The art of treasures
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❛ Art Deco — Allure in Effect ❜
Date: June, 2026 | Words: 690| Dialogue: #aa5713
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The start of summer was, without a doubt, Stelle's favorite time of year. There was something about those long days that seemed to have forgotten how to end, as if the sun, distracted by the beauty of the world, refused to leave the sky. Spring had left behind an army of vibrant colors that still clung to the gardens, and the warm air carried the scent of late-blooming flowers and newly awakened grass. She loved to run around the estate barefoot, feeling the cool grass between her toes. According to her grandmother, this was a habit unbecoming a young lady; however, Stelle suspected that if a lady had ever been truly happy, she must have spent at least one afternoon without shoes. Her grandmother could be like a watchful hawk, one of those that circle the countryside looking for the slightest mistake to swoop down on. She always had a ready remark, a suitable correction, or a lesson in etiquette up her sleeve. Andromeda's was a strange love, disguised as discipline and wrapped in rules so ancient they probably existed before most of the trees in the garden. It wasn't a gentle love, but it was love nonetheless.
The one person she could never have questioned her affection for was her grandfather.
Stelle didn't consider herself a spoiled child. Her parents had tried too hard to avoid that. They had dedicated years to teaching her gratitude, moderation, and the value of simple things. However, every educational philosophy encountered an insurmountable obstacle when faced with a man and his first granddaughter.
Trud Divogenia was a gentleman from another era. And not figuratively: some of his habits seemed to have miraculously survived more than a century of change. He was a businessman, a passionate collector, and the owner of one of the most prestigious auction houses on the wizarding continent. He had spent decades collecting relics, forgotten manuscripts, enchanted jewels, and objects so strange they seemed to have been invented by some alchemist's delirium. His two greatest devotions, however, were to his wife and granddaughter, for he had a simple theory about money: what was the point of accumulating fortunes if not to indulge those one loved? Earning it was an obligation, investing it a responsibility, and spending it on Andromeda or Stelle a source of happiness no collector could ever acquire. Sometimes the young woman suspected that if someone had asked him to choose between an entire fortune and a smile from either of them, he would have handed over the keys to all his vaults without even asking the price. Auctions were a constant in his life. Every few months he organized a new one, and the mansion's halls would fill with wealthy buyers, antique experts, and curious onlookers eager to behold impossible treasures. And on this occasion, Stelle had managed a brief early escape, encouraged by her grandfather, to experience this ceremonial event for the first time. That morning, her grandmother showered her with warnings and reminders of etiquette while poring over a catalog her grandfather had left on the table before retiring to finalize details for the evening. Servants bustled about, preparing display cases, arranging catalogs, and polishing pieces whose value would be enough to buy several houses. However, much to the dismay of the most important guests, Trud seemed far more interested in showing off her granddaughter than in displaying any legendary artifacts. She led her among the guests with one hand proudly resting on her shoulder, presenting her again and again as if she were the crown jewel of the collection. And perhaps, Stelle thought as she endured the barrage of praise, she was. After all, in a life dedicated to amassing extraordinary treasures, her grandfather seemed to have concluded that the most valuable find hadn't surfaced in any excavation, or in any forgotten castle, or at any million-dollar auction.
She had arrived wrapped in blankets, weeping uncontrollably, the day his first granddaughter was born. The years, however, had worked their magic. Now she looked like a proper young lady, in a cream-colored dress adorned with blue velvet and a swan necklace decorating her neck.
