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Post by Master Claramae St. Laurence on Nov 11, 2008 12:42:02 GMT -6
Arriving
Claramae: The banter of the docks was a symphonic harmony tadamount to a choir of rabble-rousers singing hymns to a God of sea, salt, and cups of ale. So long as neither ran low and the boon of a fine woman's warmth could be found, the vagabond, the vagrant, and the upstanding could sit together as one. Despite the late night hour ships still pulled in or out of Turas Lan to the sound of the night bell clanging through the mists. The English woman would approach the island of Skye on a boat bound from Avaria. Noiseless: the ship cut through the cold, dark water like a knife leaving no frayed edges or indication that it would be any different in cargo. Her masts joined the tall, stiff tree forests that seemed to go on for miles. "We've touched land, m'lady." the first-mate conveyed the message personally, "Have you a request?" The breath in her throat made it flicker with involuntary action. The pulse made him stare at the hollow longer, for the rest was kept behind a high, dark Spanish style collar. "My staff know where my personal belongings will be kept, save to pay you, there is nothing more I shall require of this vessel's service." (d)
Magnus Ragnarason: ::What a place, what a place, it had been a long time since he'd been in England, he hadn't been their since his late childhood and early adult years, but here he was again. A bottle in hand and a wall at his back as he sat on his rump, one knee pulled upwards and his other leg jutting out in front of him, long thick hair of dark brown rolling down his back and his shoulders, masking his heavily bearded face from the side. His left eye of pale green looked out from his post out by the docks, his back pressed against a fence of stone as he watched this ship pulling into the harber. His free hand lazily rose to his face to scratch around the battered black leather patch that covered his right eye. Over his shoulders was draped a tattered and ragged tarp that hid most of his body from veiw, the flickering lamp not far off now failing to show his garbs for the most part, the only visible parts where that of his legs. Knee high boots of leather where overlayed with metal plates aboud the calf, shin and foot, leaving the ankle clad in thick leather. The knee caps where covered over with protective plates, separate of the greaves that covered his thighs.::
Claramae: England. The bosom for wayward, traveling children. One did not favor suckling from the teat of London and the clime of another home was marred with political notes that seasoned the air with the acrid scent of smoke and the taste of murder. For this evening, for this sanctuary, the Isle of Skye beyond the coast of Scotland would simply have to do. It bore a similiarity in that for a place of Celts it was strikingly cultured. Torch bearers offered their lights to the scrawny young men who fumbled with the practice of igniting the public lanterns. It wasn't a common practice in Europe of yet, but the glass encased flame stood more steadfast than oil soaked wood. The thick, heavy velvet bled in with the black shadows as she took the gangplank one step at a time. The purple silk lining of the inside shone a murky, oil sheen. One would have thought her no more than a shadow, were it not for the seemingly youthful visage of a pale face tipping up to see the moon in the clouds. "So we begin again," she said to seeming no one, until a hand came to take her own in proper escort "A drink then, before the game is afoot." The observer was not paid heed by voice but noticed for he was one of many things to hold from the present surroundings into account. (d)
Magnus Ragnarson: ::A brow was raised over eye of pale green as that face rose up in a lazy jerk of a motion, the bottle full of mead came up soon after to slip into his lips and turn skywards, as well as his face, letting him chug the content of the bottle down his throat. Yanking the bottle from his lips he cast it aside with a quite curse. The bottle shattered upon the impact of the cobble stones, braking into many pieces, some of which went flying into the waters of the dock. That single eye however did not follow the bottle but the figures that came off the ship, the one of the woman in perticular. Her face, her garb, and her actions, the way she carried her self, it all pointed her out as a noble, or at least a person of some stature. He found it funny, honestly, both funny and infuriating. His laugh was loud, sharp and intrusive, as was the gauntlet bound hand that emerged from the tattered tarp, a dense, long and metal laiden finger pointed out to the group that had just made of the gang plank, or maybe the entire ship, was hard to tell in that light and distance, as well as the way his arm was shaking.::
Claramae: How strange was fortune tonight! The drunkard's humor echoed off the barrels and to the ears of the disembarking patrons on the docks. What did he find amazing? Did the spectacle of swirling velvet tickle his fancy enough to dredge some inkling of humor up from the depths of his intoxicated mind? She watched the bottle turn to nothing more than pieces of what it had been crafted to be. So easy, with no care, an object in the world could fall apart. His clattering, clinking digits made a line to the opposite of his lax countenance standing in the circle of fire-glow. The noble, well carried, continued the processional on the arm of a guardian who viewed the pirate through the luxury of one suitable eye. "Are you amused," Maxamillion Voltaire breathed incredulously to his superior as no passage of the idea fluttered on her face, "I do know you favor a keen want for it now." She seemed to weigh the idea of being entertained by the distant metal-man as he choked on disdain. "No, not amusing..only tis far easier to relate to his state. We needn't share words. Were it the proper time, I would tell him I concur." (d)
Magnus Ragnarson: ::Drunk? Perhaps, perhaps not, though his actions certainly pointed towards the former from the outsiders look upon the man. Slowly, his other leg pulled upwards to alow his legs to fold and push up, his back sliding against the wall until his stood, the cowl still about his shoulders as he pushed off the wall with a gentle push of his gauntlet clad hand. He wore a great beard, such that a dwarf would be proud of if he'd done any thing with it. The dense course wooly beard hung down to the middle of his belly and blanketed his chest. Slowly he walked forwards, the soft clank of booted feet against the cobble stones sounded out, largly drowned out by the din of the docks and many other people in the area going about their own lives. His steps where staggered and with each motion he swayed slightly, giving more support to the theory of his intoxication. While he was no longer laughing, he still had a big smile on that face of his, long waist length hair of dark brown swayed with each motion as he staggered towards them slowly, the cowl dragging behind him slightly.:: "I haven't been back here in...I don't even know how long... an look who I see! Nobles! Duchess maybe? Or..or, or do you own a lot of land?"
Claramae: "Aren't we astute?" She remained in her place while he adopted new patterns to move in. A trip. A twist of his feet. He was incredibly nimble for succumbing to the effects of the mead; the skill of an actor to make one believe that could be in play so she never took anything for granted. Gingerly, she offered her left hand to the companionship of the right. Each one was put inside of a fur lined, kid leather glove that gave elegant lines to formation already crafted for some perfect blend of things. While she tapped the right index finger against the left, she'd say, "The stuff of your questions, sirrah, are not for public knowledge, though travels may be better conversation. Is it your habit, to frequent the Isles of Scotland, you look well-traveled, and weary from it." Several hours on a boat was nothing to the months some spent neurotic from the rocking of the waves and lack of spsace. Still, the sea was violent in Autumn. Wearing no sign of this on her face, nor much else for that matter, she took two steps forward before looking over her shoulder to the fellow of the hour. "Hmm." (d)
Magnus Ragnarson: "Oh, of course not, good thing I'm not the public then, eh?" ::He gave her a quick chortle and a wink before his grin grew in girth.:: "No, not a habbit at all, havn't been here in ages, like I said before." ::Shaking his head some he looked out across the waters and into the darkness beyond before his grin grew into a heavy scowl behind the dense beard.:: "Was only here for a while any how...grew up down south..in England...killing the english." ::He gave a loud and peircing bout of laughter, slapping his hands upon his belly with a clank and arching his back as his face turned skywards in the howling laugh, the cowl falling from his shoulders, revealing a garb of half plate. A steel curiass over layed a heavy leather shirt that wrapped his arms and forearms under the gauntlets, a pauldren tied down by a cross shaped wide leather harness over his chest and back. His hips clad in a roman like garb of studded leather bands and fitted plates.:: "But that's how life goes..or doesn't. Some one kills some one else, starts a war, more people die...and when its all said and done you go home with even less family then you went over with."
Alendral: The Great Illusionist (and former dagger in the dark, as it happened) would be remiss if he didn't receive word of the imminent arrival of comrade to the shores--remiss, and rather terrible at his job given her particular expertise. Comrades, yes, but he trusted her as explicitly as anyone could trust errant members of said profession. Also, it was a chance to impress her, which was always beneificial! No sooner had she arrived would a carriage arrive shortly : thereafter, depositing the 'Alendral', all dressed in finery--fine silk vest and white shirt, every part the sort of nobility that would greet an ambassador. He naturally knew what to expect--but that didn't include a man all kitted in plates and leather--bodyguard, perhaps? It hardly seemed her style but that may very well be the point. The Illusionist was quick to move up to the pair of them, smiling diplomatically with only the ghost of sincereity to be caught by keen eyes. "Lady St. Laurence. We are honored to receive you." He made no greetings or introductions to the others. In one case it wasn't necessary and the other he wanted doubtless she'd fill him on details by way of response.
Claramae: "The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh away. Man is given things to which another takes them away. Such is life, as you ascertain sirrah." Maxamillion inclined his head to the side as the conversation between the armor covered man-at- dock and his mistress proceeded to the topic of war. What would a woman know of that other than the crying sister, mother, or wife left behind as the banners caught the breeze one last time before vanishing? Ah. In some sense, she was on the other side of said banner. The name of the woman who fought in wars of a subversive nature had her name put forth by a mouth as the new body entered the scene. It was at this juncture her face portrayed some semblance of holding an emotion: gladness..or was it..interest? The mirk of fogged, oily water would be easier to see through than the noble. Serious expression seemed to smooth with slightly wider eyes and a cant of head. The brows lifted but the mouth didn't seem to shape a visible grin. "I did not expect to be received at such an hour, it is a pleasant surprise. Thank you." The Ambassador was proud of the Illusionist for the eyes that were unseen in places where they would never be. No test had been posed but if one was set up he would have passed, exquisitely. Goal completed, Sorschal. St. Laurence was quite impressed. "You remember Master Voltaire." Maxamillion bowedkeeping his charge close upon his arm, "we were being conversed with by one of the locals, who's name we have not yet heard." (d)
Magnus Ragnarson: "Your lord has never held much thought in my mind, my friend, never has held much. The old gods still do, even after stabbing me in the back time and time again." ::He said with a renewed scawl upon his face, a slight shake of his head before he crossed dense arms over his chest with a soft clank.:: "Odin, Thor, Tyr, Fenrir...they where my gods once...still are I sapose in a way." ::He smirked some and gave a light shrug, leaning forwards slighty, his one eye gazing deeply into the eyes of this fellow Maxamillion.:: "They used to be the gods here too...but then this "Lord'n savoir' came around...now the closest place you can find em is my home land of Denmark."
Alendral: "Well, you know, late nights and often fine companionship, I'd be remiss if I passed up the opportunity to greet you proper." He grinned chesire then and bowed to the humble older gentlemen whom he knew was considerably more then meet the eyes. He gestured for the two to head for carriage, cautiously broaching the first of doubtless many subjects. "I trust you have traveled well. When I heard of the continuing turmoil in Avaria I was quite concerned. I would have even checked in myself but I was paying a few diplomatic visits to Maubery's camp." She'd read between the lines well enough. "We have much to discuss, you and I, let me show the Lady and sir to their quarters." He bowed to the otheer traveler, which normally would seem jarring in his garba nd speech, but the sheer diversity he'd seen in the past few months had largely immunized by the myrid denizens of the Isle. "Greetings sir. Turas Lan welcomes you."
Claramae: "You are a gentleman among your class of them, Sir." The pair of people, the older man and the woman on his arm offered the representative the respects due the meeting: He a bow, she a curtsy. "The travel was expediant." The words unspoken between the phrases spoke more than the sentence suggested - a necessary expediant who's praise was sung in silence. "I appreciate the sediment, but am glad, all the same, you paid us no visits nor salutations upon the island. Come, let us to the carriage, and to business. It will be rather..refreshing." Turning to view the man in talk of his ancestral gods she corrected him so that he might find a rare thing given one as he: comfort. "The sovereigns of these territories, are rumored to be of old persuasions. It is my personal knowledge that the Duke's wife upholds the ancestral gods of her Celtic and Nordic blood, a far cry closer than your Denmark, yes?" 'How I concur with you,' she thought of him with one eye and steel to his skin. He embodied the interior feelings, articulated what years of elegant seeming indifference swallowed. (d)
Magnus Ragnarson: "I'd have to meet her in person, should I judge on that verdict. Their is a great difference between simply being femilair with the gods, and knowing them." ::His arms uncrossed over his chest to fall to his sides lazily while he canted his head to the left and his one eye narrowed on the three of them as he took a few steps back.:: "But I'm afraid I've overstayed what little welcome I had in the first place, if their was any at all. I bid you a good evening."
Alendral: The undertones of the man's phrasing gave him pause, and he played his part in, taking a vaguely bemused expression and raising a brow at the fellow. Nothing strange going on here, nope! Just a pair of stuffy nobility on some kind of rendezvous. He had the tact not to refute the man's question on the Duchess' loyalty outright. Given who the woman was, he found the comment distintictly amusing. "Have a pleasant evening, sir. " further discussion on the matter of her state in Avaria, and more importantly the news the Duchess had for the pair of them would have to wait till they in safe company. "My lady..." Hold the door open; help the lady up, all the niceities along the way. Whether it was she the object of some connection, sheer politeness, or the fact, should she set her mind to it, she could very cut his life short, hard to say.
Claramae: "Good evening, sir. The conversation was most pleasant." The head tilted again, forward and back. An obligatory cant at the end of an interlude was a ceremony followed to the letter of the law that laid it down because their was no room for incorrectness in the St. Laurence sort of breeding that honed what she was. Her escort paid the man a silent goodnight as the party turned to the waiting carriage. For now, he would surrender a hand to Sorsrchal to grasp as the flower of evening ascended the step to sit instead. In this way, in the Autumn night, a serpent was allowed entry into the Aberdeenian Eden. Business would wait until they could be assured of no ears taking in what was supposed to be knowledge carried away. (d)
Magnus Ragnarson: ::With a swift turn on his heel he was off and away from the docks in a quick and steady pace, not some thing easy to do in half plate, and certainly not while drunk, but that facade had gone out the window a while ago when he figured he had no need of it. Feet clanked hard against the cobble stone as he made his way from the docks past the taverns and many other buildings and towards the stables where he mounted his personal steed Sleipnir, a figured he had no need of it. Feet clanked hard against the cobble stone as he made his way from the docks past the taverns and many other buildings and towards the stables where he mounted his personal steed Sleipnir, a : midnight black beast of both strength and speed. Taking the main road out of the town he kicked sleipnir into a gallop until he was a good four miles out onto the road before pulling off to the near by grove of tree's and dismounted, pulling forth his war helm from the saddle bag and looking into it's blank face.::
Alendral: Once the pair of them were comfortable and after they were well away, the grand Illusionist let his mask slip a little and reclined in the seat opposite of the young woman, smiling mirthfully. "Interesting fellow, that." more referring to his state of readiness then anything. He passed a look out the window as it began to roll along. Rubbing his chin briefly as he chose the next few words. Really, it was a matter of where to start. Given everything the Duchess told him last night, they could very well spend the next few days on discussion alone. "I'd call your timing fortititous if I didn't know better, Lady St. Laurence. Seems the kingdom's been a might busy while I've been away digging Maubery's grave. " the last sentence said with a due bit of bitter venom, the clear delight in sowing the seeds of his downfall painfully evident. "All manners of unpleasantness. Last I hear you've had much to keep yourself occupied as well... " his tone, in a rare moment, changed, genuinely concerned. "Are you safe...?" she'd know what he meant by that. though his expression betrayed little, it was obvious that the news privately distressed the former apprentice.
Claramae: "Fortune favors the accurate, Master Sorschal. Your work upon the Maubrey matter sounds delightful. Congratulations, the world shall be rid of the rat and you shall be free of his vices, I am glad for you. He has been a shadow o'er you long enough. I am not without means to stay busy. My safety is more assured now than it was some hours before." She retained a flawless porcelin veneer as the wheels moved over the street stones in steady thrumming, rhythmic sways. "It would seem that nothing is new under the sun. To over-turn one rule in favor of another means others shall rise who seek posistion higher than what is ascertained at the present. It would seem the Steward has installed his own paid murderers within his ranks to cull the lines of disenters. Only the murderers are now becoming the murdered as they seek to be closer to him. Many of my present 'associates' have met untimely ends. The crime syndicates within the poor district are becoming stronger than looting or collecting a 'tax' and even those who have paid it are finding themselves....looted or worse. It is no place to think nor conduct the affairs to which I am charged, nor can I remain there. They have begun to arrest, or so it is said, the Overlord's associates. As the Overlord was once the King, you see the debaucle worsens. Here, I might continue to work 'pon old venture while taking the mantle of new, watch o'er Lord Apollius' wife, who has taken a place in the resistance...." She shook her head softly at this. "Angels go where even the bravest will not tread." (d)
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Post by Master Claramae St. Laurence on Dec 16, 2008 1:37:19 GMT -6
What is the point of this story, you wonder? Originally, it was for the hiding of a woman from one regime while working to ensure the survival of another. This was to be done in an precise plan. Her precision was not off, only the desire of monarchs for whom a Scottish island became of note for them to be concerned with. In the interest of her employers and the oaths uptaken to a superior long ago to, at all costs, perpetuate the continuation of the chosen and all interest there in, she availed herself to the cause. It was not suitable to sojourn in political asylum, but to be of use. Now, it was not known to whom she was of use to, for the Duke had summoned her to places that are not yet put down. But in the mist of it a chance to resolve a personal matter was too tempting to deny.
This matter crossed the paths with Italian intrigues, papal desires, and old life. By coincidence the matters of current court and distant shores were crossing here, too. The world was a stage, and all the men and women in it merely players.
