Welcome!

[darcie antonella donaldson]

Darcie looked unhopefully and untrustingly up at a large floor directory hung in the glamorous Hôtel Sofitel's lobby; to her dismay, all of the words were in French. Of course she had taken French back at the Dragon and Headington Academies in Oxford, but she hadn't exactly passed with flying colors. She had barely scraped by with the skin of her teeth! However, sporadically but surely, she began to remember certain words...La meant the, feminine, ok, salle meant ... room? right, de bains meant...oh, hell! She was never going to get very far at this rate. And, despite her agents repeated assurances before she had left home, the French hadn't been too keen to look after her needs or even try to help her translate. And speaking louder to them didn't help, she had gathered very quickly.

I don't even know what I'm doing here, She thought, longing for the icy shores and warm pies of home. But she checked herself quickly, reminding herself that she was here doing what she loved, what she was darned good at, and that she wasn't going to give up for a moment of temporary weakness. She could at least check in, for all that it was worth.

Sighing, Darcie shifted the heavy bright blue hobo-style bag that had started to slide downwards towards her elbow back on her shoulder and tried to look purposeful as she narrowed her eyes, moving her lips as she attempted to sound out the words phonetically. A few of the lobbyist stared at her somewhat interested, a permanent look of mild optimism plastered on their faces. Toni heard the steady swoosh of the rotating door from behind her and a breeze swept her skirt into a frenzy, making the little hairs, detached from her ponytail, fly with the current of air. She automatically pushed them both back into their place without detaching her concentration from the board.

The light tap of shoes against the polished marble floor hardly grasped Darcie's attention, but when someone briskly tapped her on the shoulder, it snapped her concentration right in two.

[ambre sophie revette]

She had woken up fairly early, by her standards of course. The hotel was luxuriously gorgeous (to be expected, it was France after all), and she revelled in the attention she was brought by the hotel staff, some of the maids peeking into her room on late afternoons to see if she was a 'someone'. Well, let them think that. Ambre had never really been one to correct people when they were wrong -- especially if it was to her advantage. If she was a 'someone' in their minds, well, let her reap the benefits. There was no real evil in that. She yawned luxuriantly and clasped the sheets in her bed, rolling over to enjoy some more of the mattress' forgiving flexibility. Her clipboard lay on the nightstand next to her bed and her eyes lazily caught sight of it. Shit, she thought. Or rather, merde. She ran a hand quickly through her blonde hair and let it flop down again. Whatever. People could wait. Whatever troupe was coming in today probably couldn't make it past the airport without a dire need for Diet Coke. All troupes did. It was pretty much a guarantee. However, the signs of American chattering somewhere miles below her window proved her wrong. Double shit. And here she was, supposed to sign them in, show them around, and all. Ambre sighed, sitting up in bed, her usually tamed blonde hair a bird's nest around her pale face. She gazed around the room and once again nodded her approval. The fake polar bear rug did indeed add a rather nice touch. She smirked, and hopped out of bed, nestling her feet in old slippers. Padding towards the gargantuan closet the hotel offered, she quickly dressed -- her selection of clothing passé and uninteresting. No need to impress these people, she decided. They weren't 'someone's either.

Lazily she walked towards the elevator and hit the 'Rez-de-Chaussez' button. Soft music played as she descended. God. She was embarassed for her country. Elevator music was so...American. As she entered the lobby, she noticed an extremely confused-looking woman standing about. No doubt she was here for the festival.

"Excusez-moi," Ambre started in French, then stopped at the woman's confused look and switched to accented English. "My name is Ambre Revette. What troupe are you with?" She wrinkled her nose at the woman's perfume. Seriously. Precious, by Britney Spears? Even the French had some shame.

[darcie antonella donaldson]

"Excusez-moi." Oh, bullocks! Darcie thought, her face contorted in confusion as a petite blonde spoke fluently to her in the native language. The look on Darcie's own face must have registered suddenly with the other, however, for the latter dropped the French accent abruptly, as if she had never spoken it in the first place, and continued to say in a business-like tone, "My name is Ambre Revette. What troupe are you with?"

"Mirage," Toni answered dutifully, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. And then the reality finally sunk in: she was in France! She was in the beautiful streets and sights of Toulouse. And more importantly, Darcie was out of the smelly, dirty, and crowded New York City -- the 'Big Apple' -- and free from its Fashion Institute's grasp. And she was also far away from her hometown of Oxford, where the twisted streets were best suited for the artists of pen and paper, not needles and thread. Toni had free artistic range now, well, as long as it suited her troupe. "I am Darcie Donaldson, by the way." She didn't know whether to hold out her hand or not. Did the French do that? Did it matter since she, herself, wasn't French? Darcie finally decided against it and added conversationally, "I really should have tried to learn French before I came. I honestly can't understand a bloody word of it." But Ambre didn't seem amused or in the mood for light conversation, and Darcie snapped her mouth shut, waiting to speak only when spoken to and answering only the necessities.