@Marcel Cvitković
You make me wanna make you fall in love───⊹ |
Stelle Mims - Huffelpuf |
The art of treasures
| C | England 04.06.2026 |
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C | ɪ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴇᴀ: ᴡᴇ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀꜱᴛᴀɴᴅ ᴏɴᴇ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ. ɪᴛ ɪꜱ ᴀʟᴡᴀʏꜱ ʏᴇᴀʀɴɪɴɢ, ꜱɪɢʜɪɴɢ ꜰᴏʀ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ɪᴛ ᴄᴀɴɴᴏᴛ ʜᴀᴠᴇ; ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴏ ᴀᴍ ɪ. |
| C | Summer had only just licked the edges of Murmansk when Ivan had ordered his son to pack his bags and accompany him to the train station. This was not unusual to Marcel, not now, but it was a pain nonetheless. The journey was to England, common enough but arduous. Following his father's discreet nature, the two travelled by muggle vehicles. Trains, cabs, planes. Familiar to Marcel, but extensive when compared to the ease of wizard travel. Really, any extended time spent in the company of his formerly estranged father was generally unwanted, but necessary. Marcel opted to stare out the train window as the old city buildings that bordered the Arctic Ocean shifted to green hills and small suburbs, the morning sun painting the Russian landscape a wilting shade of yellow. It was the train, then it was the plane, and then it was the cab, and suddenly it was a small cabin in the English countryside. It was constructed of mismatched bricks, a few shutters peeling back white paint to reveal aged wood. The building appeared to be quite old, and smelled that way, too. Marcel turned to his father with a guarded expression, motioning to the house. "We are squatters now?" he said in quiet, sharp Croatian. Ivan did not like when Marcel spoke his native tongue, a fact that only encouraged the boy to speak it more. The glare on his father's face satisfied him. "It was your grandparents. It is mine now," Ivan replied in Russian, twisting the knob with a sharp yank and pushing the door in. "Sleep. We have an event tonight." It was rare that Marcel was invited along to accompany his father on his various mystery ventures. It was rarer that these ventures planted any intrigue at the boy. Often, they were the longer days, hours spent waiting while his father spoke to strange men and women behind closed doors. This 'event' promised something much more enticing. Marcel slept, as he always did best, and awoke just at sunset to his father's boots clomping around hurriedly downstairs. The boy made a show of stretching out his long, growing limbs and rubbing his eyes, before standing and gently pushing open the single door separating his makeshift bedroom from the small living area. It was a small house, a single floor comprised of a bathroom, a bedroom, a living room, a kitchen, and a closet just large enough for Marcel to claim as his. This was his one requirement when traveling, one his father begrudgingly obliged to maintain the peace. No matter where they went, Marcel would have claim over his own bed, and if there was a room large enough for a cot, it was his. Ivan stood in the living room, dressed in a fine black suit. His hair was pushed back neatly, and Marcel swore he could smell cologne. When Ivan caught sight of Marcel, he narrowed his eyes. "Dress clothes are in your bag. Be quick, we leave soon." Per his father's request, and more-so to quench the growing curiosity drying in Marcel's throat, Marcel threw on the collared shirt and pressed slacks his father had packed for him. He made quick work of his hair and was soon squeeze in the backseat of a cab alongside his impatient father. The drive was quick and jerky, past the small suburban housing and the low class townhouses, and nearing the more opulent mansions of the filthy rich and their offspring. Marcel admired the obscenely affluent architecture as him and his father stepped out into a long driveway, up to a large front door. It seemed Ivan did not need to knock. He was known among this crowd. The interior was just as marvelous as the exterior. Marcel's eyes smoothed over the dramatic designs and expensive objects, each decoration likely costing more than everything Marcel owned combined. Many guests roamed the expansive entry, chatting in posh accents and laughing richly. It was as though this place was disconnected from the outside world, a bubble of rich extravagance, where wealth was a norm. Marcel suddenly felt underdressed. He tugged anxiously at his shirt-sleeve. Abruptly, Ivan clamped a hand down onto Marcel's shoulder. The boy jumped, his eyes suddenly flashing a brilliant shade of yellow. When Ivan caught the magical shift, he quickly shielded Marcel from the room, leaning in close to whisper, "Do not cause a scene. We will be in and out, yes?" Marcel stared for a moment, before nodding dumbly. Ivan paused for a moment, staring at his son with a look of vague distrust, before nodding back and turning to face the room. Just like that, he was one of them. He exited into the crowd like a crow merged with it's flock, one with this grand, other world. Marcel stood in silence, watching the room with an examining eye. Despite his apparent otherness, there was one girl that seemed to be at least slightly close in age to him. She stood out like a dove amongst ravens, her pale skin catching the warm light of the room and making her glow. Accompanying her was an elderly woman, who seemed to be making rounds. Likely one of their hosts, Marcel presumed. Curiosity got the better of him. Slowly, he began to creep further into the crowd, eyes set on this girl. |
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ɴᴏᴛᴇ: "Feel free to god-mod him being approaching her that helps push the story along! Sorry for the length  "ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ: @Stelle Mims CODE BY CAMILLE DE VARENNE |
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iNPC of Charlotte Winfield
The art of treasures
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❛ Art Deco — Allure in Effect ❜
Date: June, 2026 | Words: 844| Dialogue: #aa5713| Look: ★
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Her grandfather's hand rested on her shoulder with the serene warmth of someone who had spent a lifetime holding precious things without fear of breaking them. Stelle had lost count of how many introductions she'd made that evening. She smiled, gave a small bow when appropriate, and politely answered questions about Hogwarts, her studies, or the Divogenia family, while the names of the guests began to mingle in her memory like ink diluted in water. The great hall was illuminated by hundreds of enchanted lamps whose golden glow reflected off pristine glass cases. Inside rested clocks capable of marking vanished phases of the moon, jewels whose diamonds encased tiny living constellations, and manuscripts written with inks that changed language depending on who read them. Anyone would have believed that these objects were the true focus of the evening. However, Trud seemed determined to prove otherwise.