The Rhetorical Riddle
Claramae: It seemed that in the brief space of time twixt the night of arriving and a time of quiet settling, the land of asylum began to quake with uncertainty. One quandry began another; people in the streets whispered of an absent Ebony Prince while turning down the sheet over goods to keep them from becoming wet with thick winter frosts. Under torchlight glow the talk was still the same. Daylight's cacophony of sound died to a muted hush with the onset of the sleek, jet set twilight flushed with the pale incandescent starlight." This is quite a debacle," our heroine (if you viewed her as such) said, denouncing the state of affairs with a casual indifference, "So we must stand it to reason that exact purpose has thus paled, and we must engage all things, Master Voltaire," Over the shoulder, should a face turn, the Master of the chosen was found on the right, shielding the Lady on his left. No, there was not refuse in the castle as there would be on the streets. In fact, the general appeal for public beautification made the city of stone a marvel of cleanliness just as it was for a flying buttress or towering rampart. Her steps in the the hall medieval spoke nothing, as a woman's presence was touted to aesthetic silence. As corner was turned not even the stiff, dark velvets made trist with the silk skirts beneath. The shadow of the man stretched. Hisoutline was thrown against a wall as that of the mistress on his arm became smaller. Her course was that of doubled doors leading the the sumptious dwellings of a one Italian household of some granduer. Naples was teeming with culture. Spanish, Italian. It reflected in the the look of the men at the door. Where they from Naples? The house of Aragon? Who knew, but all would be revealed. Under the banner of Naples, the elegant lady took a moment's repose to remember a turning point. When asked who had come, and why, the natural answer was: " The Countess of Honheldagus, to see the Queen of Naples, if you please." (d)
d'Ercole: Upon the arrival of any visitor at the doors designated for the House of de Cervillion there were murmurs of intrigue and the hushed tones of treachery that recoiled through the corridors and stairwells of Griffin Castle. On this night the house of the Ana-Catalina was quiet with sorrow and teeming with the subtle undertone of the next great length in the race toward the endgame. Whose though, was the question on most minds, and a likely suspicion was always taken when one was asking to see the newly appointed Queen of Naples who had specifically commanded that none within her routine call her thus. So, was it any wonder that when shown into the main solar of the aparts, it was none other than the upright figure of Don Marcos Antonio d'Ercole who came to the beckoningof the Countess of Honheldagus? He knew the title, yet it befuddled him momentarily that she would make so bold a move as to entreat herself for an audience with the madonna.Though he was well into his thirties, he bore himself with the gait of a much younger man, crediting his many appetites with the renewed sense of youth. His beard was trimmed, his doublet that of a fine, worset wool dyed so that it was the colour of an autumn leaf, deep umber with hints of golden thread wound throughout. "Since when is it that she has not yet been invested as the Queen of Naples, and yet you call her already thusly? I did not know such knowledge was for any to know save those within our household and that of Cardinal Fervante who has not yet arrived within Griffin Castle, eh?" His English was flawless, his mood courteous and yet there was a stirring undertone to his word, a biting chill that had anything to do with hospitality for the sake of hospitality. "Or ... do you call on us for the sake of Avaria, my dear?" Though he was loathed to offer it, he did bid the servants to leave them, and return only with warmed wine to fend off the chill of the evening. *
Claramae: In the solar of the Queen's dwelling, she was led to sit on an upholstered seat in a chair with a straight, stiff back. The torso of the lady was akin to the chair with no need for the support afforded so that the servants remarked on how exact the poise of the English visitor! Her hands folded in to rest on the lap with due diligence to the old manners of the upper eschelon. Waiting in this fashion of comportment defined anew, Don d'Ercole met her in the smooth bombast of his race. Trimmed, fit, and clean the peacant came to parade his acceptance of her audience with inquiry to the knowledge that lay beneath the straight, upturned strands of deep brown. Eyes of a similar shade stayed not from his own, though lowered, appropriately, as to not be goash. The Lady had a way of capturing virtue while extolling that she was a breed a part from the sex assigned by God. "If it is aggregious, then pardon I ask to be indulged for the offense, M'Lord Chamberlain. Such matters frequent the circle of court who are assigned to the body politic. His Grace's matters are thus no mystery, but if silence on the matter is preferable..." Warmed wine waited on a little tray, but she did not reach out for it, that was for him to offer unto the Countess. "But I digress, yes? It is not on the mattters of the local constituate nor the source of home I come forward tonight." (d
d'Ercole: Loathed that had once attempted to pursade her into more than simply his employ, he watched her the amused expression of one who felt themselves well outside any coil that she might try to weave. Contenting himself that he enjoyed much younger bedmates, he easily disregarded her rejection of him within the bedchamber. His form though tall was wider at the shoulder and leaner in the hip, though there was little doubt that the sword he wore at his hip was for more than simple ornamentation. "Not so within my company, but in the company of others I would think your words ... impertinent. The principessa had decreed that those within the household should not call her by thus. I can only assume that those without would do the same out of simple courtesy. Rather than the simple mechanics of politics, would you not agree?" He could be amiable and at the moment he was certainly full of charm and good fortune, seating himself in the same straight faced manner as he might for any visiting dignitary. His Grace is the perview of all those on the isle, yet within this household we tend to be of the belief that the body of the madonna is for our own keeping." (place " before His Grace). Clearly his tone indicated that whatever game she had decided to embark upon, that Ana-Catalina's current state was strickly forbidden to her. Easing himself comfortably against the back of the chair, he appeared as he would to most, a wealthy man of station who seemed delighted to have the company of the woman currently before him. Never mind that she was a monster with an angel's face. "Then to what honor might I contribute a visit of state by the Countess? And how might we, the poor House of de Cervillion assist her?" Leaning forward, he poured twin goblets of thinly honed alabaster full of the deep coloured liquid, offering one to her and taking one for himself. *
Claramae: "Impertinent? My, we can not have such a display before the others for that would inspire a sort of break within manner, beyond these doors it shall not go mentioned." Manners. Elegance. Refinement. These were three things that that intrigued the Don to the distractive practices of attempting to turn his beautiful murderer into his bed-mate. Younger in that time by some years, her refusal became the test upon which all great careers are built. You see, it is not hard to gain way in intrigues in Italy, but harder still to stay alive when a way out is sought. Somehow, she left the Papal States not only with head, limbs, and person flawless but with a tidy fortune combined with an estate in Rome to return to at her leisure. In the city of water-canals, there too, was something of a palace that escaped the taint of blood on the marble floors furnished by the city's prince. Naples was the star pinned in the heavens to which the woman enjoyed one of her great early successes! Yet they were not here to discuss themselves more so than a breech of etiquette or what could be done in these walls. Accepting the offer of wine, the beveragestained the cupid's bow of her lip on the passage toward her throat. It flashed with the ingesting. Her skin still flawless, her throat, divine. To breathe was once to drive the Chamberlain's groin to discomfort as it burned in his hose. But he had many younger partners now. Many more supple, nubile, and flippant women to satiate his desire. Why then, would he even be attracted to the demon? Age bore with it qualities youth lacked; no doubt he could not speak with is conquests and he did so enjoy being amused. He could not divulge his secrets, or have them aid him in the spinning of lies. Nor would they bare him suitable children for lo, the Chamberlain was still unwed from what could be told. " The honor, Don, is that of a personal matter that is little with State as that matter is long ago spent. Recall you the matter of the sea, in Naples, and then on went we to Verona? You posed to me a question that you bid only time would answer, were it kind. Said you if e'er I found the answer to tell you." (d)
d'Ercole: That she had such a cunning in her made her not only a sought after conquest in his bedchamber but also the strange yardstick by which he held up to any he thought to involve in his intrigues. Watching her now as she all but slithered against the cup made his eyes narrow yet only by a margin that might indicate interest in what she would say after drinking. Still held in that position of reposed he remained so while listening if only to let a single brow rise over his eyes, which were dark and mysteriously devoid of any other inflection save polite curiosity. "I recall all of thus, and yes do remember I bid you give me answer should you find. Does that mean as you are here now not to call upon the principessa but to call upon me because you have such an answer?" His own glass was brought to his lips, but like almost everything else he did rather than savor the body of the wine he went straight to drawing it down his throat into his stomach where by it would sate his thirst for it, or perhaps mask the yearning for the woman? Whatever the case, he would give only so much of himself toward the estate of his woman seated now before turning any knowledge of her away in the future. That she was not here on the Duke's business was already stated as much, and he knew that d'Este's had much faith in him. He had been ever loyal and faithful to the cause that even now was unleashing itself throughout the whole state of Italy. Soon it would only be the Papal State left, with Naples on the one side and Ferrara and all her holdings on the other. Were it possible, the Rome would be the only holding left to his Holiness was even now, it was rumored, held within the hands of Alphonso d'Este's. *
Claramae: "Correct. My audience with the principessa will come in time but let it wait on pains of the amusement of old friend. The answer to your question I have." The current in her voice was not the purr of a harlot. It was not the ludacrist, sacchrine confections of effort entirely too much, too heavy as to bury his hearing, but it possed that quality of content confidence. The relaxed bravado of the aspiration reached was the bedrock for the superior English that lulled out into the space between them. "Shall I tell it to you? It is simply this: Neither by Naples sea, nor Verona romance, nor Roman intrigue can it be undone, neither by stilleto, by poison, by execution, nor by prayer can it be killed. In the state of Italy death is a merchant with a God-given crown. Doing as it would please, and when it would please. It takes shape and eats its own shape, like a serpent doth eat its own tail in old fables. Yet as the round shape of circle made, it has neither beginning, nor end. Death, in the state of Italy uplifts and dethrones many. It changes many hands and can be controlled if one is clever enough to know where to begin." Riddles. She came to recite him a riddle? Oh, did he not remember when the question he posed in the same fashion while her hands he tried to hold, while fear he wanted to induce like an epileptic fit? "This is most good wine, My Lord. Just akin to the honeyed vintage you gave me...save the effect is less dramatic." (d)
d'Ercole: Had he any reason to do more than sip his wine he might have done so but within this household with ears aplenty he chose to do little more than chuckle beneath his breath while setting aside his goblet with the decided carelessness of a man unaffected by her supposition of riddles. "So by my hand you were made, and by my hand you were discarded though it would seem ... too carelessly." That she wore the facade of an angel verses the mask which she so deftly referred to he said nothing of. She was here now, and was not part of the equation with which he had set his own personal calendar. Were she to interfer with his plans, and by his own he meant also those of his master, d'Este's then all would be undone. Hands planted to the solid surface of his thighs he leaned forward if only a little so that the whole of his political weight was clear when speaking to her. "I do not believe that you have business with her. And since I am the Master of her Household it is I who says they have business with her." Not that she hadn't already gone behind his back and not only invited within it a man he could or could not confirm had spent more than a few unsupervised hours with the princess, but also the suitor which was sent seemingly by his master who would no only interfer as well. "Just as. Let us be frank in that to place yourself in this household without invitation is an insult to my master, the Duke of Ferrara. And were I you, no matter your skill from Naples to Rome, I should fear his name and what it might bring down on you should you decide to move against my person. I do his business here, and it is grave indeed." He would not allow this ... woman to bring down plans laid down for years that had only now begun to bear such delicious fruit. And in his grasp was the whole of Naples, if he were to position himself aright! He needn't this distraction. "Take death with you to the door when you are shown out."
Ana-Catalina: "My Lord? I have heard some news that we've a caller this evening." She might have been young, but her eyes, the pale shades of gray that were so like moonlight were keen. They recognized well the face of the woman. Yet, the title had left her confused until she happened upon both her Chamberlain and the purported Ambassador of Avaria in the solar. "Lady Claramae, is it not? I had not known that Avaria would call so soon upon us." She spoke in the definitively royal plural as most rulers were wont to do at the time, and was considered by the Holy Church the most proper way to refer to a monarch. Sweeping into the room, she bore no signs of her tumble down the stairwell earlier in the week, carrying herself with the strict grace as imposed on one from birth to the sacred position of royalty. She bore the blood of the House of Aragon in her veins, carried the Stamp of the d'Este's in her face and had the voice of Naples. It all painted a fine picture even if it was one that pined with quiet grief. *
Claramae: "He who excersise not care nor caution rues the moment he left both behind, Lord Chamberlain." Huzzah, the fine show! Brava, encore! Tit for tat each laid a line the other picked up for it was baited too well to ignore. Large, fat pieces of intrigue laden rhetoric were snapped up in a sort of glee as each dangled over the other a choice bit of what. Save, she, the noble merely pocketed her lot to feed the fishes with while D'Ercole grew into a fat bellied sea creature for the fish monger to wish on. As each sipped their wine (in the most ritual display of how the nobility conducted their dark works) a finger traced the rim of the glass. "Your cheeks flush as the shade of wine, Lord Chamberlain, have you over indulged or perhaps it was the exurtion of seeing to whom called at the door." Now the play turned to the black quarters where the Chamberlain, on cue, began to warm in the cheeks. Scarlet stained his throat as if he stood in the sun on a hot summer's day, and his fingers would begin to feel numb. Still able to move, the effect was baffling to him, yet genius, for the sort of concoction it was. Enter now the Principessa, her Royal Highness, by right, Her Majesty of Naples. The grieving sister, the scorned niece. Youth, beauty, grace and poise in admiral grief encased shades of blue. With God-blessed royalty she rose, and had not done so on the Chamberlain's accord, but more for him. It seemed he would be..unable to show the proper respect as he would be left to wonder what was happening to him. "Madonna, good eventide. Avaria visits not her Royal Highness this night, nor this land. Twas a personal matter to breech with thy Chamberlain, a friend, on a matter of some years past. My apologies if it disturbs the sanctity of your household." The curtsy that Claramae executed was pristine. A courtier, a courtier, make her a courtier of Naples! Or was she one already? Pray tell, was not when last they met the lady favoring the language of Germany? (d)
d'Ercole: Eyes widened, yet lips failed to move and rage the curses which were already flooding like so many droplets into his mind, filling them with the vile blackness and an insistant urge for revenge. Yet there was that rolling ball of fear that slowly made its downward spiral toward his gut so that even then his thoughts turned toward a bitter end that he had not yet seen coming. Hands gripped onto themselves, he tried in vain to stand when in the stated company of his mistress and yet found that his limbs would not move at his command nor his voice to speak. It was for all the world to see, as if he were set into stone without the sheen of granite to give him the excuse of it.
