Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-28770958-20160916100001

In a far off time, in the age of Aristocracy in 1440's France, There lived a man known as Aimé de Lorraine. He was tall though no one could quite guess his true height, he had a love of wearing high heeled shoes. He was beautiful, his long golden blonde hair flowed down his back in waves, his milky white skin the envy of every man and woman alike. He wore a white ruffled shirt with a black dress coat over it, purple buttons lining the side.

His pants were pinstriped, purple and black. He wore a top hat that bore a rose on the side. Red like the color of the rose petals that would carpet the garden tonight.

He had a brother, whom he loved very much, but his brother had fallen in with sickly people, people whom made The Count Lorraine violently ill to even speak to. He’d married a woman that after laying eyes on his Count of a brother, had suddenly come upon her husband, dead in the sitting room of their mansion.

He was the crown jewel of every ball held by the rich noblemen of his city. He was also the enemy of many who attended said functions.

"Aimé, you simply must come with us after the ball tonight!" The person that spoke, her name was Nicolette Du Coudray and she was a loose woman with even an even looser mouth. He despised her with the intensity of the darkness that surrounded them. She clung to his arm, pressing herself against him like some kind of parasite, he mentally sneered in disgust. "Certainly cheri", he spoke at last, french rolling off of his tongue like silk sliding under the hand of a lover.

She stuck to him as if a fly drowned in honeyed nectar. He finally managed to peel her disgustingly obese form away from him before he bowed to her and the woman in the carriage, if Nicolette was a sow Marcine was a starving pigeon. Her eyes too large for her head, her limbs spindly and misshapen. Marcine smiled at him with her bug eyed grin, her husband was a baker who liked to bake inside other women’s ovens. He could smell her desperation from kilometers away. The Count Lorraine shivered in mortification, ignoring her roving eyes and those of the equally groping Nicolette.

The man bade them farewell as he departed. The lights on the streets of Versailles had grown dim, he made his way through the alleyways and the backdoors of various buildings. His light blue eyes twinkled in the moonlight as he arrived at his home.

Château du Lorraine. Lorraine was nowhere near Versailles, but he'd moved here to make his own way in the world. He headed into the mansion and sat at his desk, he would do it tonight, it had been so long since he'd watched the beautiful roses bloom. He would teach that slovenly woman what he thought of her,.....tonight.

He met with the Queen Of Pigs at her home, the smell of her cheaply made perfumes viciously assaulting his sensitive nostrils. "Are you ready Nicolette?", he questioned as he offered her his arm. She nodded eagerly, the fat rolls on her chin wobbling like a gelatin left to rot in the evening sunlight. He kept a bright smile as she took to his arm, she’d been chasing after him for years, leaving her husband in the dirt, her husband who happened to be The Count’s younger brother. He would never forgive this woman for her sins.

Why his brother ever married her he would never know, all he knew was his brother had been murdered and she was the prime suspect. He did not need evidence to back up his claim. He could see it in her eyes with how she leered at him, wanton and lustful. As long as she was married she had responsibility as a wife to her husband. With his brother gone, he knew she would feel free to pursue him. The mere idea made him want to regurgitate.

She was dressed as some type of parisian noblewoman, gaudy wig and all. He cringed at the sight of it. His own attire was a dark blue suit, a black ruffled shirt and a masquerade ball mask with black feathers on either side. Suddenly, a group of angry men rode up in a carriage behind him. "Aimé du Lorraine! you are under arrest for the murder of the duke of Lorraine!", he turned to glare at the ones who'd finally caught up with him. Before he'd left his home city, he wanted to see the beautiful roses bloom, and in order to do so, he needed a garden from which they would spring forth. He chose his own father.....

He was taken away from the screaming hog, glad at least to be rid of her hungered gaze. Thrown into a cell where for several days and nights he was tortured. Rose vines were tied around his entire body in such a great number and so tightly that they cut off his blood flow. He was hung from the ceiling of his cell, by thick ropes that did nothing but slice the vines deeper into his flesh.

"You are convicted of murdering your own father, monsieur Aimé, we have been instructed by your mother to, 'use you as the garden from which the roses bloom'. The guard that said this had been standing in front of the bars, mocking him. His eyes widened, but soon his look of shock turned into one of pure pleasure. "Tell my mother" he giggled, "I am honored to make such a sacrifice, I a son who has committed the ultimate sin....", his expression feigned remorse when on the inside he was ecstatic. The guard, unnerved by his vocalization quickly walked away from the cell. "Yes dear mother, I am a sinner, but I am also a gentleman." he was executed that night, his body split apart by rose vines, his tongue torn out and his lips sewn shut, whips and other torture devices saw that he became the blood that painted the walls, his screams faded into the darkness...

Many years later, the night so long ago that Aime had been executed. There came a knock upon the door of Nicolette du Coudray. Aimé stood there, dressed as he had the night they'd met before he'd been taken by the royal guard.

Only this time, the buttons on his jacket were dark purple roses, a skull sat on the side of his now smaller elegant hat with a rose coming out of it's mouth. "Is that you dear sir?" came the voice of the pig woman. He nodded silently, his light blue eyes twinkling in the moonlight. He smiled kindly to her. He offered her his hand, she was compelled to grasp it in her own.

Without a word he walked with her down the cobblestone streets of Versailles. "We are headed to the ball tonight, I am so terribly sorry that I did not get to escort you before cheri." he stopped at the street he'd been arrested on and turned back. He then opened the door to her home.

"What is this? we are merely entering back into my home what do you mean by such a thing?"

He did not answer, only gripped her hand a bit tighter. "Dance with me, my little dove", he said this as he took her other hand in his and began to dance, she fell into step with him almost instantly.

They were inside his mansion now, with the walls as black as night and each door as if spun silver from the moon itself. The ballroom they stood within was beautiful, the marble floor was a deep red with flecks of purple within them. The walls were black and the designs on them were of light purple roses. An orchestra began to play in the background as they danced, Nicolette nodded in appreciation, even if she was a bit confused as to the change of scenery. She was certain she must be dreaming. She smiled in glee as he danced with her, but soon grew weary, wishing to rest. “My dear my we take a break now?”, she asked this as sweat began to drip down her face. He shook his head silently in rejection of the notion.

“Oh no my dear! Tonight is the night the roses shall bloom!”, She tried to pull away from him, too tired to continue onward. Enraged his face changed as they went, his once plump lips were stitched closed by thick black thread.

His once twinkling light blue eyes became dark burning purple with black sclera. Ears pointed out of his curls of blonde hair that had suddenly turned as white as as the woman’s face and knuckles soon became, clawing at his arms. She was desperate to escape the deranged fang smile of the crazed Count.

But, she would never escape as he hypnotized her with his ethereal gaze...

Her eyes widened in pure terror, screams echoing into the night.

However, none could hear her.

Even if they had none would be foolish enough to go within.

For in the morning, as dawn’s light crept up the side of her home where a bushel of strange roses had overgrown to cover the entire house in winding, twisting vines that choked the life from all that it touched.

There was no mansion with walls as black as night and doors as silver as the moon. There was no ballroom surrounded by the very same vines that now infected the normal abode. With marble floors red as blood with purple dashed about their surface just as deeply lavender as the roses that had lined the walls.

No, all that was left, deep inside the swirling twisted evils of the home of Nicolette du Coudray, were her shoes. And beneath, around, inside of them, several roses growing from the pool of blood that they stood in.....and the sound of an orchestra putting away it’s instruments of torture. 