She had to take a second to remind herself that she wasn't in the safe-gaurds of her university anymore; this wasn't just a make or break grade for a class, this was a make or break deal for her career. One false footing, one slip, and she would fall into the abyss of the forgotten artist, the one-hit wonder of fashion, if even that. This wasn't Kansas, not anymore.

[ambre sophie revette]

Ambre critically studied the woman in front of her. By her somewhat sylish - for an American, no French would ever have worn that vest - appearance, Ambre took her to be either a costume designer or a dancer. Dancers, Ambre hated. Her mind flickered back to Follet's besotted gaze with that willowy stick of a human, Estela Gale. Whoever she was. She wasn't a 'someone' either. Ambre swallowed. So she shouldn't care. At all. Nothing. Her eyes went back to the woman, who was announcing with somewhat false pride the name of her troupe. "Mirage," the woman stated. Whatever. Ambre quickly scribbled it down on her clipboard. They didn't have much of a chance. Everyone knew that La Nuit Rebelle won. Always. It was an uncontested law. After six years, who could challenge them? Obviously these...Mirage newcomers thought they could. Ambre stifled a sigh and was about to lead the woman towards the sign-up desk when she started to talk again. Ambre turned around and met her eyes. "I am Darcie Donaldson, by the way," she stated, seemingly unsure of what procedure should follow her introduction. Darcie. Interesting name. Ambre plastered a smile on her face and extended a hand. "Pleasure to meet you, Miss Donaldson," she intoned. Darcie spoke again, quickly after her introduction. "I really should have tried to learn French before I came. I honestly can't understand a bloody word of it." Ambre lifted both her eyebrows in an expression resembling something close to astonishment. Really? Conversation. Ambre mentally shrugged. Whatever. Non-'someone's talked to other non-'someone's, didn't they? "It's okay," she answered somewhat stiffly, though she was laughing in her mind. Not learn French and come to France? Oh, surely, surely, it had to be a joke. She tapped her clipboard with her pencil, and tilted her chin in the direction of the desk. "Now, if you will follow me, your troupe needs to register. Otherwise, you won't be allowed in the competition."

[darcie antonella donaldson]

Darcie felt like she was under a searchlight when Ambre looked at her boldly, eyeing her brown-vested outfit with unquestionable, untelling apathy. It made Darcie feel igdigent, as if the woman had just insulted her outwright. To look at her like that and then not even utter a 'tut-tut' of distaste was just plain tyranny to Darcie. And even after she had named the troupe in which she belonged, Ambre seemed unphased and didn't let a flicker of distaste or liking, or any emotion for that matter, betray her words, or lack there of them, although Darcie would have been relieved, or not -- depending on the expression, to have seen some sort of reaction. She stuck out her chin a little, an expression she picked up from fashion school, as the other began to speak after their brief introduction. "It's ok," Ambre said in that same business-like tone after she paused to think for a brief moment. She continued: "Now, if you will follow me, your troupe needs to register. Otherwise, you won't be allowed in the competition." Darcie made a concurring sound and followed her guide over to the desk where she needed to register. I hope this isn't in French, Darcie mused to herself as Ambre handed her some papers attached to a clipboard, much like the one she was holding herself.

[ambre sophie revette]

Ambre walked casually over to the lobbyist. She happily chattered to her for a couple minutes in rapid-fire French, peppering her conversation with looks at Darcie and a couple carefree giggles. Soon after, she gave her friend half a hug and grabbed another clipboard, handing it to Darcie. Tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, she gave Darcie a cool look of appraisal and started to speak, forgetting once more that Darcie was American and could not understand French. "Voilà," she started, "Vous n'avez qu'a --" She broke off as the lobbyist told her rapidly that Darcie couldn't understand English. Ambre blushed a delicate shade of red, steeled herself, and started again. "Here you go," she told her. "You just have to print the name of your troupe, read the contract, and sign here, along with your troupe director. Turn it in to Caroline when you're done." She pointed to the lobbyist. Darcie looked stricken at the thought of filling out what she seemed to believe was a form completely in French. Ambre smirked slowly and patted Darcie on the shoulder. "Don't worry," she said, dropping her voice a couple decibels. "It's all in English." She leaned back and casually flipped her hair, her eyes checking the door to see if -- maybe -- Follet would enter. Or other people at least. Maybe even a 'someone'.