Ana-Catalina: When confusion showed clearly on the young face of the princess who was not yet the crowned Queen of Naples it left in little more than a flash of a polite smile and the falling of lashes as dark as a cormorants wing. "Good eventide to you as well. My household was not disturbed save that a lady of mine came into hearing upon passing the solar that a guest of some import had called upon the Queen of Naples. I had not yet heard that such news was being heralded among the commons of the castle." Though she had no range for treachery there was an endless supply of that coming from Lord Vizharen himself who she had last seen in this woman's company before their ... private meeting. "Tell me, have you had a chance to call upon Lord Percival? I have some business with him, yet have not heard or seen of him since I saw him some short time ago." In the tavern, while in attendance with the Duchess and then the introduction of her suitor, Don Giovanni who swore himself was from Italy but she had yet to verify such information and little means to do so without Vizharen's assistance. When it was clear that she would recant her request for the audience, Ana-Catalina stilled the need for it with a perious raise of a single hand. "Such things I am sure go on and about with so many servants to such a large household. Clearly it is not a secret that the Pope has come to Skye in the form of a Cardinal for some purpose greater than that of a the Cristes Maesses for the Yule. Though I am certain his passage will be well noted by your own liege in Avaria. It might suit you well to seek an audience with him, Cardinal Fervante." If she heard any of their conversation, she let nothing be known of it from her face. It was only her eyes that gave her away so often she had been told, and so those were turned away and thetrick of dissemblage was kept in place if only to be smoothed with the addition of the courtier's smile once more. "Since this is a matter of a personal nature, I should leave you both and with my apologies for the interruption." That she needed Percival now more than ever might be clear to her, but to who else now? Don Marcos surely knew he was in Ana's employ but if he suspected it before, then it was surely truth now from her own lips! Worried what a stir such things might cause, she made with all haste to her chamber and summoned her physician whom she knew would be the only man she could trust. Leaving Don Marcos to the Lady Claramae and ... devices. *
Claramae: "There is no personal a matter that Her Highness is not entitled to hear within her own household. It is not unseemly that it can not be spoken of before thy divine ears, nor marr thy repute. If it please you?" The man was as granite and her composure was unwavering. The angel's face was a block of granite where he played the part of it. Neither the flicker of smile, nor frown. No sign of displeasure creased lines at eyes or brow. It was as ifthe act roused nothing. Indeed, it did not so much as it was necessary, for one does not revoke promises without sore consequence. "I merely came to relay the answer to a riddle posed me, and now found, I promised to do so." Claramae turned to look at d'Ercole as his legs seemed to anchor down to the floor, leaving only his toes, his fingers, viable while the master limbs were dormant. His head could turn, but his mouth could not speak. "Your Chamberlain, Madonna, is an astute man. He has paved the way for your eign while you were still of a younger age by means infamous to morality but easily forgiven with prayer's indulgence. So let it be known that once, the land in which I was trained was tadamount ot all my successes, and were it not for your Chamberlain, I would have been loathe to seek other employ. Your Uncle, God praise him, was maganmous as once was your Chamberlain. Yet, the dilemma with playing in vice is one often turns to vice when the game is at its end. After your Uncle's enemies were dispatched, d'Ercole sought to do the same with one who knew too much. A common story as I am sure you know." Turning on her heel, she walked to D'Ercole as the Princess sought either physician or a sight of the conclusion of this personal matter. " The answer, my friend, the final answer is that Death has changed hands, and it will leave your door only in part, as I am not shown out yet, it will not go. Your flesh is hot, it is as stark as stone. You move, yet can not speak. I perfected your wine poison. What you failed to remember is that one is not only trained in the application, but their crafting and antidote. Many of your famous blends were long since tested on m'self or constituates whom you sough to end. But allow me draw this to a close." Those eyes leveled down on him as the hand of a dark goddess was to take him down. .So small, so elegant, so lethal she was that he forgot what he once saw bred. "Your little games are known to me, and your affairs. What is whispered of by most is tride and true fact to me. CCross me, and the next time you are laden to a chair, Lord Chamberlain, it will become the place you die. His Holiness help you if you evoke my wrath before others of my sort. You are in the wrong court and country. Watch yourselfMadonna, your household is in the jaws of wolves. If you seek Percival I shall find him for you." Conviently, at this juncture the Chamberlain would fear he had gone deaf entirely, when it would only last a few, lengthened moments. When he heard nothing, Ana-Catalina heard, "The affairs of my pupil are not my own, still, should you wish it my lady I will find him." She curtsied, and rose (d)
Ana-Catalina: Though she wished to race from the solar into the relative safety of her chambers, the woman's voice as succinct as it was kept her feet rooted as firmly as her Chamberlains seemed to be. While her heart studdered, her voice was as cleanly concise as if she were speaking on the fairness of the weather. When she spoke quietly to her Chamberlain it was well outside theperview of her ears, yet when her voice was directed solely upon her it sliced nearly to the core. She knew well that certain intrigues were playing itself out on her doorstep, yet for this near stranger to speak so intimately of it stripped her raw and only the core deep breeding her mother had instilled in her kept her skin from growing pale, her eyes from turning to glass. Level headed she had been often called, aloof by many and sneered as being frigid by some. "Your words are well taken into consideration, my Lady. If it please you in passing to find him, then send him to me for we have business between us." What exactly went unsaid. She was not skilled or exacting as this woman seemed to be and what she saw in the sharp gaze of her Chamerlain was fear. But of whom she could not know. To Ana, this woman could have been very well an instrument of her uncle and for that purpose alone she could not be trusted. That Percival was her pupil gave her pause to reconsider perhaps her arrangement with him left her in more jeopardy than she had previously thought possible. It left her with little options and even fewer shards of hope left in all the dark that surrounded her. Though it would have been proper to dismiss her verbally she merely unfolded her clasped hands before her to indicate to Claramare into which direction she might go in order to leave her apartments. It would not be for some hours before she was told that her Chamberlain had left his previously unmoveable post there in the chair. Byram, her physician did indeed reaffirm her suspicion that what kept him so planted had been a poison of sorts. It chilled her blood to know that such skill had been potentially honed in her own native country but then, what was she to do about it at the rare age of seventeen? Meanwhile, d'Ercole would not be idle in his thoughts nor in how he might exact his own revenge. And not simply on his former employee but also upon the young woman who was witness to his unmanning. It was gauling to think that the person whom he was in charge of had seen him so helpless and witless. It left his palette for wine stifled later and his taste for blood all the more poignant. *
Claramae: "Good night. I will find him for you, and send him hence to settle affairs with Her Royal Highness. Forgive the unorthdoxy of the visitation. Should we meet again, I pray it in more pleasurable passing. Chamberlain.." A study in motion could be done in the way in which she walked. The skirts rustled no noise nor the under pinnings either as it flowed like water in the last instance before it froze. If this was Percival's teacher, how much of him was the Lady responsible for? A history of violence clad in velvet, silk, and damask satins gravitated toward the doors which were opened by the same man who had escorted her down the halls toward the Queen's apart. He would bow, usheringno word to the female Italian caught between childhood and eternal forever. His hand lifted and Claramae claimed it, and like two actors from the stage they departed into the back. Many hours after the interlude had passed, Ana-Catalina would find, on the kneeler of her prayer bench, a letter sealed with a scarlet phoenix. On opening the flourishing script would read:
Madonna: By now, thy mind has puzzled over the matters at hand with great difficulty. Your questions are many, and answers, seeming few, will be provided for you. I am what you know me to be and what you have seen with your eyes, nor have you reason to fear that I am an agent to your demise. My loyalty is unwavering in nature to the Phoenix upon which the seal is forged, and in turn to the Griffin, for whom it shares a political nest of sorts. You by now realize the grave situation you are in. Age, alas, will not wait to bare you hence to throne, nor marriage, nor even guarantee your survival unless you enact agents of wit in the dark. Your Chamberlain will not die, but after you will see the supreme nature of his indifference to mercy. I am compelled to inform you that it has been requested of the Duke Aberdeen to sojourn in estates in your homeland awhile on a matter of some business, to which it is known he will be delayed, given the courts sorrowful state of present affairs. What in this do you play? You are now an affair here, as much as within Italy. There is no difference now, as Europe is being thrust up to a a place this winter to which Armageddon seems to be near ensuing. The employ of Lord Vizharen is a capital move, to which the benefits you shall see almost immediately. His business nor yours shall I detain from completion. Only know it is your Chamberlain with whom business remains unfinished. He will rise, warned, yet determined to continue on. Ah me. If you wish to know wherein the demise of your family ensued, looked no more than to his or the lists he keeps, rolled in tiny parchment, inside of the crucifix 'pon the Apartment's chapel wall. The read will be most enlightening, but be sure to place it back again. I will close in saying should you wish business conducted where Percival, on Principal, will not go, you may seek me out. My eyes are at once many and my own, but my loyalty, if sought, is unwavering. Age has seasoned judgement. May life grant you such a thing, and long may you reign.
Claramae Aisling St. Laurence.
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Post by Master Claramae St. Laurence on Dec 17, 2008 1:17:40 GMT -6
The Matter of Dirty Hands, Numbered Two Pair
Alendral: Judging from the stature of the Lady St. Laurence or indeed Alen himself, one might assume a spy as little more than a liar--all charm and coy smiles 'till they took draught of vile poison. Many nobles died with just that sentiment. Alen, himself, was particualrly skillfull at the more 'messy', admittedly less delicate act of dagger in the dark, largely from the legacy of Gottschalk--which might explain his chagrin in practicing his arts. Worse, yet, he was not seeking to murder the lord of a wayward keep--rather, to murder the man meant to assassinate it's lord. Further complicating matters were the fact that, while not enemy, this particular lord owed no alleigance to the Duchess, and would take decidedly unkindly to shadows stalking his halls. The last thing she needed was another enemy. And worst of all, if Alendral's suspicision bore fruit, the Duchess was in for a fight harder than she'd known thus far. Having long since traded the astute robes of nobility a dark cloak, a deep, warm brown that blended with faint torchlight, further clad in leather and cloth--nothing that dare make a sound, betray his position, even his few tools of the trade-lockpicks, a heavy leather sap, and dagger carefully stowed and, in the latter case, swathed in cloth to muffle the noise, combining speed with caution and liquid grace--slipping by a particular patrolling guardsmen without the faintest suspcision. He had only one advantage--he knew who the man was after, but the man--presumeably, did not know his involvement. He had merely hoped him the better of two infilitrators. The man in question was making his way through castle as well--but unlike Alen, he was a less delicate touch--several guards strayed too close lie dead, soaked in blood and haphazardly placed where they might not be found so easily...
Claramae: A spy was the essence of change and the end of doubt, save those that witnessed the evolution of Alendral or Claramae to their final purpose often were at the end of what the word 'final' implied. Every person was subject to preference. How they took their tea, if they fancied white or red vintages of wine, and what ventures suited them best. There was no spy of the elegant sort who did not fancy a cushion in a fine estate home to return to at the endof a long scheme, nor full coffers, or any such thing that suggested they were successful. It was a welcomed misconception for the small Anglo woman to be considered the provential fair: refined, mannerful, haughty, noble to the core of her bones. Why would the likes of that one do any more than apply poison or seduce a man with a choice view of her decolte? Presumptions work best when they are allowed to build and thicken into a wall that no fool can see through without risk of self. She lurked above him and off to the left. Not on the arm of Master Voltaire nor in a carriage, but truly above him in rafters. Silks had no place here tonight. Velvet abandoned all together, the choiceof attire for she was the same as himself. No mystery left as to the shape that exsisted like that of sinew stretched, lithe. Her breasts were bound in tight folds of linen so that onyx shirt was not impeded with feminine lines. Where was he going - it wasn't the question of location so much as in what room and for whom. One foot crossed before the other as a tight-rope walker does. Arms over head on the adjoining beam, she navigated the narow slip with ease and crossed to a place where no rafter was above for her hands. Did this stop her? The grace of her gliding steps became evident here, and when a narrow crevice of stone seemed to small to squeeze to the ledge to perch on? Straight arms plunged into the hole so that she became akin to the stilleto blade of her personal fame. Her hair was in a long, tight braid wound around three solid-jet marbles and held in place by pins. There was no part of her body, no thing on it, that didn't have a purpose. Lockpicks resided against her back by crossed leather pieces, stilletos were plunged at her breast and within her boots, among other places. The work to be done tonight was a sordid business. At least, where her line with Sorschal crossed, it made the work less (d)
Alendral: The trouble with tracking a spy was tht Spies, by nature, didn't want to be tracked. It was why Alendral had plotted to head him off, so to speak, but it was still maddening. and yet still, out of habit Alen had intended to make being tracked by her as difficult as possible--doubling back, halting, never taking the straight path. That she was following him was a testament to her own ability. Eventually, he had reached the hallway leading to the Lord's private chamber--and stopped just short around a corner, his heart jumping as he had nearly revealed himself to the pair of guards at the door, both looking vaguely irritated and bored. The reason for the boredom was obvious--the irritation was due to the very stupid giggles and other assorted sounds that suggested that our lordship was currently enjoying one of the perks of being well respected despite having the appeal of a muck-covered pig in a silk robe.The problem being that the architecture was either built to make the act of murder difficult or merely coincidentally set to make at as hard as possible--the turn opened up into a large, vaguely empty chamber--save a pair of pillars with nothing in between to seek concealment without being spotted--and even than they were a bit thin for that, and with a nearby torch--even popping his head out for a crossbow shot would have alerted one of them and pretty much ensured the end of any spy stupid enough to try his luck. The hall continued on--which would put the Assassin eventually on the other side of it, but the lack of hiding places made Alen curse. he could do nothing but packpedal and watch carefully, a less than ideal place for an ambush--too far. but how the hell was the Assassin going to pull this off? in the middle of the night, you'd have to be in insane to even attempt it and-- "Oh... bloody hell." he whispered. Whatever he was expecting, a Cardinal wasn't it. Or at least, dressed like one--extremely convincingly as well. he even had the look of the pious--the vague arrogance that only came from a man convined that no matter how much of a condescending bastard he was, he was going to live a life of opulence and die only to wake up in some bloody paradise. The touch of grey hair--thinning, no less, also made him look all the less threatening. He didn't even try to hide what he was doing--he marched around the corner, and Alen heard some murmuring, a level tone mixed with a pair of slightly confused guards. Suddenly alarmed, he began to close--he'd gotten just to the blind corner and carefully peeked around--the guards were on the ground, and the cardinal placed his blade, blood seeping on the stone floor beneath them--only a faint clatter, unheard by the noble behind it--he was laying one down and whispering last rites. it was like something out of his nightmares. He almost looked like Gottschalk, for god's sake! There wasn't time for subtle. Not a time for plan. Alendral slipped from shadow, and swiftly closed distance, stiletto drawn. The cardinal noticed him a split second before he was on him--not quite fast enough. It was just a matter of who was fast enough to strike first.
Claramae: The great dilemma for any spy is what to do when the ingredients in the plan's recipe aren't there! From the floor, the tall room soared towards high ceilings pleasing to the aesthetic but utterly useless to the lady. She had spent the better part of her night on the rooftops of Turas Lan no different than a cat with a sense of freedom to excersise. But now, the rafters to which she walked on turned to razor-thin ledges in places where the shadows were broken by colored glass. Who built this infernal city? Tride and true merits were at a want to subside for vulgar words as she tightened her mouth against commiting that particular offense. Her boots were a leather with pliable souls to test the limitations that would have turned another faint-hearted or less than fool-hardy spy back the way they came. A muffled shift of scuffling at the ball of the foot as she all but had to form her body to the lines ofthe room at the border. Even if she had climbed up, the arch would have taken to long and the exposure would have been immediate. Finally, a challenge after so many years, but why tonight! One Italian tended to bring more Italians, and with them would come the fat grapes of the European vine to be pressed at the Holy See. The Cardinal, you see, shared a commonality with our Lady's target. This Bishop could be found in the company of this Cardinal. He had an appetite for papal apologies paid for with pilgrim's gold. His robes parted for the sake of earthly pleasure. In tandum to this, irony would paint him as a great supporter of Spain's infamous Inquisistions to which he was a designed Inquisitor sent to find a foothold in heathen lands for returning lost lambs to the Church by any means necessary. Swaggering Church officiates disgusted many, but this particular : set churned the stomach of a steel snake with the magnitude of "Accomplishments" under golden belt. Oh yes - she came, too, to collect the Book of Accomplishment. A listing of murders done, whom was to come, and the names of people whom were taken to God's house on the rack or worse. How was she going to get said book and the Bishop when her unofficial informant was in open conflict? In the instance before it began..a second's faulter would have released a footing at akward time because the man who murdered looked like him. Gottschalk was a name that she did not utter at all. As Alendral ran toward his target, behind him the guards began to close in. Their rank was one in front, two behind. At this rate, the envoy would be upon him and if he lost his target (and his life) she stood to lose the same. Coming not to die tonight, she became the back of the running triangle of guardsmen to be the apex of a reverse diamond. Her appearance was evident after the right rear guardsmen began to stagger in his steps while holding his throat. Gurgling, an incision to the hilt was made that poured his blood and last words from the hole in the back of his neck. (d)
Alendral: This is going distinctly poorly. the thought came unbidden to Alendral as he engaged his assailant, the angry sound of footfalls behind him telling him that his fate was more or less sealed no matter the outcome. The 'Cardinal' to his credit did not show the faintest bit of surprise. Alen moved to sink the blade into his ribcage, but he caught him at the wrist roughly, teeth gritted. There was a second misconception about spies as well--the idea that they were all acrobats, slipping and darting admist each other, lightning fast. In this particular case, 'combat' between the two spies was brutal and vicious, both seeking to incapicate the other as quickly as he could. The Cardinal snapped his head forward, headbutting the 'Magician' square in the nose and staggering him backward and gathering himself a second later, a blade slipped from vulinous robes as he sureged ahead. Alen, to his credit, kept his balance and met the charge, and delievered a surprising thrust to the man's throat, choking his air off suddenly and taking the fury out of the counter-attack. Than losing all pretense of 'honorable' combat, he drove them both to the ground, causing a startled cry as Alen madly scrabbled for a clear path for his dagger. The other guards would have ended it there--if not for the heavy clatter of a dead guard behind them, slowing their advance and causing themto turn to meet a new threat.
Claramae: This is not how it was meant to be endured.. Mayhaps it was merely being English that allowed for the worst thoughts to cater towards the best vocabulary. The man could have been Gottschalk incarnate. No breath or anything to testify that this was beyond the ordinary. He was no doubt an Inquisitor, like the Bishop, or signed the certificates that deemed one unfit to live. Had she time to stop and think it would have been bone-chilling, but instead she was the wind that turned the guards around to be bowled over. Of all things they did not anticipate seeing a woman walk over the back of the dead man so that he became the place that gave her a step to catapult herself onto the next man. A pool of blood formed around the first body, while with the second she tustled. They twisted on the floors until she was beneath him. Thinking he had the upper hand, she twined her body to the side of him in order to reach her arm backwards up her blouse to draw out the stilletto's twin. Plunging one in the fragile exposure between his back plate of armor and shoulder, the later instrument was plunged through his thigh. Covered only by breeches, he found himself crying aloud as each knife was dragged up, twisted, and dragged again. She carved into the wounds to ensure that he would not find his way up without loss of fluid. If he moved, he would die faster. To stay still. He would die, only slower. What was she doing there would have to be asked later as she rolled away to the wall. While Sorschal dealt with his "matter" she would deal with the annoyances surrounding the completion of his work and beginning to block the route to her own. (d)
Alendral: It didn't look like art. It didn't demonstrate his years of expertise and practice. There was scuffling, though a strange, mute one where neither wanted to betray their position more than was necessary. Alen came inches within a coup-de-grace, only to find his momentum suddenly reversed--now the killer was atop him, and had a knife of his own, and Alendral found himself struggling to keep that off--and the old bastard was tougher than he looked. The knife got entirely too close--and then he felt a lack of pressure--Alendral shifted and threw his weight one direction--throwing the cardinal off-balance, and suddenly shoved him off, the blade taking a solid bite out of his arm but leaving him otherwise unscathed--the Cardinal scrambled on his feet--but one second too late. Alen literally vaulted up, whipped around and grabbed a handful of hair--so blindingly fast the cardinal was forced to surprise. He brought the blade up, slit one end of the throat to the other--and it was over. The Cardinal fell, gurgling uselessly, leaving Alen decidedly short of breath. Pumped up on adrenaline, he could force himself to do nothing but let his heart-rate fall, before remembering himself, scrambling for what he was looking for, tossing aside robes with little regard for the dead 'till he found it--a small book, full of the details he needed. When he heard the door to the noble unlatch, a jolt of terror hit him--it opened-and closed just as fast, with a cry of pain on the other side. Okay, so breaking the nose of his lordship probably wouldn't earn him much favors, but it was the only way to stay undiscovered. by the time his lordship regained himself, Alen was clear to the other side of the room, and well on his way out--when he came across the work of another killer's handiwork. Assuming the killer was still there-- well, sufficed to say the scuffle had seen the hood of Alen's cloak removed, but likely she was still well concealed. Hopefully she had saw fit to conceal herself or else declare herself before Alen treated her as another Papal spyelse former pupil and master would find out just how much the other had grown since, and one would be explaining themselves very awkwardly to their superiors.