"Have I told you about my granddaughter?" He asked again and again, with the same pride with which others announced the acquisition of a dragon or a lost relic.
Stelle couldn't help but laugh silently. Her grandfather possessed objects whose value was practically incalculable, yet he still presented her as if she were the most exclusive piece in the entire collection. It didn't bother her, because that look was made only of affection. Her grandfather was, without a doubt, an interesting creature in her life, someone with whom she felt she could be herself behind closed doors. When they finally managed to escape from another group of collectors, Trud winked at her discreetly.
“Go get some fresh air before your grandmother finds out I've been monopolizing your time for twenty minutes.”
“And you?” She let out a low laugh.
“I have to convince a stingy Frenchman that an enchanted sword is worth exactly what the catalog says, and not a galleon less.” The old man disappeared into the crowd with the quiet elegance of someone who had moved in these circles for decades, while Stelle took advantage of this brief respite to wander the room at a much slower pace. Auctions had always fascinated her. Every object had once belonged to someone. Every ring had promised love, every book had passed through unknown hands, every portrait had witnessed entire generations vanish. She liked imagining the lives hidden behind these relics far more than their prices.
She paused in front of a small silver music box. The melody was barely audible above the murmur of the guests, but it was enough to make her smile. It was then that she felt a gaze. It wasn't an uncomfortable feeling. It was simply that inexplicable intuition that made her look up before anyone even called her name. Across the room stood a young man, who seemed to be approaching her. That stopped her, for a few seconds, to look around. Perhaps it wasn't her he was looking at; there were objects on display all around her. But he also didn't seem old enough to actively participate in an auction, as he looked his age. The closer she got, the more details she noticed, such as the fact that he didn't seem to be particularly enjoying the event.
While most people chatted with crystal glasses in hand and carefully rehearsed smiles, he remained motionless, observing everything with a mixture of caution and curiosity. His clothes were impeccable, although he wore them with the obvious discomfort of someone who felt like he was in disguise. What caught Stelle's attention most, however, wasn't his attire, but the way he looked. It wasn't the superficial glance of someone admiring a pretty dress or an elegant room. He seemed to be analyzing every corner, trying to understand where he had ended up and what kind of place this was.
When their eyes met for just a moment, Stelle smiled out of pure habit. It simply felt strange to hold someone's gaze without offering at least a friendly gesture. She remained where she was, as if waiting for him, though she didn't know if he was actually approaching her. As he moved forward, Stelle observed the surroundings. Several witches laughed, feather fans in hand. A merchant was passionately arguing about the authenticity of an enchanted chalice. Waiters strolled through the hall with trays laden with delicate canapés and glasses of frothy pumpkin juice.
As the distance between them began to close, Stelle absentmindedly tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. The swan-shaped necklace rested on her neck, illuminated by the enchanted lamps, while the blue velvet of her dress caught tiny golden glimmers with every movement.
"I didn't think I'd see someone my age around here," she remarked softly when the young boy was close enough."I thought I'd have to resign myself to talking to antiques all night," she added, half-jokingly, though not entirely untrue. Upon arriving and seeing the hall filled with wizards and witches who seemed to be as old as some of the antiques on display, she immediately accepted that she'd be rambling all night. "Oh... sorry, I didn't even introduce myself. I'm Stelle."
@Marcel Cvitković
You make me wanna make you fall in love───⊹ |
Stelle Mims - Huffelpuf |