( welcome to saltburnt ) [Overwhelmed. It's the main emotion Francesca feels each times she tries to go about her day, like she is Sisyphus rolling the stone up the hill only to return back at the bottom of the hill each day. Today is different though. She does not go to the drawing room. She does not engage with anyone. She has dressed and readied herself as dawn trickles over the lawn to awake the manor, but she's already sitting at the piano in whatever room she could find that housed it.
Of course there was one here. In the opulence such as this, something she is well acquainted with, she's taken her seat at it as fingers are slow to move over the ivories, as if something may jump out at her for even daring. But she will. She must. She cannot feel anything else until she is able to get this out of her system, blinking for a moment as the music begins to play.
Sorry, Saltburnt. The song she plays is not exactly a lively jig, though which is better for a morning gig?]
( bacchanal ) cw: implied inebriation, potential for nsfw, gen welcome [It isn't that Bacchus isn't familiar to her. She knows the name, knows his fathers were engaged in things that should make her frailties whither on sight. But there is a curiosity there, of something wicked, of something more that she has not yet experienced in life. After laying out a plate in honor of her father, with figs dowsed in honey, she is deciding to venture further in as if Bacchus himself is leading her on.
She does not think of propriety, for she has already learned there is near none here anyway. It is a strange place, and getting stranger by the day. Adjusting seems to come a little easier with such a lively party (and no one asking her about her deepest thoughts nor of considering marriage here). It is a freedom she is unsure of, by has her light on her feet and wandering til she comes to the pool itself.
For a moment she blinks. The state of undress is a myriad, varied from some in sheer garments that the water makes near see through to most of those bared as the day they were born. She's quiet as she takes it in, overwhelmed but in a pleasant sort of way. Her heart hammers. Francesca is not someone who considers herself very bold, but this seems different. This seems like a wave of depravity that is bound to overtaken. And she is interested, almost desperate to take that jump-- literally and figuratively.
She is far too overdressed for such a venture, but she should surely not strip bare. She thinks of the petticoat that is under. Perhaps that is safe-- or safer for the moment, fingers finding the laces of her gown already.]
( vini, vidi, vici ) cw: slavery. note: if potential for nsfw arises, powerplay dynamics at work here with some likely heavy corruption, but consenting themes [There have been nine generations holding the title of Viscount, something so passed down and ingrained in the Bridgerton that even stepping out of their social class could have grave consequences. But to be dropped so low as to be property?
There must be a mistake. But she's given a palm branch and pushed to the closest royalty who she quite literally knocks into, the straps to her petticoat nearly falling. Her gown has been lost to the baths, her curls down now, but she's stumbling over her words already.]
My-my apologies. Your Grace. [She gives a lowly bow like a proper family has been taught, as a young woman who has been taught to greet royalty, has spent time in their presence. She stands then, a little more adjusted.]
Are you in need of any services? [In her mind she's thinking food and beverages or to be fanned, not realizing how that may be taken.]
ooc: frannie is eighteen. taken from pt1 of season three, but absolutely open to m/f and f/f if anyone would like to be her bi awakening in game. i am also book familiar for references and open to wildcards, too. hit me up at xdombillyx to plot
francesca bridgerton | bridgerton | new character
[Overwhelmed. It's the main emotion Francesca feels each times she tries to go about her day, like she is Sisyphus rolling the stone up the hill only to return back at the bottom of the hill each day. Today is different though. She does not go to the drawing room. She does not engage with anyone. She has dressed and readied herself as dawn trickles over the lawn to awake the manor, but she's already sitting at the piano in whatever room she could find that housed it.
Of course there was one here. In the opulence such as this, something she is well acquainted with, she's taken her seat at it as fingers are slow to move over the ivories, as if something may jump out at her for even daring. But she will. She must. She cannot feel anything else until she is able to get this out of her system, blinking for a moment as the music begins to play.
Sorry, Saltburnt. The song she plays is not exactly a lively jig, though which is better for a morning gig?]
( bacchanal )
cw: implied inebriation, potential for nsfw, gen welcome
[It isn't that Bacchus isn't familiar to her. She knows the name, knows his fathers were engaged in things that should make her frailties whither on sight. But there is a curiosity there, of something wicked, of something more that she has not yet experienced in life. After laying out a plate in honor of her father, with figs dowsed in honey, she is deciding to venture further in as if Bacchus himself is leading her on.
She does not think of propriety, for she has already learned there is near none here anyway. It is a strange place, and getting stranger by the day. Adjusting seems to come a little easier with such a lively party (and no one asking her about her deepest thoughts nor of considering marriage here). It is a freedom she is unsure of, by has her light on her feet and wandering til she comes to the pool itself.
For a moment she blinks. The state of undress is a myriad, varied from some in sheer garments that the water makes near see through to most of those bared as the day they were born. She's quiet as she takes it in, overwhelmed but in a pleasant sort of way. Her heart hammers. Francesca is not someone who considers herself very bold, but this seems different. This seems like a wave of depravity that is bound to overtaken. And she is interested, almost desperate to take that jump-- literally and figuratively.
She is far too overdressed for such a venture, but she should surely not strip bare. She thinks of the petticoat that is under. Perhaps that is safe-- or safer for the moment, fingers finding the laces of her gown already.]
( vini, vidi, vici )
cw: slavery. note: if potential for nsfw arises, powerplay dynamics at work here with some likely heavy corruption, but consenting themes
[There have been nine generations holding the title of Viscount, something so passed down and ingrained in the Bridgerton that even stepping out of their social class could have grave consequences. But to be dropped so low as to be property?
There must be a mistake. But she's given a palm branch and pushed to the closest royalty who she quite literally knocks into, the straps to her petticoat nearly falling. Her gown has been lost to the baths, her curls down now, but she's stumbling over her words already.]
My-my apologies. Your Grace. [She gives a lowly bow like a proper family has been taught, as a young woman who has been taught to greet royalty, has spent time in their presence. She stands then, a little more adjusted.]
Are you in need of any services? [In her mind she's thinking food and beverages or to be fanned, not realizing how that may be taken.]
ooc: frannie is eighteen. taken from pt1 of season three, but absolutely open to m/f and f/f if anyone would like to be her bi awakening in game. i am also book familiar for references and open to wildcards, too. hit me up at