Alendral: On Alendral's credit, the small portion of his effort that could be seen from her perch on the distant end of a distant chamber was excellent, given the adversity he worked in. It was good he hadn't forgotten how to get his hands dirty. Ironic, when you considered who would be saying that, but now was not the time for vanity was it? He was no more going to be flattered than the last guard she overcame was going to waltz from the room with a story to tell.His mouth opened in a scream only to find transmuted cries. Still, it was worthy of cursing. Loud enough to be heard meant that someone else might hear it and come to see what the matter was at the end of the hall at the other door! Claramae's adventure intersected with Alendral's in a place where only two doors let them in or out. This man caught hold of her garments and pulled until she went against the wall. Her back connecting with the stone, the thick wool and hide mixture cushioned the blow enough to leave bruises but no lasting marks. Reeling from the unexpected strength, evident that the knock to the head hadn't done enough, she watched the guard rise. There are too many here she thought with an inward sigh while perspiration broke on the flesh. On the same wall she was tossed to, she put her left foot into the wall, the right against the base of a statue. Pushing off, she latched on to his arm to catch the man in surprise as he was pulled down by the little viper, only to have his neck crushed in the coils of her thighs.By the time of Sorscha's emergence to her end of the matter, her physical being was perched on the ledge above him. To stay hidden would be to encounter risk of thinking one worked against the other's interest, and to play the game overlong would be to linger in a hornet's nest. "Sorschal.." The voice eminated from everywhere and no where, minute but signficant. Holding toward a tapestry, she lowered herself down without exerting her weight forceful on the hang pins or rod. One hand wound in the golden cord, the other against the thick edge, she remained suspended a few inches from earth as she hung behind him now (d
AIendral: He, to his part, came in carefully, trying to leave no blind spot--were it not for her particular talent, he would have spotted her hiding above him, and slipped down. Also to her credit, she didn't hiss his name out in a place within stabbing distance, because Claramae or not, he was all taut nerves and the very mention of his name near sent him into fits. His blind spot was checked first, but immedietely snapped up--just out of habit, because--as a killer, that's where he'd be, to find the delicate little woman hanging above him by way of tapestry. Whether it was the cadence of the voice cluing him in or her particular disregard for the more well-troden path and acrobatic style, he'd at least figured out and he hissed out a rather acid response. 'Clara!' again, use of a friendlier name, and his expression contorted into frustrated surprise. 'I almost killed you!' he hissed, though how successful he'd have been was debateable. The unspoken question what in the name of all that is Holy are you doing out here? went unsaid, and he wondered if her envoys weren't far behind--his habit of 'going alone' was one habit picked up by Gottschalk she'd never disabused, though the irony of the great entertainer being something of a loner in his work was lost on him, truthfully.
Claramae "And the Cardinal almost killed you," came the response, the lady dangling as if the center of some theatrical ritual. Inch by inch she lowered herself until the distance between Alendral and she was numbered two inches by way of her feet to the floor and about an inch above his person by way of the face. "Then there is the matter of the Holy guard. It seems they grow to expect much as they do much." Oddly, that was her way of saying that work was rather difficult tonight and the quarry seemed more aware than usual. It would mean that each time after this there would need be such careful, such ingenious plans that it would demonstrate just how close to the mind of Gottschalk she was. 'Devil's cat' was a term he coined for the exceptional way the lady elected to move and had been seemingly 'blessed' by God to do so. Once, Gottschalk believed that his skills were given by God to aid his king and that he would offer up the river of teeming wickedness to be culled at the feet of the throne. The demon with the angelic face believed, too, that their unholy talents were holy in where they originated, and for what purpose. Time skewed the original intent of old years. "The Bishop." Cool, impassive face lifted the traditional double brow to widen her eyes in view of the surrounding while exhibiting nary an ounce of actual surprise. His answer came in those two words, and already she was investigating the door at a distance to pick apart the locking mechanisms. Surely, in this passage between aparts the door would be locked. (d)
Alendral: "I had it well in hand." he protested, only now noticing he was nursing a wound and letting out a muffled curse. "Bloody tired of getting shot and stabbed every time..." he muttered and tested it--only a flesh wound, nothing serious. Of course, when she found out just what it was he was looking up--well, he did not relish sharing the information he had. Fate, whatever its master, had a note for dramatic irony. for the moment, he relegated himself to playing lookout, watching carefully, heedless of the fact that the idea of fleeing and leaving her to finish matters himself didn't enter his mind. "The Bishop? " wheels within wheels, it seemed. a 'Cardinal' and a Bishop in the same place. and he shook his head. "Listen. There is something important to discuss. There are things in motion here, things that hail news that make the Maubery's attempt child-like in scope.
Claramae]: She released her hold on the chord to land on the floor just like a cat as was mentioned prior. Knees bent lower to the floor until such point she rose in that slow, liquid grace conveying a quiet confidence that never was questioned, "I'm listening," she insisted, giving a flourished roll of a hand as she reached the other over her shoulder before reversing it to another angle to find a thin sheet of metal. Her steps carried her towards the door where the metal was applied as far into the seal of the door jam as possible to muffle any sound. Tiny pins came into the tips of her fingers from inside of the seeming artistic twine of strands. She intended to listen to matters between confidants while concluding her own agenda. As it was, it seemed the space between one's work and the others was converging. It was a double locking mechanism, and with eyes casting up she studied the door all the more. "Hook pins.Discrete sealing door.." Leaving her pin wedged in the main double lock, it was a mark for him to see where she had gotten before noticing that it became that much more complicated. Back into the atmosphere for Clara as the engravings on the door were choice places for her hands and feet as she went to undo a mastery of Spanish locksmithing. It was built, this place, to keep the likes of them out. (d)
Alendral "The bloody cardinal has a record to match both our affairs. I had barely noticed him before he gave my network the slip. He'd slipped through it Clara, without effort. I was only able to trace him afterwards, but he's been extremely busy in Turas Lan, but I couldn't make any sense of his abductions and murders--nobody important, nobody with information I could figure worth going to the trouble of retrieving. " he hesitated than, not sure he wanted todispense this. There was one piece of information he with-held, delicately hidden behind the pressing matter of her concentration, but he rationalized it internally. Not important. She doesn't need to hear it and it will do her no favors, not now. "I was able to get a hold of his logbook--seems even the best of us succumb to bad habits. " but the nature of the door suddenly caught his attention. Was she joking? He was convinced they were in the home of some worthless noble, not one that would go to trouble like this, and given what he had accidentally learned... his expression became completely unreadable then, and he wondered just what had brought Clara to such conclusion as well.
Claramae: "Then he was worth your attention, similiarly, the Bishop keeps a record on a large level with intimate details. You know of the Book of Accomplishments? " One might has well have said she went to touch the Holy Grail with intentto bring it home for her mantle piece. "With all that has come to this land of late, it is a must to have hands on it. As you can tell, I have no attention of being still nor only doing noble's business during my sojourn inpolitical asylum. " She came from her duties of only court-appointed tasks or deeds set down by the rulers in order to uphold the rule by going beyond it entirely. It was her opinion that though powerful, fledgling dynasties c crumbled without the proper foundations. The council of Avaria was facist and the good hearted, feverish rulers of Skye were still new blood, and thus naieve. Any combination of those two things could make it very hard to work in any cover unless she excersised the unorthodoxy in her skill. "Have you seen the ships? Many envoys are coming here or have been nestled in quiet since Autumn. I fear we eached moved here for certain reasons that will not come to be unless we are expedient. This dutchy seems to be the center of attention.." Her hands never quit moving. Climbing up to the first set of pins, she undid the bolts against the wall so as to unfasten the tension binds from the hooks. The door would whine softly, huff a bit of dust as she went across to under the others. Her focus already was taxed at the sight of the Cardinal, and things she did not tell him. It would do him no good to know she believed that these men were connected to an order of sorts, of which another man they had in common might run. It was these men she believed responsible for allowing the murders of Gottschalk in the city-states to which they were sent to fetch him. In fact, they may have very well been responsible for his creation all together. As the door cracked open, she surveyed what lay infront of them. A long stretch of hallway, pitch, save for faint candles (d)
Alendral: "Yes. and that's what befuddles me. I'd be lying if I said the Duchess has a flair for making enemies. But I'd never have expected efforts like these." he shook his head and grimaced at the thought of it. So swiftly reminded of just why he found her so damned intimidating. The Book of Accomplishments? Utter insanity. the hallway seemed like the maw of some fevered animal, ready to swallow them both. He shook his head. "Make this quick. The altercation may be the distraction you'd need, but soon as they sort out that mess they'll check matters far more important. " he urged her on with a low growl, fighting off the feeling that he had gone over his head, and trying to avoid thinking about how few people would give a damn at his untimely demise. Sobering thought to say the least--no longer Clara had finally chosen to settle in her own right. He dismissed the errant thought and pulled his cowl up, falling into step behind her.
Claramae: "Agreed. For a time I wondered if they were enemies the Duke had made on his travels. For all his ability with speeches and straddling manners, his ideas are radical. If they are catching a fire elsewhere..they could come to do away with them. But that does not account for, as you said, the rash, nonsensical approach to the abductions and murders. It is almost like..every enemy and every one of his enemies of that one has come here to settle all their scores while waiting for a much larger lot to remain for.." In short, all roads led to Turas Lan and the foot of the Griffin throne which could be good if they lacked business, yet horrendous to the many of them who would be conducting affairs here shortly. How many other spies in varying guises supped on the buffet of the streets here? The doors pulled back and instead of taking to the shadow she put herself in the middle of the floor. "Of course," she mused at his insistance of speed, but inward she drew in her resources. Her breathing became low, if not unheard. It was quick to warm up her body so it would stay supple as she took off running down the hall. Corners that partitioned off had one man each, with the length of the hall the amount of a seeming quarter mile, she had no choice but to draw them out. One of the jet-beads from inside the coil was drawn out. Smashing it down, she tucked into a roll. Pulling a scarf around her nose, the men who began to chase her were holding their chests, coughing on the thin, yellow streams of acrid scent, like burnt poppy seeds. Some men began to fall back and try to cough the strange effects out by emptying the contents of their bellies while others found that after the shock they were left with all of their resources save one: sight. (d)
Alendral: Alendral was quick to fall in step, though keeping up with the woman was an ordeal in itself. to say nothing of almost being caught unprepared for her little alchemical trick. Bloody hell, he remembered when such theatrics were his staple. The woman was capable of taking any talent and amalgating it into her own repoitoire. He barely pulled over a swathe of cloth in time, dropping back only to finish the job on the men, for practical reasons, mostly-- he'd catch up later, and frankly, though disabled, the thought of men screaming for help when their lungs cleared wouldn't assist either. Doing so meant she was on her own, but he wasn't concerned about that. There was only one time in his life he considered himself as a necessary hand to the woman. All other times, he had the impression she could get on fine without him. Despite the trials ahead, he was confident she would finish the job.
Claramae: "Take your book, and anything else of merit, and meet me outside.." Run, Sorschal. Run as if your life depended on it (which it did) because it would only get worse from here. If one was caught they both might be caught, and theextent of collateral damage was more than either of them planned for. Claramae had a great many talents of a socio-political and educational nature that bordered accomplished on the outskirts of mad. Poisons, their antitdotes, alchemy, and invention were the less than casual pursuits of a common baron's daughter that grew when on her own. Her father had financed her education in literature, languages, and the mathematics that prepared her mind for science. How books became physical excellence was not a story for the current hour, but the second jet bead was sent down , creating the dark smoke that heightened shadow. Did he remember? It was one of the first mixtures she taught him for this sort of work, and the last bead held the final to-do. A mix of bella donna, jimson weed, and mandrake root mixed with poppy seed. The brew was a mixture not uncommon, only not put together. The first things were poisonous enough on their own, but the opiate slowed the bodies response, and the jimson weed was caused hallucinations. At the end of the hall she encountered both standing Bishop and the book, and it was a struggle to overcome either. She was forced to roll, duck, and dodge his superior hands and use her stilleto blades as rapiers. By the time she exhausted him enough to find an advantage he was near to driving her into a corner, were it not for the quick dive forward, the hair pin could not be the needle that drained the black orb of poison into his veins. He fell atop her, causing Claramae to scramble from under him as he began to claw at the floor, hiss, and roll about until the opiates began to firmly plant his body to the floor. The Bishop fell to fits and twitches, watching as she scooped up the book and followed the same advice given to Sorschal. Almost as if sounding a bell, in the adjoining room more men came. One was stabbed in the gut, the rest were going to be allowed to test their strength as they would lose her in the chemical mixture the hall had become (d)
Alendral: Messy, messy work! that's what this all felt like. He stopped, if only for a moment, to protest before giving up and taking his leave, rushing away from the hall and making his escape with almost indecent haste. It wasn't all a simple stroll out either--he'd ran into a few other guards in his haste, forced to disarm one and brutally jam the stiletto under his chin before moving swiftly. The entire castle was becoming a veritible hornet's nest--though hehad planned for that. Stopping to ascend into the high rafters just as she had done with smooth grace, he'd began the quick vault from beam to beam until he spooted his place--a hook connected to a high window, just where he'd left it. Slipping through, he'd go about the pain-staking process of rappelling down fast as he could, watching the shapes rush past and praying that not one of them noticed the bloody hook portruding and ended his illustrious career with a quick drop. He'd gotten a handful of steps away, shedding his robes and various more clandestine gear for a rather... drab ensemble, looking all the more like a dishevled pilgrim. Not the most flattering garb, he knew, but it paid to be unassuming, and the perspiration and mussed hair took completed the look. He had no idea how he'd come into contact with Clara again... in all liklihood, he woudln't see her until he returned to Turas Lan (or so he thought anyway) and, despite himself, he found himself mmuttering a prayer to something that she escaped from the death-trap with similar ease...
Claramae Ease? What was that! More by the tips of her wit-ridden fingernails that she overcame the hoards that seemed to bleed from the walls. Cursed, cursed place boasted too many long corridors, wide halls enough for several men, and places of exposure. What kept them from remembering her were the dark clothes, the covered face, and the disbelief that it was a she whom they chased. Like a mouse, she began to dart back up the tapestries and drawing chords to reach her own planned escape place in a circular window to the side of the great dome. Below, men were stumbling over one another and bodies. A mistress cried at her lover's demise, and it would take the guards some time to undo the great door that guarded a now dying Bishop. On her back? The book of books. The conquest of current conquests...even she could hardly believe it. Rappling down the wall and over the gardens, the change began. Peeling away her leathers, the dark chemise blouse beneath was left as she pulled from her things a dress of olive green wool. A fine wool, but plain, she concealed the bruises on her arms by seeing the sleeves pulled fully to the wrist. Her book was tied to the saddle of the black Freesian called Cicero. By now the purpose of the hair became evident as the jet-bead coils, now fallen, could be veiled by the hood pulled up. Hands gloved, she turned the horse toward the woods against the tide that the castle's horses would ride in. Oh yes, she began to look for Alendral beyond the gate and on safe placed roads in the dell village some miles down the lane. (d)
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Post by chantalrose on Dec 17, 2008 15:53:02 GMT -6
Stand still. Don't breath. He won't notice you...
Those were the words running through Chantal's mind as she stood, like that of a statue, staring down at the merchant's display of goods. Palms sweating, heart pounding so loud she feared he would hear it, she held her breath and refused to move. Feeling as though paralyzed by the fear coursing through her. It'd been many years since she'd laid eyes on Mikhail Petrov, her former husband, the man who'd tried to have her and her child murdered, and then she hadn't been frightened at all. Rage, powerful and overwhelming, had given her unknown of courage. Now...it was only the stark feeling of fear that knotted her gut and the realization that she was alone.
Her purpose for coming into town had been most simple: To buy gifts for her family and those who worked for her. Aware of the dangers of traveling during winter in Scotland, she'd risked it, coming to Turas Lan with only Seamus as a traveling companion. He'd, of course, escorted her to the marketplace until Chantal had sent him to get her coinpurse upon realizing it'd been left at the Briar Rose.
Now, regret poured through her. Seamus had been adamant they both return. She'd been too worried that this fine chain would vanish and had wanted it for Synnovea. If she'd went with though she would not being standing only two steps from the monster that had made life hell.
Chantal knew that Mikhail was standing there, could feel his presence just behind her, and nearly jumped out of her skin when the merchant spoke up quite loudly.
"Lady Rose, 'ave ye chosen yet?" The man's rumbling voice, as rocks thudded together, made her nerves scream. Gloved hands clenched together, Chantal's heart racing faster and faster, as a shadow fell over her.
"Lady Rose, is it?" That chilling voice, one capable of freezing the blood in her veins, turned Chantal's stomach into a ball of knots. What was he doing here? Mikhail had hated Scotland, loathed and despised it, and yet here he was. She was too afraid to turn around, part of her mind telling her to flee, as he moved closer.
"You have not lost your beauty..." Words spoken in Russian, confusing the merchant clearly, as one of Mikhail's hands brushed her pale cheek. A shudder chased up her spine, bile rising in her throat, as she squeezed her eyes shut.
The merchant, now concerned, spoke up,"Lady Rose? Be ye a'right? Sir, ah I be thinkin' you should leave 'er be..."
"Do you now?" Mikhail switched to english, but still had the obvious russian accent. The merchant gave a firm nod and Mikhail's gloved hand shot out to grab the man by the shirt front,"Do you know who I am? Do you?" When the man gave a negative, frightened shake of his head, Mikhail's chuckle came eerily forth,"I am Mikhail Petrov, soon to be the next Master Of The Merchant Guild. Do not overstep yourself."
