Did you know?

Victorians could hire 'professional mourners' to attend their loved one's funeral. These people would partake in the procession and were not allowed to speak, just look awfully sad! — Rune

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"The Prodigal Sister" for Ophelia Devine. Faked deaths, scandal, and schemes!
Kristoffer was going to be great at this, because he was great at everything. Also his memory was greater than everyone else's, because he bet no one else had ever lost their virginity somewhere exotic like Morocco. Hell, he bet no one else had even lost their virginity. Inexperienced losers.

Kristoffer Lestrange in Shining, Shimmering Splendour

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7 Deadly Sins

Complete seven threads, one where your character displays each of the Seven Deadly Sins — Pride, Lust, Sloth, Envy, Weath, Gluttony, and Greed. Each thread should be at least ten posts, with at least three being your own. Character accounts can be combined.


Now or Never
May 16th, 1888 - Yaxley Home, Wellingtonshire
Gregory Yaxley
Yeah, draw the line up
Don't take no more time up, yeah
Make your mind up
I need you to make your mind up, yeah

Phoebe had heard about the Season Opener to be held at the Sanditon over that coming weekend and she was bound and determined to go. With or without her husband. Preferably without but she felt she had to at least talk to him about it. Hopefully he'd simply ignore her, as he often did, and not pay any attention to her disappearance over the weekend. After all, it wasn't as if it would be the first time she was gone for an entire weekend. And if he didn't go with her, perhaps she'd see if Theseus needed a break from his own spouse.

After being dressed for the day by her maid, she found her way down to the dining room to partake of a very light breakfast, if it could even be deemed as such. She was actually quite surprised to see her husband sitting at the table with the paper, or something, she couldn't really be bothered to see what it was that he actually had. It could have been a catalog of naked women for all she knew.

With a small plate of mostly fruit and a pastry, she settled in at the table before long. Blue eyes glanced to the man who had yet to even acknowledge her existence in the room. "Gregory," she said simply, still watching him to see if his name being said even registered to him. It didn't. Damned fool, she thought to herself, eyes narrowing slightly into a glare in his general direction. "Gregory," she said again, this time a little more loudly and forceful. Nothing. She had to wonder if perhaps he was partially deaf as well as stupid. He couldn't speak normally like a proper gentleman after all.

"Gregory!" she all but yelled this time, "I'm talking to you. Are you really that daft as to not acknowledge your wife?" Oh how she hoped he'd fall down the stairs and just break his neck or something. The world would truly be much better off without him.
He had been working on the letter since about ten to six; the latest post he had gotten from Miss Baudelaire (or, rather, B.) had captured his imagination and curiosity to the point that the already-restless sleeper had gotten barely any slumber that night. As with most things in his life, he didn’t really think much of it; he had survived on less sleep as a student, after all.

Still, the man had to admit to himself that writing his response put him in a trance almost like sleep and, from his experience, almost twice as pleasant. Writing, he found, was much easier than talking, for you could correct your mistakes as long as you had time, parchment, and ink (three things, in other words, that the heir to the Yaxleys had in spades). It was not as if it was completely effortless—the concentration it required to pluck his racing thoughts out of the mess that was his mind and place them onto paper without misspellings and tangents was yet significant, and more than once in the past two hours he had to scrap the whole letter and start again—but the intellectual stimulation had lit a fire in him...

“Ah, ah—“ At his wife’s near-shout, his hand tilts and blots the page with a large stain. “Yes, Phoebe?” By this point, he was less angry and more tired. “I’m rather the moment.”
Phoebe regarded her husband with a mixture of incredulity and anger. He was busy. What in Merlin's beard could he possibly be too busy with than to listen to his own wife? One, she thought to herself, that was far better to look at than whatever it was he was so focused on. He was beyond working with, clearly.

"Gregory," she continued again but still leveled a glare in his direction, "The Sanditon is having its Season Opener this weekend. I'd like to go." There was no asking him if she could go. She'g long since gotten beyond asking him to do anything. He rarely paid attention to the things she did, after all, so why should he even have a say in whether she did something or not?
Gregory–whether out of stubborn pureblood pride or sure truth–was of the opinion that he wasn’t stupid, even if the rest of the world seemed to think so. Even a moron, however, he thought to himself as he stifled a sigh, beginning to crumple his umpteenth ruined letter, would pick up on the pure venom in his darling wife’s voice. She was, once again, angry at him, her imbecile of a husband.

(It might have strung more if he didn’t feel a similar way.)

He let the silence go on longer than it needed to, instead mopping up the spilt ink with the wad of parchment in his hand. “Well–well…I see,” he finally replied once the tabletop was rudimentarily clean. Now, where was his wand...? “Then I hope you…have a rather great–or lovely, I mean–time.”
Phoebe didn't take her piercing blue gaze off of her imbecile of a husband even if he didn't have a clue she was watching him. Why he bothered to clean the mess, she didn't understand. That was why they had servants, wasn't it? Regardless, he was doing an awful job of it and then when he did open his mouth to speak to her again, he once more sounded even more like the idiot she thought he was.

"Yes," she said with a smile, "I'm sure I'll have a lovely time. And surely you'll quite enjoy the quiet and solitude with your...maps." Not that it was ever very loud in the house. She often left whenever she had the chance to rather than be stuck in his boring company.
She was actually smiling?

Gregory was not an impish man by any means; in fact he was downright disapproving of practical jokes and leg-pulling. He also, genuinely, couldn’t care less about whatever or why Phoebe did things, as long as it didn’t besmirch the Yaxley name. Whether that was considered weakness in a man, he did not know, and once again he didn’t consider it terribly important as long as she didn’t resort to harpy-like screeching (which, he knew from past experience, was a level of shrillness she could still reach) or outright slandering him with her girl-friends. Yet he had noticed, for whatever reason, that every once in a while his tolerance for her, already low, would go past mere avoidance and into…well, he wouldn’t call it maliciousness, persay. More…a reaction.

(In other words, trollery.)

Scourgify, he thought, waving his wand over the remnants of the stain; when he finally speaks again, it is with a voice as mild as milk. “I wouldn’t–I wouldn’t describe Sanditon…as quiet, persay, but–but you, err, know more than I in that regard. Regardless, when do we, well, depart?”
Phoebe couldn't help but to smirk with pride as he referred to her as knowing more. It was, perhaps, the most intelligent thing he'd managed to say to her in quite some time. But then he ruined it when he said we. The look of pride instantly fell from her face and she visibly blanched at the very idea of spending a weekend with him at the Sanditon. She clearly hadn't expected him to want to go.

"We?" she questioned with a furrowed brow, "I would have thought you had more important things to do than go off to the resort." After all, he made many excuses for such a thing whenever she mentioned attending any other events.

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