smiled brightly and shook his head, casting his eyes down a moment in affection. “Perhaps, Emmeline, your meditation might be more effective if you burned only your sage and sandalwood, no? Not those little plants you grow.”
“Oh,” Emmeline offered lamely. “It had been a… rough day.”
“Shall we talk then, ma douce? I have much to tell you, and I have not seen you in so long,” Sam responded.
Emmeline nodded eagerly; Samuel was her spirit guide, giving her safe passage into the ether, helping her learn and channel her own power. It had been some time since they had spoken, and she had been feeling worse for wear.
“Have you thought of taking on the form of a familiar, Sam?” she queried softly. “You could be around all the time, then.”
The spirit gave a deep hearty chuckle. “Moi? Un chat gris?” he responded incredulously. “No, no, I think not. Our relationship seems best as I remain… immaterial? Now, cherie… there is much to tell.”