The man's ego never failed to astound Chantal. That he was here, in Skye, aspiring to such a position and near to obtaining it scared her to death. Stepping in before he hurt the poor man, Chantal drew from an inner well of courage and turned around abruptly. A hand shot out to loose Mikhail's from the poor merchant's shirt. "Ignore the ramblings of this man. Go to the Briar Rose and inquire for Seamus, Strongarm of Chantal Rose. Bring him here immediately." When the merchant hesitated, Chantal yelled,"NOW!"
With urgency the man took off and Chantal stared into the black eyes of the Devil himself. This was the man who truly ruled Hell. Chantal had always believed that. Even moreso now as he stood before her, dressed in all black, with his sable hair blown by the breeze, looking as though he was above all others. Standing there, back straight, she stared bravely at him.
"You still are courageous, my little dove." The endearment sickened her to no end. Mikhail's tone implied an intimacy that brought by horrid memories. His own gloved hand reached out again, brushing golden hair from her cheek, as he whispered,"You should be frightened of me. I have connections now. A man...Maubrey...and he will soon be the most powerful man of Skye...of Scotland..."
Chantal stood there quietly. Her body shivered, not from cold, as his finger slid along her cheekbone toward her chin. She wanted to holler at him, to run, but could not. Those around them went on about their business, oblivious to their conversation or the fear billowing from her in waves. Chantal wanted to scream at him, to run, but the fear overpowering what courage she'd had previously.
"I'll come for you...tomorrow...you and the children. You will pay, Chantal. For everything that you have done..." Mikhail's words hid an implication that had blue eyes widening in her pale face. He was going to kill them. The man was mad! Shaking her head, blonde curls waving about her face, she stated hoarsely,"You will not touch them!"
A commotion, the sound of the merchant returning with Seamus, had Mikhail's grin widening,"On the morrow, my dove, I shall make you sing..." and then he was disappearing into the crowd. Seamus came just in time to grab Chantal as her legs, weakened with nerves, gave out on her. Holding her, seeing the stark fear in her too-wide eyes, he whispered,"Who?"
"Mikhail..." Seamus understood, they all did, who the man was and what he had done. Lifting her into his arms, Seamus began the trek back to the Briar Rose. "I ne-need to go home...the children....not safe...tomorrow.." Her words were disjointed, voice shaky, as she tried to shove away the fear.
---
Mikhail stood a distance away, watching the departure with a gloating smile on his face, and playing with a chain. It had been the one Chantal had been eyeing. He had been following her since she'd came to Turas Lan. Before that a couple of men, hired thugs, nothing more than rabble pulled off the street and kept on a weak lash by the coin paid, kept track of her movements. They watched the inn, from within and without, at all hours. Tomorrow, when the sun rose, the plan was to swarm it. It'd be at it's weakest in the early morning hours, before the sun climbed into the sky, and he'd take them then. Chantal, Synnovea, William, and that bastard black child Haji. He'd take them all...and kill them.
That would be his punishment for her treatment of him. For living when she should have died. For bedding that heathen who'd been paid to kill her. Mikhail had always suspected Chantal of being a whore and that had confirmed it. Seeing that child sent rage spiraling through him like he'd never experienced. Now the little b*tch would pay, and dearly. She'd die last. First she would watch each of her children die, hear their screams of pain, and their cries as they beg for their wretched lives. He'd start with the littlest one first.
Whistling softly, tossing the chain to some beggar on the street, Mikhail made his way down the road. He had a meeting to attend this evening with the guild of merchants. They would see that he was the right man to take the seat of the Guildmaster, who conveniently had been murdered a week before, and if they disagreed...well, their were ways. A dark, cruel smile curved his lips and evil glint in his onyx eyes.
He would have power.
--The Italic speech is Russian.--
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Post by Master Claramae St. Laurence on Dec 18, 2008 14:30:49 GMT -6
"Where are all of the Guild Masters?"
"Here, M'Lady!"
"Again. Where. are. all of them?" she punctuated each world so that it would be understood by the underling they sent to do the task of informing her. This would never do, and in the future she would insist, in her own endearing, permanent fashion, that her household handle all correspondance, "I will not be kept when there are affairs elsewhere to see to, child."
"Oh, wella," he stammered, chewing on his inner cheek, "No one's reached the Merchant Master for many days now, n' the Master o' the Farm folk be comin', but he's selling his herd you see out in the square. Haggling with one who was selling another just the same, ten pieces higher! Mam, Mam.." As he warbled on about the life of the bovine in the square, Claramae had since moved to stand opposite him at the end of the great staircase in the Hall of Guilds. Two were gone. The gathered would just have to do. At eight o'clock, the winter sun splashed in speckled pieces through the oval windows above. Pieces of color and dust picked at everything going on in this place the same as a finger that bothered a wound. Something was out of joint here. Not with the man of the farms, goodness no. The fool was a village dolt with a talent for growing things. This city stood as testament that the fool could find his fortune along the winding streets and up the High City Steps between the levels. Still, as the levels of the city changed, so could those atop it tumble all the way toward the bottoms with no one to suggest they ought tarry after.
The Merchant Master was a man of influence in a golden city. That no one sought to send a messanger to him or take it upon themselves to entreat an audience at his personal residence when he did not show himself suggested that his influence went only so far. Were he a wiser man, he would have followed the trend of the times and taken the suggestion of a personal long-arm to guard him. Why a long-arm? Deduction was the spice of life for she of the glorious, powerful mind. While the boy stood, baffled, she had already concluded what became of the vanished sirrah.
Death gave him an appointment to keep with the grave digger, an apart in the earth at the cathedral, and all of his earthly gold to his heirs on earth. While the pronoucement of name, rank, and purpose was issued to the smalll table of men beyond the door, she had spun many reasons why he was dead, what with, and by whom. There were pieces to the puzzle missing however, that were necessary for the picture to be presented. While the gentry fumbled with their fat bellies hung over their belts, she would use dexterious digits to further the cause. As if born of the corner air, Maxamillion Voltaire came to take his lady's hand to escort her in. Her chair was pulled out, her seat taken, and they began the process of debating costs, imports, exports, and the like toward the shores of her foreign constituates. True, she was not "at home" we will say, but it was important that economics play no part in morals. A needful, expectant citizen class was easier to keep at bay than silent, poor rabble who would tear down the city walls at a moment's notice of being deprived. Her reasons for caring were at once sanctioned by order, by operational necessity, and by a personal agenda that was neer spoken of in public.
It was important for those abroad to remain connected to their body parts and alive if they were ever to return and do the work set down before the regime of the Steward was born. A part of her, in earnest, did yearn for the 'simplicity' of her social place. There it was clear and direct. Here, while ambiguity served, there were "limitations" to her powers in board daylight that could be turned down in the place over the sea. So she had to listen to them, haggle with them and employ the hallmarks of a strong education instead of the invisible hand of cloak-at-dagger. But in listening to them, it seemed someone had already begun, as she suspected, to do that:
"What do you mean that a foreign ship," she articulated a cool interruption, "has sailed in, begun to trade with you, and now the man stands to be an heir to an entire guild without the proper protocol observed? This simply will not do. I will straight-away inform the proper authority of His Grace's court, for I am certain that he will not be pleased with the way your politics play out in his duchy.."
"He will know soon enough," the man to her left replied. He was stout but not unattractive. In fact, he was a man of order and propriety. Beyond the stiff neckline of his shirt, the buttons polished on his vest lacked a cool, possible savant. "We have prepared the letter and will have the scribe seal it, and present it to both of their Grace's shortly. The man's name is Petrov, Mikhail Petrov."
With folded hands in her lap, one unfurled for him in suggestion he go on. "I am not familiar with Master Petrov, sir," she addressed him ,"but if his success is ensured than many shall be soon, no doubt. From where does he hail?"
So began the education for the next choice of Master Merchant. Russia, and apparently a suave operator to have so successful an enterprise. A wife, children, were said to be dead. A widower, how terribly sad. A man like that seemed more akin to wish to be alone with his money than share it with wife, first born, or daughter's dowries. Little did they all know that this success was making his mark on a piece of the past while standing beside his chosen future. Everything in the world was a circle. Everything in the world had a beginning and an end.
"This has been very enlightening. If you do not mind, I would be honored to deliver such news to their Graces. My role is assumed on two shores, so in this I shall fufill my duty unto them readily."
Eloquence served her well. Her stature, while still deferring to the males in the room secured her the scroll, a fond farewell, and opportunities to dine in their fine homes that she would never take up. What they did not know, in doing business with a woman extolled in grace, was that the serpent's charm gave her the keys to Eden on Earth. She was possesed of heavy coffers, estates, city homes akin to small palaces, and a good name in the right places of the continent. All of these things seemed to have led to curious moments in the last year, one of which was now. Why were all roads leading to this city, and what did Petrov have to gain here?
Surely he would have gone to Paris, London, or the sea above North Africa to ensure his fortune. Something personal brought him to Turas Lan. It was a rash fever struck that brought him, and others here. Maubrey, d'Ercole. Bishops, Cardinals. Now this Petrov..
"If the world is going to come together, one would do best to be at said best in order to profit and remain a'loft. Indeed, the game is a'foot, and the late hunter shall have no quarry to catch. I intend to be first with the proverbial spear in hand..."
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Post by chantalrose on Dec 21, 2008 21:46:23 GMT -6
"We have to go home!"
"We can't, Chantal. The weather has taken a turn for the worse. Traveling in this would be too dangerous for you and the babe you carry."
"What about the children? Mikhail...he...he will kill them!"
Seamus gently patted Chantal's hand, smiling gently,"I have sent a man, a friend of mine, Kade, to warn them. He should reach there before the morning..."
What neither knew then was about the wolves. Word had come of those dreadful creatures after Chantal's trip to Turas Lan. Had they of known, the children would have been brought along, but instead...they spent the evening being chased by raging beasts. Kade's journey to the inn and cottage was delayed by the weather, forcing him to slow his horse, and when he reached the inn it was to see the door forced open. Chaos had been wreaked upon the inn, it was well after sun rise, and those who worked there seemed outraged.
Yet, others seemed worried. "Who did this?" Torrence's angry voice rose among the babble of other voices. It successfully stopped all others from speaking. Another voice rose, Owena, eyes wide,"Did any check the cottage? The children!"
Kade spurred his horse forward, coming up next to both Owena and Torrence,"Seamus sent me." The name brought both heads swiveling in his direction. "This be done by Mikhail."
A growl errupted from Torrence, gasps coming from the others, and soon Kade was following the others by horse. They were nearing Rose Cottage when the first sign of blood was spotted. It stained the snow a stunning crimson that glistened as the sun's rays lit it. Horses were spurred on more, no sign of the source of so much...gore...for there had been bone there to. "Synnovea! William! Elspeth! Haji!" The names were shouted by Owena, who was closest to the children, fear evident in her voice.
The cottage itself was in much the same condition as the inn. Dismounting quickly, before the animal even came to a full stop, Owena darted inside with sword in hand. She returned only a few minutes later, shaking her head at Torrence's silent question,"They are gone..."
Kade glanced to Torrence who stated simply,"Return to Turas Lan. Do not tell Chantal of what we've seen. Tell her only that the children be missing and we search for them."
A nod was given and Kade was off like lightning while the search began for the Rose children, Elspeth, and the two men who'd walked them home. For neither of the last had been found in their homes either...
---
Fury raged within Mikhail's heart as he stared at the group of thugs in front of him. "What do you mean they were not there..." His words were quiet and menacing, eyes blazing in his stern face, as he slammed a gloved fist down upon the table before him.
"Sir, we 'ave looked. They be gone." The man who answered, Gavin, was a simple man. A mere thief. He'd only gotten into this kind of work, the killing kind, when Mikhail showed up in Skye. Promise of gold that could feed his family well was too much to pass up. "Tha' blood be...ever'where..."
None of the men had ever seen so much. It'd been all over and one of the others who'd spread out searching had found more even further. "It a'seem they be headin' ta Red Wall." That very man thought of raised his voice, a chill snaking up the spines of others in the room at the name of the place. They knew who resided there.
That dark-skinned General and his pirate whore. Both had reputations that'd put fear in any man. The General himself was a big brute with a temper that could rival any native Scotsman.
"WHY?" Mikhail did not like this beating around the bush. His men had not attacked before time, knew that disobeying such an order could lose them a couple fingers or a head, and yet they spoke of blood. The children had clearly been running from some threat.
"Wolves, sir..." Gavin whispered the word, horror in his tone,"Like ah 'ave ne'er seen..." The other mens faces mirrored that of their leader as another spoke up,"A-tore Kai ta pieces...an' bit poor Ainsley. 'e be a-screamin' all tha time..."
Only Gavin and a few others had traveled into Turas Lan to meet with Mikhail. The others had been left at a makeshift camp near the Bant Chan Ser Valley. A healer there, not the best truly, was trying to make Ainsley better...to no avail. Yet, they could see that Mikhail Petrov cared not one whit for the deceased Kai or the dying Ainsley. His prize had been placed out of reach and he was furious.
"You will...take them...from Red Wall." That order was stated in a tone that brooked no argument. The bandits standing before him stared as if he'd lost his mind. They didn't fight with him though. If they disobeyed he'd simply pay some others to kill their families after he took care of them and that could not happen.
"Aye, sir..." A simple nod from Gavin, terse words, and he motioned the others to follow him out the door. They had a deed to be done.
Mikhail watched them leave the inn where he resided. His fist slammed down again and his tankard of ale met the far wall. They had escaped him! Outraged, furious, wanting to strangle something, he threw on his cloak and stormed out of his residence. It was temporary, nothing special, as soon he'd sit in the home of the previous Guildmaster, taking his title and everything he'd worked so hard for. The dead did not need it.
Whispers carried on the wind of another Merchant, who after arguing with Mikhail Petrov, was found deceased in his rooms at the Briar Rose. His throat had been slit with his own dagger. Mikhail's own ego grew with each word. Another down meant another out of the way of his goal. At least that could brighten his day...if only a little.
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Post by Master Claramae St. Laurence on Dec 31, 2008 4:54:16 GMT -6
Where the Roads Converge
"You will tell me plainly, and again, the information." The voice slid out of her mouth. Genteel, cold, and indifferent. Especially the indifference given the unique situation she presided over. "Lest you cause me trouble. This will not bode well for you."
The scene was thus: there was a dark room with a four legged stool, a table, and a man and woman. While the man was bound at his hands and feet with shard-laced ropes the woman walked in free, quiet movements peppered with her occasional inquiries for information. The sir was adament about maintaining a false sense of loyalty because at first he didn't fear his captor. Heavens, no. His fear was more palpable, however, whenever the name Petrov was mentioned. Bishop Ellington and Cardinal de La'Crouix produced a reaction that matched the hypothesis she deduced before the "experiment" began. Favoring neither the blood, violence, or the mess that followed with most militant interrogations she favored the approach that suited logic's excersise. The mind that ran circles around many others danced in dervish patterns while her eyes didn't blink. When he flinched, he found the shards in the rope cut at his skin. Not deep, but enough to inflict the required amount of pain that several shards at once could accomplish. Beneath the brown braids of twine were scarlet stains sticking things together. His ankles ran with the hint of blood tracing outlines down to the floor. He struggled until his white skin would wear the marks of encounter forever. Only, you see, he was not fated to live forever or even beyond the duration of three hours.
"I have nothing to tell you, bytch," he croaked on a laugh, "Ow...damn it! Take these things off me. If I told you something they'd come to kill you. You want to die, pretty? You ought leave this sort of thing to men..." Claramae considered leaving this sort of thing to men only to rationalize that men were thick headed clods who had done enough to muddle the matter from hard to the throngs of impossible to fix. To her, impossible meant only improbable. Still, it was a great deal of work. Work that became necessary amidst the other matters to be taken care of. This was how the first hour went. The second hour began:
"Aren't you baptized at all? Mercy woman! Please, the wounds burn, and my throat ..."
The serpent was in an unusual posistion. Tied to his chair, while the better of the pair, playing mongoose, circled him twice over before pausing at the slits in the door allowing in slivers of light from the hall.
"By now your wounds are inflamed. The rope is laced with a botanical that is irratating to the skin when the juices of the leaves are crushed. The root powder at your neck is what is drying out your throat. It seeps into the skin, and going through this large organ, attacks a vital thing. You will speak to me or I will leave it on you until your hands and feet begin to grow puscules and your throat begins to close. If it closes, I will not open it again. So, let us converse? Bishop Ellington and Cardinal de'La Crouix are known to you, why?"
"They've kept a close hand on my dealings. Bishop Ellington is trying to put powerful people in powerful places to keep an eye on the flock. Witch hunts are profitable, and the Cardinal? He got caught up in it only that he wanted to know of strong arms. They are crossing paths only!"
"And your path crossed in that you hovered over my bed?"
"I saw you at the palace of the holy people in the meeting. Was told to do away with you! You were meddling, He says a women shouldn't meddle," and at this our captive smiled for a moment, forgotting his situation, "He puts women in his place so he wanted you to be put in yours."
"Who is that.."
Growing silent again did not please Claramae, so she went to the table and retrieved a long, slender bit of steel shaped in the form of a needle. Jabbing it into a vein at his shoulder, it went through the thin linen shirt he wore. He howled as the tiny little rod was twisted. "Who is that.." she repeated in puncuated efficency, "Who now..come do not keep me waiting." Clockwise the rod was spun until it bypassed the vein, emerging to the other end where flesh was pricked at. Sinew. "Deeper and it will pierce the bone.."
"Petrov, Mikhail Petrov!" He shrieked. By the middle of the second hour all loyalty was forgotten. " The Bishop was appointing him to the Master of the Merchant's Guild to control the flow of money and trade! GOD STOP IT!" Like a boy, he cowered down further into the chair. Air was harder to take in, and when the needle was pulled out she studied his blood.
