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Adjusting to life at the Society of Battle Connoisseurs has never been an easy task. The inner workings of high society don't make a lick of sense, as with each passing day, Lebanne learns some new rule or commandment. It's always something about posture or the eightieth soup spoon being a centimeter off from its normal resting place. Then, just when Lebanne thinks she finally understands it all, something comes by to Sucker Punch her right in the metaphorical jaw. Tonight has thus far encompassed every horrid adjustment she's made from street life to suite life.
While known mostly for tournaments with asinine barriers to entry, the SBC actually does host a fair amount of standard events. Hotel Richissime is a premier venue for the ultra-wealthy to conglomerate and mingle. Unlike the tournaments which involves something that Lebanne knows deeply, like battling, galas remain foreign to her. It just seems like an excuse to dress in puffy clothes and try to brag about your superficial accomplishments to those with similarly large, yet fragile egos. It's about tradition, sure, but is there really a point to tradition if said tradition feels so meaningless?
All of the proclivities and eccentricities of the rich would be one thing. To her complete and utter dismay, the above contempt is amplified due to the very woman that thrust Lebanne into this life to begin with. Amplified, scrambled, and served with a dash of chaos to a point where Lebanne doesn't truly know how she feels about it anymore. Jacinthe is those things coalesced into a one woman army, yet in a flavor so unique that Lebanne can hardly comprehend it.
How could someone so hoity-toity seem to be in active pursuit of trouble? How is someone rather young so out-of-touch with not just people, but with reality itself? Jacinthe lives in her own world, her own Jacinthe Zone at all times, and Lebanne has been brought along for the ride. All because these two women from universes apart converged at the singular, central point known as pride. The cosmos were predictably cruel and dealt Lebanne a loss of that battle and her spirit. Theseused into someone who is still Lebanne, but changed oh-so-fundamentally. Jacinthe is lucky she's the most gorgeous person Lebanne has ever laid her eyes on, because of course she is, or else she'd have a far more miserable maid at her side.
These are the thoughts that ruminate within Lebanne's mind as she stands as the lone attendant to something that's an event in its own right. She's stood upright, guarding the door to Jacinthe's private dressing room in Hotel Richissime. This isn't a totally foreign circumstance, as not only is Jacinthe ever-picky about her appearance, but there is a platitude of care that goes into it. Clothes weaved from the finest silks shan't have a wrinkle or smudge. Marks of status must be affixed to remind even the dullest of who Madame Jacinthe is. Then, the hair, three heavy ringlet curls that just about frame her whole body. It's all of this prep that gives Lebanne just the slightest of victories, as she's pleased she only has to put on her standard maid outfit and look presentable. Even if she'd be wearing literally anything else. Lebanne's snapped out of her thoughts by an airy call, her head turning to the dressing room door.
"Lebanne, come hither, I require your assistance," Jacinthe says from within, quiet yet clear. Lebanne takes a deep breath through her nostrils, and responds flatly.
"Understood, Lady Jacinthe," she says robotically, placing her hand on the doorknob. While she's given Jacinthe a hand in this department numerous times, she can't help but feel something different about tonight. Being the one who knows this strange fey lady better than anyone else, Lebanne knows Jacinthe is, surprising to the unknowing, unenthused by tonight's gala. She knows that woman's hands twitch, wanting to show her mastery of battling alongside Clefable and the rest. Not... dance with two left feet. Lebanne opens the door slowly, as to not creak its hinges, and is greeted with a standard sight and a blast of hyacinth perfume.
Jacinthe's back is turned as she's sat upon a stool. She holds two of her ringlet curls in her hands, revealing the open-shoulder, iridescent lilac dress chosen for tonight's event. From just this angle alone, Lebanne knows exactly what to do, as with all that hair comes a lot of necessary grace. She takes a step inside so she can shut the door behind them, enforcing necessary privacy.
"The zipper, I presume," Lebanne says, taking another step forward and staring down. As enamored as she is with Jacinthe's appearance, there's something about seeing the other's bare upper back that triggers her worker's instinct. It's never to be exposed and it's her job to ensure that, hence, she's able to handle this part without getting into a tizzy.
Jacinthe clicks her heel onto the ground and, if she weren't paralyzed by making sure her hair doesn't flop about, would have wagged a finger at Lebanne. "Ah, dear Lebanne, for tonight, you do not speak lest spoken to, comprendre? Now, proceed." she states with usual strictness. Yet, a hint of mockery in her tone doesn't go unnoticed. Lebanne shuts her eyes and takes another deep breath before leaning forward.