"Fortunatly," she sighed, "I kept m'finger pon the end. If air is allowed to enter the veins of the body through this, even the smallest amount will cause the humors in them to be infected. The air will interrupt the flow of it, and cause death. But it is a paltry concern given the current situation."
Mikhail Petrov disrupted the elections in the Guild Hall for his own purposes, or so she thought. He was given a help to his posistion by religious conviction and expenses paid by gold ducat. It would take prior knowledge of month's worth of writing to make the arrangements so he had sent men ahead of him, no doubt, as the Bishop had done the same. The Cardinal was Alendral's matter, but as she suspected the two were crossed in the matters. In the holy apartments, she had taken the prized Book of Accomplishment. On reading it, she found that one of the more recent victories was the "salvation" of souls for the Church by means of violent extradition. Their methods were becoming more sadistic, and in the book were methods not even the Holy of Holies would employ in their divine, masachistic systems. The Bishop seemed to be straying from common practice to methods that were killing for the sake of killing, torment for torment, disguised by the thin veil of his piety for orders. She wondered then if crossing the book of the Cardinal's Alendral had, with its list of kidnapping and murders in no seeming order, could be made sense of by pairing it with the odd chapters of the Book of Accomplishment. It was degrading from the choice nobles and important people to what were more random individuals, very personal. Too personal to be all Church affairs, so she wondered then...
"Was the Bishop using his Holy Mission for acts of revenge on behalf of pacifiying his hired hands, or did he enjoy what he did and enacted these events for his own accord?"
"Where is the Bishop and the Cardinal?"
"Dead."
At this he began to violently tremble. Was it the effects of his torchure applied right or was it his own fear coursing adrenaline through the riddled veins? The men of the Church, untouchable men, were dead. She had something to do with this or she wouldn't have him here now. Was the man who's name he said dead as well? "Petrov, he, he will know about you if he doesn't already. He will.." He stammered, wincing. His throat grew drier, tight, and cold. The wounds on his hands and feet burned to the point of numbness. Still, he wondered how none of his blood stained the floor or why not even a drop of it was in her hands. Her beautiful, deadly hands. You see, he made a mistake in thinking her only a female orator in a place of money and men. The hunter quickly became the prey, and she was closing in for the kill. "He won't stop till he gets what he wants. His pretty little wife and the brewd she takes about won't stand a chance. Neither will anyone else. He has done worse, him and his strong arms. And he has the backing and money..and" Perhaps he should be atoning for his sins, so he called, "Priest...a priest...please! If I'm going to die let me confess."
"Your grasp at cherished practices is strangely admirable despite the pathetic intonation you would approach it with. Your confessors, I believe, are cold and either in Hell or Purgatory. You will join them soon so you may confess then."
She would have allowed him to live, but the third hour sealed his fate. She sliced off the binds and he stood with odd balance. Limping, he held his arms around himself as he swayed. Falling against the wall, he breathed hard. He was only supposed to grow terribly ill from the "work" and awaken with a botched, permanent scar on his memory that would leave it in pieces. Tools were being put away into thin boxes as he began to ramble. Curling in on himself he glared at his tormentor with the eyes of a man with no confidence, no health, and no strength. Only words left and the first thing he could muster was:
"I hope you are given to Gottschalk. Do you know who that is? Bishop has a strong arm he took out of the dungeons of the papal palace in Rome. They found him in one of the old Senate families, gave him a name when he didn't..have one. Gottschalk. Petrov has him now to use. Odd name for a.."
The cool, correct demeanor darkened to the blistering swell of the North Wind as in the same speed she crossed the room to grasp a hand around his throat. Caught by suprise, he clawed at her wrist, leaving scratches, bruises, but it seemed she didn't feel them. Easily he did war with the woman's grasp and was released long enough to utter, "Don't like that, do you? Fear something?" Taunting, teasing, he realized the error when his momentary upper hand by holding her own was ended by a push backwards. In his fleeting strength, he couldn't maintain it. He didn't expect the whirl wind, but should have. She was unpredictable, odd, and lethal. Oddly enough, she was much like the Gottschalk he mentioned. Only she hadnt forgotten her purpose, nor performed her talents with no sovereign to guide them. She did not murder among her associates, or for the sake of blood itself. Nor was Claramae mad, but for a moment she allowed herself to be.
"You are in league with Satan," she judged him on behalf of the maker he would meet, "and so go to Hell."
Applying the crook of her arm over his head, the mongoose devoured the snake and became the snake at the same time. A sickening crack was heard as the crook was the front pressure to paralyze his head from turning. His eyes looked at eratic angles as if to will himself to move,until his head was tilted back to gaze into her eyes. He whimpered until a closed hand jammed into his Adam's apple, crippling it and his throat along with it. The last thing he saw of the world was her lifeless expression. The last he heard was this:
"You will never live to say the name Gottschalk. It is a vile, awful thing. Like you. I told you making me annoyed would NOT bode well."
Pulling his head back the last centimeter unlocked the paralysis only to snap the cervical bones. He slumped over, disjointed and lifeless. It became clear that her mind was still working even though a part of her went on a blind, raged instinct that was so methodical it was frightening. There was nothing about her that wasn't frightening, but a second Gottschalk? She swallowed hard to realize that Petrov would probably be using this created killer to do his dirty work, and there was a chance of witnessing again....no. It couldn't come to that. There was too much work to do to remain here. The body would leave the room and the room would appear as if it had never been used, and by the end of the third hour the man was dead, none the wiser for it, and she knew a fact that made even her blood cease to move.
-.-.-.-
"You're offer is entirely too strange, too generous, and too unbelievable."
It was not easy to secure an appointment with the staff of a one Chantal May Rose. It seemed the Household and family were in a consequential bit of an uproar with the sudden uprooting of the Lady's children. She, herself, was with child and given condition was not yet permitted to hear of the events that were unfolding. Amidst learning of the Petrovian connection to modest, lovely inn keeper she learned of a fantastic story concerning wolves in possesion of tainted blood, mad animals, and a ransacked country dwelling. Proof had to be substantial, so it was fortunate the Lady carried a variety of currency. Claramae studied the people before her harder than they did her, and with more subtle grace than they could muster in the static, determined country fingers. "My offer is neither too strange, nor generous. It is fortunate, concidental, and necessary. Fortunate, that someone is aware and able to do something about the head of the beast. Coincidental, as our affairs have crossed. Necessary, because what awaits your Household is far worse than Petrov. Him you will not have to worry about." They did not know what she meant. One man was tempted to throw her out, the other to have her arrested. One of the women's curiosity got the better of her, and it was when she brought forward a little box. "A gift," she said, "of my intention."
It lay on the center table of the place in the Briar Rose Inn, unopened, unoccupied. Crossing her hands into her lap she merely waited for one of them to do what came naturally, what was most obvious. A strong arm jerked it forward to open it, beckoning his fellows over. Spinning it around he exclaimed, "What is the meaning of this!?" Inside, he pointed to the hand of a man, fingers intact, with the signet ring of Mikhail Petrov resting comfortably on the ring finger where it ought to be, only there was no arm, nor body to go with this. The woman put a hand over her mouth and looked to the demure, silk clad entity sitting in silence so she might have her turn to speak. The men began to visibly pale, and on sitting down, one asked what became of Petrov:
"I brought you the ring as proof, and prior to this his hand was removed to fufill a promise. He was alive, until perhaps a few hours ago. But now that he is dead you have his seal and a 'piece' of him as proof of my contract. Your household's greatest enemy is dead. So now, I do think you should show me to your Lady now so I might tell her that our contract, thus, is fufilled, as was laid to me by one of my own Household. You will apologize to her, and say that the man she requested to do this is not by occupation of this sort, but connected to the one who saw debt collected. Make haste. You have far worse than Petrov to worry over now.."
To Be Continued
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Post by Master Claramae St. Laurence on Jan 6, 2009 1:01:17 GMT -6
What They Could Give To The Cause Alendral: The dust of the recent infilitration had settled, the power vacuum created by the two little spies long since abated, and Clara and Alen had sent their suitable time hiding--it wasn't unusual, really. Showing up shortly after such a blunt operation practically screamed 'come bleed me and leave me dying on the streets.' It would be a while before he could even return to Skye, truth be told--and it was already short while since he'd seen Clara. the latter, he was content with, despite himself. Truth was, after what he had learned lately... well, it brought up something he was sure she wanted to face even less then he did. He also didn't want her to see him like this. After a fair time had passed, he'd locked himself in the suite and began the tedious process of pouring through documents, gleaning every scrap of clue he could find from what he'd gathered--that, and drinking. Bitter, hard stuff that didn't suit him at all. He was far from a raving drunk, but it had dulled the horrible grinding sensations on his temple, as each delicate little piece of information dragged up more history he wanted long to stay buried, realized the gravity of what they had discovered. Realized... Bloody hell I need a drink. he thought bitterly, rising from the pile of papers and missives to fix himself another glass. In fact, he'd barely emerged at all in the last few days...
Claramae: Claramae's vices were few and far between; a lady of quality did not discuss how she soothed the bane of living when the world flattered shades of omnious mourning instead of the juibulant masquerade each season put on for a little show. In fact, said Lady of Quality did not even appear as if she indulged in the liquor that kept Master Sorschal confined to his sumptious aparments of a grand nature. Still, she appeared less frequently in public places, excused herself from ardous tasks to persue the matters that went on behind the tapestries and fine winter furs of Skye. Let us be plain: Of Europe. Why did the roads lead here, and why did God find it amusing to put every past ache out to test if they had indeed become invicible? It was in appaearence only, as thickly crafted a shield as the one that piloted their elegance in life. Ram-rod straight in the back she walked as if a plank were secured to her spine. Erect of head, it tilted only to the sealed doors that were a subtle invitation to a place that she was divided on going towards. An invitation, indeed, she was apprehensive to accept. In a fashion of the English that would become a trait of national character, the blue-blood simply didn't talk about these things. As it was, given the crossed ties, crossed countries, and crossed hands the English had no choice (d)
AIendral: The sound of shuffling at the door was enough to shake him from his reveire--something, he noted with some grim finality, that could very well be the death of him in the coming days. But she did not have to announce herself to know someone was there... an if it was a murderer in her place, well then... "Come in." Even said, he reached under his bed to withdraw a particular favorite weapon of trade, a crossbow, just in case someone saw to take advantage of his summoning. One couldn't blame him--her, for the paranoia, but Alendral himself had a particular reason for his faer. Something he had yet to tell Clara, that concerned him considerably deeper than even the fate of Europe being in : the hands of killers and secretive orders. Though he would most likely not shoot Clara upon entering, the truth was her appearance did not exactly relieve him. When she did, she'd see the man as very few did, removed from his : usual sense of control--his clothes, still of the finest cloth, vest and frilly shirt, were vaguely tussled and unbefitting of nobility, short hair a disheveled mess, though he still managed to cut a roguish air about him despite it. Assuming she did reveal himself at that, the weapon was carefully lowered... "Claramae..."
Claramae: To be caught unaware was to invite Death to your door and have him sit down for supper. The rustle of the heavy brocade cloth sounded like it would betray the wearer as for once the steps weren't quiet, as if to, on purpose, illustrate movement so that the knowing would have memorized the ear mark distinction in her entrance (when it was revealed, that is). It was to keep Death aware that she knew it lurked on her well toed heels. Turning her head overher shoulder meant that she acknowledged the guards with skillful aplumb before being granted entrance into the world of Sorschal. When the doors opened, the heave of air exhausted the possibility for a lack of tension. Like anything else, the noble born aspired to the highest display of grace and taste despite the lack of pleasentry in the atmosphere. "Master Sorschal." Electing the formal, his informal choice came from a pinch too much vice and her choice from a quaint, if not deadly seriousness to stay adrift in unstable terrain. Strange, no one but them realized how unstable it was. (d)
Alendral: "Always a pleasure." He replied, bone dry, holding up a drink he knew she'd never actually take. "Care for a drink? I tend not to indulge myself, seeing how many stupid spies end up dead due to a taste for the stuff or fine feminine company, but given the circumstances." he let the last part trail off, setting the weapon down and closing distance before brushing right past her to dismiss the guards at his door and shut it tight. The risk of hearing what passed far worse than any murderers tonight, and he proceeded right to his notes, barely even looking at her as she did. "Seeing as how you're here, I can only assume you were successful." he shuffled a few papers around, taking longer than was strictly necessary. "That's good. Good indeed." Which was about then when, either fueled by liquid courage or simply beaten by the experience, he took a step further, his words soaked with irritation. "Seeing as how that's the bloody sloppiest I've seen you since we met, I mean." He scooped up the remaining papers and turned on her. "What in the name of the Holy Ghost was that back there? Not only were both of us risking broadcasting an alleigance to the bloody heavens, but I lost count on the number of variables you were dealing with there. and alone? entirely alone? Bloody hell, if you were forced to double back, or spent too long searching for that wretched thing.. a second guard shift... hell, you could have suffocated in the damn hallway!" that was a twist, the pupil admonishing the master. Everything had turned about. "Go ahead, tell me that I'm speaking of paranoia. That the master had the situation well in hand and the pupil is just incapable of seeing the mastery."
Claramae "Your company's pleasure is a welcome thing this evening." She spoke in a matter-of-fact tone laced with a holding in for the acanine obvious that laced his puns or forthcoming euphamism, "Thank you, m'lord, but I do nay indulge in the consumption of such spirits." Spies and masterful assasins often died in ironic twists by being caught off-guard while under the embrace of the warm, vengeful fire of inebriation or drowning in the same by losing themselves in the bottle. She was bred, so to speak, to be the apex of abstinence. One would venture that as he began his scolding the fact he did so while the heat in his veins was artificial could have been taken gross advantage of. For all that could be achieved of it, the Countess was not one to short-hand her one true friend in this world. "Yes, it was quite a dilema," she did not disuade him from his tyrade for it was perfectly true. Takng a seat, one would have thought she'd hang her head in shame but instead it remained as erect as it had on the column of her neck. Rigid, firm. "The variables were many and the course was highly unadvisable and foolish. For this I should be reminded torecall my wits before embarking out, but there are many situations where for all the wit we posses, all the intrigue it takes to remain with clean hands, our hands will become dirty." Crossing one hand into the other's hold, the clasped opposites remained intact. "There would have been no other way, alone nor partnered. I would not take my associates to such a venture. My Household has their duties and reasons. Besides, I have been alone for several years. On certain ventures the solitude is necessary for precision." In short, she was aware, and planned to dredge out a slaughter.. (d)
Alendral: Damned inscrutable woman. He wanted there to get angry, to fire back, to admonish him right back. but of course, maddeningly she wouldn't bite, leaving his frustartion impotent and meaningless. He let out a frustrated sound and rubbed at the bridge of his nose, finding a place to sit at the corner of his bed as he flipped through a few of his pages. "It was still a dangerous, and all the more dangerous because of the scope of what we are dealing with. to be blunt, Lady St. Laurence, I am hard pressed to believe that careful analysis of the situation entered your mind at all, given your knowledge of what it was we're dealing with. " He idly tossed her the parchment, an abbreviatedlist of names, descriptions, locations, suppositions, idle notes, that sort of thing, devoid of context. "The information I've gathered. All checked by multiple sources. I assure you, all well researched." He sighed. Enough hand-wringing over his former master -wringing over his former master and friend. they both had their business. "What have you found?" Dark eyes found their way to hers as he asked.
Claramae Damned inscrutable, brilliant woman. The disaster would have been for her to succumb to the base instinct of arguing with Alendral over the lack of fine points in the last mission he'd seen her in. Instead of replying to the front of his statement sher eplied to the back by taking up the parchment. Enough wringing hands, or was there still cause? She'd never present outright the validation of such reason lest she appear common the feminine view of what it meant to be human. Quick eyes skimmed the paper before she presented forth her own findings in a small notebook wherein all her research had been written in a codex format. Comparing the two, she offered him the notebook to scrutinize knowing he could decipher it as quickly as she could his own. They were meant to do so, trained to do so. "The Book of Accomplishment holds similar, but dealing with the Inquisition first. On closer inspection, I find it has ties to the Illuminati, The Black Hands, The Ruby Asp.." All names of very esoteric, very intense, very frightening orders that rumbled under the civilized world. The first was the oldest, most terrible as it was sanctioned at once and not sanctioned by one Holy Roman Church. "The people therein of noble lineage and servitude as cover were given to the inquisition when they failed in their tasks, or they offered up for a cause." A smoothing of the dress. Her breathing broke to the surface of reality and one could see her intake of breath (d)
Alendral: "You mean to say the kind of orders that have most nobility scoffing and most in our profession shivering in our boots." He paused and glanced down at her dainty little feet, more for effect than anything. "Or... heeled shoes, as the case may be." He let a ghost of a smirk cross over his expression as he flipped through the names. "So, Unless you have some deeper insight, I can draw two conclusions. The first being that we're dealing with a matter the breadth and scope entire beyond our resources. Quite possibly anyone's resources. and that we're dealing with... " he hesitated before saying this. "A handful of monsters... Oh, and that they were all hand-picked by the last man in the world either of us wished to be reminded of." He paused than. "...Lord, I could have never imagined. I thought I was his only.. " despite himself, he couldn't bring himself to say the name. "I thought his damnable legacy would die with him. God, bloody naive. bloody stupid. That's what I was." So he'd turn to self-flaggelation since she seemed so unwilling to put him to task. He sighed and tried to take his shaken emotions back on course. "The names I gave you represent people I am certain were tied to him. Each of them seem to tell the same story. Largely culled from places unknown. Singularly vicious. Each, no doubt, with a list of accomplishments to match the worst of us. The last one worst of all." at the thought, snatching the glass of spirits and taking entirely too long a draught of the stuff.
Claramae: "You are not alone in the folly of having believed such. One goes with what we are presented: We saw his oblivion, we created his oblivion. Not always are we privy to the works behind the curtain though we'd seek to be.." Appropriate words put in a comfort of sorts. She wanted to believed until she had soothed the last nightmares with the ice-cloth of cut silk that swaddled the beautiful, fragile world. How fragile it all really was. His evident use of the bottle and her resorting to sound. Subtle nuances. It placed them just a single inch above the common throngs. Didn't they want to blend in? Not so much they lost the allure of their chosen work or to become so lost in daily living that they surrendered to bitterness for what was not had. 'In the last of my inquiries," or her interrogation, "I discovered the root of my Bishop: He placed a man by the name of Petrov in the Guild Master's seed for Church to have an unfounded hand in the Island's sway. Petrov, and his man that I spoke with, were the gateway to a titled Gott-s..." She feigned a turn of head to finish the word. Ah, a crack in the veneer "Gottschalk." (d)
Alendral: "Hmph. seems all paths lead to one man." Pausing a moment. Claramae never stumbled. Not ever. That the man's name alone could bring the merest hint of frailty to the invincible Lady Laurence. He wondered what they would speak of next would do her. "Seems that one of them fancies himself the true successor to Gottschalk. His disciples are bad enough, but this one..." he tapped her notebook, took a deep sigh and continued. "Hanz Mannering. Gottschalk's star pupil, according to rumor, in temprement, though perhaps a little more direct than the old master." He paused and stood to aimlessly walk about the room--it would be the beginning of nervous pacing, though he had no mind of it yet. "Only, after Gottschalk died, his ambitions have been considerably larger. I haven't been able to learn much. What I do know is that unlike his other disciples, who merely saw it as useful, this particular one admired Gottschalk's particular style. The man sees fit to carry on the same legacy. I believe he means to, in some small way, make his former master immortal." Turn of phrase, naturally. The man was taking on the mantle of Gottschalk Gottschalk's particular style. The man sees fit to carry on the same legacy. I believe he means to, in some small way, make his former master immortal." Turn of phrase, naturally. The man was taking on the mantle of Gottschalk himself, seeming to perpetuate the myth behind him. The monster behind him. To say Alendral was surprised by the news was a vast understatement. ".. I don't have to tell you the implications of all this."
Claramae: "It would be preaching to the choir, Sorschal, and it is a song that needs not be song loud nor long," The name Hanz Mannering was recorded on the blank slate of a mind's portion open to receive new lessons in terror. "Petrov was the husband of a woman who has come here to start her life anew. Bishops, Cardinals. The Princessa of Naples has her entourage here and in that entorage is the man who sought to put an end to me. The connections are too fast, and the people who could utilize these things, or are utilizing these things." She rose from the chair and thought of the disciples teeming in citadels and obliettes of labyrinths in Rome. The thought sickened her, but her face didn't move. She watched the snow fall on some absent window in the suites. "If he is his legacy, than many things run the risk of being doomed. All roads lead to Turas Lan." A phrase with the ability to severe the very holds of the world. Shaking it at the seams, the nature of this conversation pulled out stones from out under them. She looked at him, and he her. (d)
Alendral: Perhaps it was the shortcoming of the Magician than, that his concern was considerably more short-sighted. "Claramae. this is dangerous. it's worse than that. The man wishes to surpass Gottschalk. It doesn't take a master spy to divine how one way he might achieve that. If this... Petrov, has ties to these.. Children, than it's incredibly likely he'll seek to finish with what he started. To kill you Clara." now was the really difficult part, the subject he didn't really want to broach. The part that he knew she'd object to, he took a very deep breath and locked eyes with her. "I think you should run. I realize returning to Avaria is impossible, but you need to step away from this, Clara. There are plenty of other ways to head this off without confronting these matters directly. " He grew silent... it would never be that simple.
Claramae: His concern was short-sighted product of his heart being in the proverbial right place. "Petrov is dead." She said in blunt, harsh fashion."And I am in the way of availing myself to his wife, to the people at the heart of these matters to at once be above it. There is no running, no turning, Sorschal. The chess board is set and we are already playing the game. By the time we realize what moves we need make we have already been moved. Alexander." Who was this? She turned her head to him, "Avaria is beyond impossible. The Lady of the former King has been smuggled out. So in that climate, there is no room for return. The world is coming to Turas Lan so it would not do to be outside of it. " The eyes told him she had already put herself deep in before they reach realized how deep it really went, when they had enough to worry over. Petrov's hand was sent to his wife's household, and his associate? "His closest associate did not last the inquiry." (d)
Alendral: "Don't... call me that." it sounded too much like she was talking about him when she said that name. He imagined she had a hard time saying it herself--it was one of the reasons for 'adopting' his stage name. "I have no use for it anymore." He searched for some way to get her out of this. "Clara... Aisling. " he desperately tried to gain the ground she took back. "I know what he's done to you. I was there, for it, and damned if it doesn't weigh on my conscience that I didn't pay an end to it sooner. "But I'm inclined to believe that anything that madman did to you then is but a pale shadow of what this man will do if he's allowed to ensare you. The man is the most dangerous kind. The kind that worships the madman hard enough to surpass even his cruelty, his monsterosity. " Her poise was driving him crazy. how the hell could she take this all semblance of fear? he knew she was terrified, even if he'donly seen the true face of that once. He knew it, she had to be. So it was enough. "Now you mean to sit here and tell me that despite knowing this, that your only place is out in the bastard's hunting grounds?" He hesitated, glanced to the window, and shook his head. "No. I won't do it. You are under my charge, Clara, while operate in Turas Lan. I've checked." He knew just how dangerous this tatic could be, even if he thought some measure of authority. "I can transfer other men, trusted men, to sort out the end matters. Transition you out of his purview. At least until we root him out. " He prepared himself to stand resolute in the face of what was to come.
Claramae: "We are being in earnest, though touche. I have no love for the hearing of my ..other, name. Only my mother called me by that, and she is not within this world to utilize the world." Aisling was the Irish word for vision, dream, or poem. At once a form of art and a way of being. Claramae was a vision born in May, so her entire being was encased on being the all of a family. No one knew how preicous her mother had been, and how her demise was the ultimate way for talent to come forth at solving how it was done. "My feelings are circumspect to your command, m'lord. As you will then, my business can be conducted out of his obvious way, and I intend to obey your commands while fufilling each one of my contracts, and in remaining in all good graces, thus prove resourceful." She looked to the window again before turning her back to him. What emotion lay there, did the face change? She was so...English. Yet her parentage was distinct in that there were very Irish-Gaelic veins that still lived inside of a marble-cut woman. "This is your domain, not mine. You have aspired to this and it would not do to be subordinate." (d)
Alendral: "Damn it, won't even give me the blasted courtsey of arguing my orders before you ignore them out of hand." He wasn't an idiot, naturally. He wouldn't rescind them. Of course she be to her own nature, but doing this would force her to be circumspect--and distance her slightly. It gave Alendral the 'inside' track, and ideally to unravel this before she did. It had risks, as well, but there was more going on here then trying to play at dominance. He let out a frustrated sigh again and took another drink. "Fine. Promise me this. In earnest. If.. in fulfilling your contracts, you believe yourself you may find yourself inadverntly pitted against this.. or indeed any of them. If you would find yourself in... Then forget my orders, and just summon me, alright? I understand how twisted this blasted thing can be. I promise, I will not jeopordize your employ here by such news." Which was about the best he could offer, an escape clause. Which was a wonderful way of making the previous order impotent. He added then, with a strange sort of frailty. "...I just won't see you... hurt again, Claramae. God help me, I couldn't bear to let it happen."
Claramae: "I give you the courtesy of my acceptance and ability to obey, Master Sorschal, as is appropriate and desirable. As is honest, is that not enough?" What did he expect? "You have my word. If I find myself..crossed dubly, in too far I shall. There is enough to do that can keep me from the paths. I will take great care to separate my affairs, my lord, as you wish. If need I shall summon you." His frailty made her look at him in a moment's retrospective pause. The veneer of leather and steel softened for a moment but nothing was said. She only canted her head before moving to the window once more. Was that a hand on the ledge, of supporting the weight of her form (d)
Alendral: It needed to be said, and so it was. He didn't expect her veneer to crumble, nor to suddenly delve into the shared trauma of the event. With a stabilizing breath, he remarked. "You know.... this all plays out to our plan and we're legends. Thwarting the stuff of rumor and conspiracy. Hmph~! I believe that would make our Duchess the most ridicliously lucky noble-woman on the planet." He sought refuge in the ridicliousness of their situation. "Bloody hell. This works to our benefit and I'm demanding my own estate. Or statue. " he leaned back and set what little was left of bitter liquid down, seeming to take great mirth in it. "The Great Alendral and his greatest masterwork, the de-fanging of the Illuminati. " he snorted and stood up again. "I have some business shortly. Seems Lord Adam has went and got himself a pet spy of his own, and I have to play meet and greet with the woman."
Claramae: "Pet would denote that it must be a woman, and she employs a certain set of..charms, if need be." It was easy enough to deduce. The King's Crosses of England employed their own sheet spies, as they were affectionately called, to which Claramae never was one and Alendral had little respect (especially when one would not give him the time of day!) Great mirth in masterwork, unraveling the mystery! A statue erected in honor to what they kept hidden. A Duchess and Duke that were fortunate beyond measure, and in the center of the ridiculousness. "I want no more of that legend," she said in a voice that was soft, low...no fault found save that of a small source of pain. "There is a place writ in the story too large for me as it is, twould be immodest and deadly to claim another chapter." That she could steal herself to face the name, the legacy, even his acolytes were enough. Apollo had told her that she needed to accept there was not always a plan, and at times failure, her greatest fear, had to be accepted. He had reduced her to whimpering in training for that purpose. But Gottschalk was a gross rapist who would tear apart everything she had been for the sheer pleasure of listening to her screams. "I think I shall take only a part perhaps of the great Italian riddle solved at last, perhaps the restoration of certain peoples to certain truths. If there is success this other fable than it will be in that it was finally ended, yes? " She sat down in a chair, and though she kept her composure her face had begun to lose all color (d)
Alendral: "You won't." the humor left his voice. "I'll see myself dead 'fore that." Which was, given the circumstances, the sort of thing he shouldn't say... but, for all their speaking, to say Alendral was approaching this in right mind was ultimately a folly. Unsaid, of course, was the grim little thought that leaps into his head. No. even if we eradicate them, there's still the matter of me. but he didn't voice that, not to Clara, not to anyone. his expression hardened, subtly. "Yes. Yes it will have ended." He was trying his damndest not to sound funereal when he said it, but it came out that way regardless. "I'll see to it personally, even if all else crumbles around. " he made his way to the door then, wondering, darkly, if he could hold up to his own thoughts. "...Good night, Claramae. "
Claramae: "Do not say such a thing, Alendral," she used his 'stage' name as he didn't favor his Christian as much as she wished to not here the Celtic. "I would not, for all the world, see your summer end before its time. No, my friend, I am not keen on either of us." If she could read his face she didn't reveal the knowledge garnered from it out of respect. It was time to rise, and in the leaving of her commander, in a sense,she did so in recognition of the difference in posistion between them. "Good night, Alendral. God speed and keep you." The curtsy came next in the prescribed formula. Eyes connected for an instant more as she lowered them in an unusual, hard wrought sign of respect for a social standard genuine, not pretended, as so many had fallen for. (d)
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Post by Master Claramae St. Laurence on Jan 13, 2009 14:17:36 GMT -6
The Discovery of Sir Balian on the Waterfront, and the Realizations of That, Thereof.
Balian: The calm water current gave so little away in the cool evening air. The sound of small ripples against the surface and break of water against the aquaduct wouldn't have been anything out of the norm. But that faint sound of metal wrapping against stone made audible with the sway of the waters dance would have been enough to draw attention to the large mass laying half beached in the cold drink. Face down against the rocks his body lay lifeless against the stone. Long brown hair wet and matted across his pale face. The once pure toned cloak lay tattered and frayed against the rocks. There was no secret the Marshall had been missing in action since the final battle some time ago, though it had been widely whispered that Lord Windsor had fallen in battle and here now he lay with nothing but the crest of the dueling lions across his back to give suspicion of his return. [d]
Claramae: "The proportions are dazzling in their construction. The methodology utilized involves such stringent discipline and a willingness, no doubt, to do the utmost vile things to achieve results. What can be bred on such a poison, Master Sorschal, is beyond anything any man, woman, or child would ponder to live beyond conscience realm. The person who crafted this either has extreme care or the hands of a nightmare themselves. To blend this, to get it as it was with contact to the skin is to be instantly disfigured." When he canted his head for an intimate word, her body descended in short curtsy to the client as she followed her superior. In earnest, they must have put on quite a show. Exeunt one stage and towards another for Shaden's delight as the inner sanctum became viable information. "I will need to take samples," which had been done already,"and more of them to my own private studies to be looked over. Oh, there are no doubt all of these things are connected. I believe it is, in a sense sir, one large spider supping on many meals at once if you ascertain my meaning. This poison must be rectified. If not, there is too of a potential for the secret of it to cross larger hands, if it has not already." Oh now was this not divine! One nation of allegiance in perpetual ruin while the other she sought harbor in was filled with wolves and murderers. Let alone, people of the trade had no decorum or ettiquette. Certainly all of them were trying to fall head long into the sea to die...alas... enter the man in water with a crest well known. It mattered not how he came to be there, only that on coming towards the surface he was visible. "Master Sorschal.." Her head now gave a sharp incline as she bid her pardons silently to come to the water's edge. "One of the Duke and Duchess' men, and an important one..is it not?." (d)
Shaden: To say the least her current spot was most advantageous hearing out the breath and depth of what Clara and Alendral spoke.. from where she lingered she could not see the watersedge where the body seemed to be found.. the words of Clara stilling her heart for a moment.. one of the Duke's men...? Kendrew... her first thought.. her dear friend.. oh gods no. it was almost enought to make her leave the shadows.. but she waited still... to see what they would do if need be she would deliver herself from the shadows to help a friend... if it was not too late already(d)
Alendral: "Oh bloody hell what now?" unable to contain his frustration he'd follow dutifully at her insistence. Once he realized just what it was interrupted them, well, he was stunned into suitable silence. "Oh... God... " considering what it took to get Alendral to invoke that name, the palpable horror might even take Clara aback. Without much thought he'd lean precariously over and, with some amount of struggle, he'd work the man onto the water's edge, placing his fingers on the man's throat to check for signs of life. He didn't know whether to bless fate that they'd stumble onto him, or cursing fate for dropping it unceremoniously into his lap. Privately professional facade, a part of him, horror-stricken, remembered an earlier time. The same one he teased earlier. He remembered the face of the lady, the look on his face the enthuasiasm in his pursuit.. not now, Alendral. he dismissed it and turned the body, searching for a sign of injury.. a froze. "...Clara." the emotion drained from his voice when he recognized it's type. Like his worst nightmare realized.