"My apologies, Lady Jacinthe, it shall not happen again," she says, gently putting one hand on Jacinthe's shoulder blade for leverage, the other pinching the zipper. It goes gently and smoothly, not a hair caught in the zipper's teeth and the cloth flap smoothed over it to hide it. Simple and routine.
Knowingly, Lebanne backs off, watching as Jacinthe shoots upright. High and mighty as she may be, she does have the vice of being unable to sit still for too long. Not far from eyesight is a standing mirror, which Jacinthe steps in front of to parse her appearance. It's here where Lebanne gets her own view of just what Jacinthe put on. It's form-fitting like the rest of the aristocrat's clothes, that same shade of lavender, yet remarkably simpler. The only decorations are the other's titular gloves and Key Stone fascinator, but otherwise, it's surprisingly plain? She would ask if that weren't a question worthy of 100 Tournoi de Jacinthes that force her to use nothing but a Skrelp.
It would also be nice to catch a couple deviant looks, but alas, no flustering herself on the job. Lebanne's eyes divert to the wall when she's seen enough of the dress, only having to imagine the show that Jacinthe is giving herself in that mirror. It's probably stilted and goofy, anyways.
"Lebanne, I require your eyes and your opinion," Jacinthe states sharply, turning her head sideways as her back is turned again. Lebanne's mental reprieve is short as she's forced to face the other's ombre side-eye. Now that's an odd request, since when was her opinion important in this forsaken hotel?
"I..." she says, autopiloting into a bow, "will answer as honestly as I can, Lady Jacinthe."
"Does this dress make ma derrière look big?" Jacinthe asks with the tone of a wounded Fidough.
"..."
"..."
What.
"Huh!?" Lebanne exclaims, scowling and raising her hands to clasp the air in front of her. Jacinthe's eyes narrow for a second.
"Volume, and answer the question, we do not have all night," she retorts. Then, her eyes widen again, a look of cruel innocence lasered at her servant. Jacinthe puts a hand on her hip and begins swaying her lower body subtly. Lebanne's eyes are now contractually obligated to look at her boss' butt, for the good of the SBC.
Confused does not even begin to describe the emotion Lebanne is experiencing. Befuddled? Bewildered? Absolutely gobsmacked and flabbergasted?
Just like the world of the upper class, Jacinthe continues to throw curveballs. Yet this one feels like a hospital pass, a question where any answer will see her thoroughly embarrassed and punished. If she answers yes, would it be considered insulting? It would be the honest truth as Jacinthe's "derrière" has always been shapely, especially in such a body conscious dress. Would she be a pervert for spilling the honesty? Then, there's the flipside, if she answers no, that is an outright lie. It'd be a response that goes against the word she said just a second earlier. Would that also be insulting, saying your mistress has a small ass?
Lebanne tries to collect herself as she pans her eyes up and down a few times, even if she really only needed one look. Her eyes settle on Jacinthe's eyes, whose fishbowl gaze tips the scale for her. Any time Jacinthe's eyes are wide and unexpressive, it reveals that the trickster is at work within her mind. This is a test and damn it, if there's a point that Lebanne is set to make, it's that she's never to fail in front of Jacinthe ever again.
"Your... derrière," Lebanne says with pause, as if she hasn't said far dirtier words in her now-distant past, "looks as it should, Lady Jacinthe. The dress fits you well, and you shall dazzle the ballroom as usual." She nods her head once, trying her hardest to prevent making another undesirable face. Jacinthe turns around slowly and takes a step forward. Her wide eyes narrow and her lips curl into a devilish grin. As frustrating as that beautifully evil smile is, it's far more comforting than the alternatives, Lebanne thinks.
"Merveilleuse, I was worried that this would be too salacious of a pick for tonight. Should my form leave little to the imagination, our guests would be confused into thinking I was courting them." Jacinthe saunters past Lebanne with her hands flared out. One of said hands barely brushes Lebanne's own, an act that the maid can only hope was intentional. "Now, I ought to be making my debut, so please accompany me."
Jacinthe stops at the door, pausing entirely before turning her head around. "And, should you fulfill your duties tonight as asked, we can treat ourselves to a battle and perhaps, a little dessert. How does that sound, ma chérie?"
Having to ignore if the word dessert is a load-bearing coverup for her own sanity, Lebanne folds her hands, nods, and attempts to keep her mind pure. "That sounds lovely, Lady Jacinthe."
This is going to be an utterly miserable night to get through. For each new game the fairy comes up with, the encampment of the mind it creates grows ever more cramped. Lebanne simply wishes that playing these games wouldn't strum her heartstrings like the world's most out-of-tune guitar.