Balian: Balian had become many things in life, overcome the odds more often then not and found himself standing tall amongst the ashes of the fallen. But it seemed it was he who had become prey. Even the mighty can fall, but if there were one thing all knew to well of the lion within the pale cloaked one he seemed impossible to kill. To stuborn? Or was it heart that drove him on? No matter he snubbed his nose at the thought of death and dove back into the fray for another taste of a justified kill when the need for his sword called. He lay quiet now, at peace and unmoved by nore then the drifting water but a closer look gave sight to the dark wooded arrow shaft protruding his shoulders with the dark feathered flights. Strange cuts marked his arms and a hungarian sword lay entangled under his torso. The touch to his cold throat give little more then the faint throbbing of an undying pulse. He was alive by some way unknown. [d]
Claramae: "What is it.." The drop of formality cleaved to meant that something unorthodox was setting into the hardened. Kneeling down beside the man pulled from winter waters, Claramae began her inspection of his form and found that color was lacking, and a profound lack of convention. Oh, what was so strange about arrows and swords? A knight taken apart by the tools of war he used to defend was not abnormal if you considered that such a man might have gone missing in the last battle were it not a pair of months prior! The beautiful, precarious woman pulled her hands quick of her gloves because they were, in a way, extension of her trade just as the mind was the "center" of where it all formed. "There has been no battles of yet..no calls to wore or reports made. My agents nor yours have said anything" In order to be honorable civic servants they had to pry deeper into the inner workings than their leiges would have liked, but then again, for such is why they were often hired on. His recognition was painted on his face too keenly and Shaden would see, if she could, the color began to fall from the English rose until she was as pale as the season surrounding. How she quelled the shaking of her hands long enough to begin to feel his flesh for signs of decomposistion would be what lent him a pulse. "He's alive, he's alive! We need to take him in and tend him ourselves and then get him to the infirmary so the deed is finished. We can not let them see him here!" It would create a panic...though her heart drowning in her ears made one all too real. Studying what ailed him brought a piece of the dark feathers to her hand. The other looked at the steel. "Alen..." The man had been nearly bled to death by the wound of the sword received, and the shoulder must have crippled him. Other marks denoted the sickening reality of crude joy in the hand of his tormentors with a legacy of Hungarian weapons...and in the steel there it loomed...the trinity mark with crossed spears and a blade going sliced through a heart. That mark made her eyes turn as she began to heave to drag him along the stones. Claramae St. Laurence was afraid ..(d)
Shaden: Time had ticked by slowly and when they pulled the man from the water it was enough for her to make out it was not Kendrew.. nor anyone she knew well.. she would have remembered the form of such a man.. had she been close to him.. it was not that she wished the man ill, or anything the fact of the matter was the child within her was pressing on her bladder to harshly that it was hard to stand still.. let alone not crouch and relive herself, which would have been most unladylike not to mention.. unsanitary.. and downright silly considering the tempeture.. but the insistent pressure had made her consider the ramifications quite throughly befor deciding against them.. and staying calmly hidden.. oh how she cursed that last cup of tea.. at this moment.. her mind drifting from their talk.. could they just drag him on quickly already... for Christ sake!(d)
Alendral: There was nothing he could say to comfort her, nor any words that might seek comfort him, shouldering the majority of the man's weight onto him for her sake. He then paused. "Our client. Said he's a healer. " Half expecting a protest of some so, he cut a little more sharply. "He'll bleed to death before we get him out of the Aquaducts, much less to anywhere we can help him. Get him inside, now." All business now, he'd start to drag him back into the grate. The full blown panic between them was palpable, now, absolutely driven. Unfortunatly for Shaden... that's precisely when events seemed to all go shaped. Maybe it was an unconscious shuffling of the uncomfortable woman. Maybe Alendral's keen eyes caught something, some figment, or maybe he was simply so paranoid (and lucky) that he happened to guess at a movement of shadow, but he looked right in her direction and froze. "Claramae. Get him inside." To punctuate his word, he drew a slender stiletto from a concealed pocket within his vest, a fabric pulled away to reveal it as he narrowed his eyes. Was the killer near, watching from shadow to see the deed done? A mere footpad ? the possabilities raced, but all the same, Alendral moved to investigate, and Shaden risked exposure swiftly enough. Balian: Nearly no blood was left to bleed from the water logged wounds. Being lifted from the cold water caused even his motionless form to draw a chill. Water dripped from his form just as he was dragged. Being a heavy feat to move the nearly three hundred pound man had to be a slow proccess alone. His lips parted to cause some water to dribble from the corner of his lips before the words rustled up from him in a near unaudible whisper. "Kill meh.." Unexpected request. Some things were worse then the mercy of death. Some things. [d]
Claramae When either of them took on a voice the likes of which was sharp and hard, the other listened. Unsuspecting is what made a woman like Clare efficent. Between the two of them, whatever wait she helped bear was enough to slide him over the rickety stones, down the steps, and toward the secret grate that went to wear Jean-Claude would be likely to be angry at their turn to breech ettiquete! "Don't you dare speak such," she scolded the half-dead man against going away further, "You are going to live, so help me." The light quality began to change. A shadow thrown quickened her pace and as a stiletto was drawn for a moment she wondered if this was not London or Prague again..if the knight was not some old associate....and if they weren't younger. "Tell me your name." Anything, anything to keep him recognizing the world was viable enough. Calling for the Frenchman's name once inside far enough produced a situation that was easy to explain. The "client" had a chance to impress further, and perhaps he was equally thrilled with the assistant his "hire" proved to be. (d)
Shaden Her face had been darkened by dirt, hair changed by extract of darkened tea.. her clothes nothing of what she would normally wear.. she looked indeed the part of a tavern wench, or some streetmerchants woman.. earthentoned homspun over which a dirtied apron covered the swell of belly... as she saw him coming she picked up a basket of manure.. the offal strongly scented enough to keep most any away.. the top layer fresh... it was used to dry and fuel hearth fires along with peatmoss.. there was only so much wood to be cut and the winter was cruel.. the basket lifted upon her shoulder she moved from the shadows humming off key.. just another commoner of Skye... or so she hoped she would look like to the advancing man(d)
Alendral: She had just.. barely escaped it. The fact was she took a risk she likely barely even fully realized. Alendral was terrified, shaken and simultaenously out for blood. The cut of the blade was enough to shake him, and at such proximity she would see a mask Alendral rarely wore; dark, both full of animal terror and yet utterly sinister. There was no mistake in that face, Alendral could, and would, without hesitation, kill her, should circumstances call it. but maybe it was the way he moved, the cut of the figure, or.. quite possibly the intense offal. The blade was concealed deftly behind his hand, 'lest he spook the woman, and he'd scramble out. "You, you! Out of here, now This is a place of thieves and brigands and you invite them to take advance of you. Out, now!" it was a practiced voice, one that, on an average villager, would leave no question to authority. Commoners would defer without question . He pointed sharply before backing a step and turning for the grate again, tucking the blade away. She might not have known it, but he was inches. literally inches from a possible death.
Balian: He was dragged inside leaving a trail of heel marks against the stone before they reached the confines of the grate. His eyes tightened up before slowly starting to open, tearing near instantly with the burn of even the failing light against crimson shaded pupils. "My ...name?" The question fall unfound even by him. He faded in and out of unconciousness in the mercy of his company. His fingers curled inward to cause his knuckles to whiten into a fist and the wedding band to pintch his finger while his pearly whites came visible through pale lips. He remembered all to well the sound of the bow snapping before he fell into the water, but who? [d]
LadyStLaurence: "Aye. Your name, your age. Tell it, recite it like the verse a tutor has taught you to be learned by heart. Tell me everything of you and all you remember." When the French healer's masterful hand turned heavy from the wounds, Claramae switched from assistant to the head of their ship. As he had worked, the English woman had begun to unlock his armor plates and pull them away from his body. With a highly heated metal instrument, she began to cut into : the heavy links of his chainmail shirt that remained to get to other portions of him. He was half-gone but he would have to be purged. The symbol on the weapon demanded this, because the risk of poison was too great. If he survived that attempt then a purging would be as simple as a stroll by the waterfront, correct? "Syrup. Thick, thick of hard charcoal and milk. We have to bleed him, further..." Balian must have found his saviors closer to sadist as she took fresh instrument and began to cut along his exposed flesh at areas in the vein where he would bleed, but the superficial direction would not drain him till death. As the chain mail came off, so next the wool padding was cut away. "COME! Your name, knight!" An authority that wasn't to be challenged. If Balian remembered tonight at all, he would remember the strangest company (d)
Shaden "Och I be heading home your LairdShip.. but I'm too poor to afford the wood..and Horses don't shyte by the clock.. tis best to get the manure fresh " the basket was held up between them shadowing her face, certianly there was a smirk on her lips as the movement of the basket sent and invisiable wave of the stench toward him, curiously she felt somewhat sastified at the wrinkeing of his nose, yes it was agreed, something had crawled up in that horse and died.. it was rotten to the core... "By your leave MyLaird " the accent was thickest Scottish.. without tinge of her Trademark French lilt... as she bobbed up and down then turned off into the night.. ahhhhh what a rush!(d)
Alendral: She almost had him. almost. At the very last moment, some slip of movement, some way shadows played on her face. He knew. and, in his adrenaline-ridden state, it made his blood boil. He was going to have words with her again, decidedly less polite then their exchange last time. for now, though, there was other matters to attend to. The Magician's shape slipped through the secret entrance again, his face etched in unusually hard lines, anger, but he'd leave Clara to do the majority of the work, having more of a hand in this sort of thing--besides, between her and the doctor it would merely get crowded. Only when the blade was free and out of the way would he take time to inspect it, to confirm what he already knew. What he was afraid of.
Balian What is your name? His head rolled to the side with a grimace. Gentle hands made rough work against a battered and beaten body. His armor was cut free piece by piece, the padding was pulled back like a skin before the bloodied soft flesh of the man came into light. His wounds appeared without infection. "...Son of Braxos.." Fragments of a lifetime spent flashed through his mind. Each rip of armor and pain stricken tug on his form caused another voice to threaten its answer. "Defender of .." His teeth snapped together again before his head would arch back. "Husband of Jelenah.." The cutting of flesh caused that burn to numb even more there was little more to feel. "General of the Riders of Turas Lan." His icy blues opened back up to look up at his saviors. "I am Balian Windsor." Live to die another day Balian. [d]
Claramae: "SIr Windsor, you must tell me everything you remember. Forgive me, but it is imperative" The 'spoiled' blood was collected in a bowl where the contents of it, and the blood soaked clothes, would be burned. On that she'd downright insist! Her mind danced circles and focused on gathering the information before she purged him, sending his body into revulsions of expelling toxins by mouth and fever. His pain couldn't be abated yet because it kept him conscious. After she had bled him at both arms and from his side, she began to clean the wounds so they were as they appeared, free of infection. "He is still too cold.." She began to take his limbs in hand and massage them with friction. While the waters had stilled his body enough to make his heart beat slower to preserve slumbering organs, now that he was fished from the drink, the cold did nothing for him. Dunking her hands into scalding hot water to clean them between things, she let the steam that puckered her skin pinken his. (d)
Balian: "Cowards.. I remember." His caloused hand lift to lay over his brow when she asked her question. A heavy breath was drawn in before his chest fell with a shiver. It hurt to breath though it was likely water built up in his lungs he was sure. Balian was a man of honor, Assassins were somewhere between pond scum and the bacteria that feeds on dog droppings to him. "I killed ....two of them.. .. by the water." He was sure they had to still be there. But one never knew with assassins. "The one that spoke cary a heavy tongue.. accented.." He lay nearly still while they did there best to warm him next though his lower lip did quiver between words his eyes slowly closed a moment trying to recall more. "I.. dont know...Forgive me My Lady." [d]
Claramae: One would wonder then, what the General would think of cultured assasins, but assasins none the less. Honor among thieves depended on which sect and rank one happened to be in. "No, no this is good, my lord. It will serve." How ironic, yet again! A part of her wanted to commit the atrocity of laughing out loud inspite of it all, inspite of herself! "By the river, two of them, the water.." The grave digger wouldn't go to hunt for them and the winter would preserve them long enough to be looked at to pick over clothing for signs of an affiliation. Think that. Breathe on that. Be that. "You must drink what the man offers you. It will purge you, and twill be painful, but we can not know the poisons on the tips of weapons. Winter, has spared you. Drink...and then you will rest after it is all done." Instruction given, she allowed the Frenchmen to oversee the administering of the treatment at the threshold of his domain while to the air it seemed she'd take for a moment's respite as the heat in the room increased. In reality, away from prying eyes, a few careful shadows and the dimmer light might do well to conceal the flesh sickened to gray with fear. Her hands, her body actually trembled so violently that her composure was gone. No one could see it, or so she thought, anyhow. (d)
Balian Windsor: He nodded once, before his head lift enough to accept the drink to his lips his eyes welled back up while the contents burned the back of his sore throat. Fingertips curled back against the his palms. Likely the bodies had long since been swept away from lack of evidence of the deed done. Fortune favored the bold to leave Balian survived again by the good fates. How would it have ended if it didn't happen to have them cross his path tonight? One could only outrun death for so long before the reaper comes to collect and Balians debt was growing long. He swallowed his last of the drink before he rolled over onto his side. His hands slapped down to his arms curling up once the antitoxins started to work. "...Just.. to meh feet with a sword .. .. Im not... finished with them yet." His breath was held to keep himself from screaming out once more thrown into the fray of agony. [d]
AIendral: For several moments she would have her respite, but unfortunately he would come offering words of comfort, perhaps a vow to protect beloved or some such nonsense. Instead he had a similar grave expression, choosing his words carefully. Her compsoure did not shock him--he'd seen it, only once, before. "... The blade is most assuredly his. I recognize it. Had a fondness for that one. Fancied their type of blade, balanced for both cutting and stabbing. Utility and precision, I believe were his words. " he stepped forward so that his words remained soft, brushing her ears and hers alone. His gaze shifted to the doctor and the wounded soldier, saying almost nothing. "They're here, Claramae. " The only gesture that suggested he would do anything was a subtle uncertain shift, his hands found flexing before finding its way behind them, at her shoulder. "Clara... we've done what we can here. I'll take you back to your quarters, then return and keep watch over him..." the words trailed, uncertain if they would even be accepted...
Claramae: "Cutting, stabbing, the length and breadth of the..wounds..the steel..inflicts." She remembered the tome of instruction Alendral had told her from Gottschalk's mouth, and the mouth itself that uttered to her with casual indifference over their suppers. "The sword was dragged in the wound slightly enough to leave...the scar.." Reciting knowledge was a defense mechanism as much as it was by route memorization. Her mind was a camera that took a picture who's details she recalled. As his fingers came to find her shoulders, the touch was willing to be accepted. She moved forward toward it, and angled herself so that her body was between one place and the next, instead of far in the corner of. Claramae was claustrophic when afraid, never liking tight, confining places of which one could find no viable variable for escape. "His other wounds..were too much not to purge him..we may need seek his forgiveness..for the pain..it..will cause. I can not leave..yet." It wasn't that she didn't desire it because she did. Only that she was incapable of moving as she was..and God forbid if she would allow any to see her this way. Less than a handful had been given the unofficial privelege of humanity in her. Oh, she was trying so hard to remain intact..but her face was so drained of color all of the blood must have sunk to her feet. "They are here...and.. must be stopped.." A cold, thin line of perspiration formed on her forehead as even her knees began to give way she put her back against the wall to prevent that (d)
Balian: The cold, the pain and burn it all took more from him then there was to give. He drifted in and out of consciousness. His thoughts finally having settled on one thing that brought him peace in a lifetime of war. His love. Jelenah, how long had he been gone? Was she alright? His saviors voices drew him back to life causing his blues to shift in their direction, though he couldn't make out more then a few words now and then from the distance. They were here?[d]
Alendral: "Clara..." he urged this time, a to drown out the drone of terror raging in her own mind. "Clara!" as he felt subtle shift of his weight beneath his palm, he instinctively stepped away. Give her a space. He remembered such from times past. Room to breathe. "Listen to me." Seemed fate conspired to reverse a role long past. "Gottschalk is dead. Remember? we killed him. and for all we.. for all you suffered for it, no pupil will ever rise to the level of amonster like him. We killed him, and we will kill his legacy the same. " it was all he could offer, really. Reassurance, hollow that it was. Further words would wait for her composure, though he expected none of it so swiftly. For all Clara's strength, enduring as it was, he knew what she had experienced, and just how much it had taken from her.
Claramae: "I know, ...I..I know but to see it. God on high, there is nothing that unravels me in all this world..save that. The wounds he has..were so similar that my mind began to twist." In due time she was able to stand on her feet, to breathe. Gottschalk robbed her breath. He'd stolen the life of associates for the sheer delight of watching human flesh crawl. Blood trickle, rain and pour. A turniquet was applied to the memory to cut off the images that were colored all too vividly. "If he has purged himself, he will sleep soon." There was no comfort that she could even give him (d)
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Post by balian on Jan 15, 2009 23:01:09 GMT -6
It had been twenty years since he heard his master speak, twenty years since he was left to roam the world and find the one cause worthy of the Knight of the house Windsor. And still he could see his Master tell the tale. "They say when most man take a bad beating and stare death in the face he leaves a piece of himself to die on the battlefield. They say when a man makes the choice to be a soldier and is dispatched to war he never really ever comes home. Sure the body of the man, the shell remains of the once innocence returns but something's changed in him. How could he look at the world the same when you find the worst the world has to give in battle? But that's most men. On occasion a warrior is born, destined to rise and fight so that others may live. Surely he has seen horrors, he's felt pain and bares the scars in the stead of the many but he's a proud man, honored to do his duty for the Kingdom and crown because he was put on this plane to do one thing great, kill thy enemy." Balians eyes slowly drift open breaking his dream of an old memory and finding himself laying still against the infirmary sheets stained with his own blood. It had been nearly a week since he was pulled from the icy waters and rock of the aqueduct and little by little he was gaining his strength.
The attempt at assassinating him surely had taken its toll and by now the world over knew of Balians resurrection, that fear alone has ensured Balians second in command Duncan ordering a round the clock garrison of men watching over him and an escort to the Lady Windsor's side. Though the Lady Windsor had hardly left his side since he was found. She lay quietly asleep in a chair beside him, long golden locks drifting past her shoulders to caress the chair while she slept.
"Lord Windsor?" The deep familiar voice of Duncan's was hard not to take notice of, even while he lay there in his half trance somewhere between this world and the next. "Sir Duncan." Balian exhaled a hard breath and pushed his hands to the sheets to lift his torso just enough to look at the man. "Forgive me.. for not being by your side." Duncan stated before he bowed his head, with a heavy heart he exhaled a breath of guilt. Balian shook his head. "None of that my friend, if you were there you would be laid out beside me. .. I have taught you nearly everything I know Duncan.. ..But if you remember anything at all.. Remember this." His hands tightened on the bed sheets while he slowly pushed himself up from the bed and to his feet. "This.. is not revenge, nor hate. ....This will be a reckoning for justice." Duncan grinned while nodding just once. He understood well enough that look in Lord Windsor's eyes, it was time to put the noble heart aside and unleash the lion they all knew he had in him. "Aye, your orders then Lord Windsor?" Balian rolled his head back on his shoulders to stretch his neck muscles before taking a solid step forward. "My orders.." Balian had to lift his chin just a little while his eyes lifted in thought. He knew what he wanted to do but also knew that no command came without a cost to someone. There were a great many lives in the balance and he was sure by now his sovereign had a means to resolve. "Recall all patrols....Send word to the Officers to report to the tower at dawn." Duncan dipped his chin once more while Balian did his best to walk toward the bed beside hi, lifting a blanket from the bed and carefully laying it over his wife for warmth while she slept. "Forgive me Lord Balian but you should rest.. ..Perhaps regain your strengths before we pick the fight."
Balian lift a single finger to his lips, motioning for Duncan to keep his voice down lest they waken the Lady Windsor. "I did not give the order to draw arms just yet Sir Duncan, nor was I the one that picked a fight to begin with, twas the cowardly assault of them that drew first blood.. ...But you should remember your patience knight.. There are more plays to be made and stations to put in motion other then battle just yet." He lowered his hand to his ribs with an unseen grimace swallowed behind pale cheeks. "Know thy enemy.. ..We know nothing.. " Balian stated while he started for the table holding a pitcher of water and cups. Now his analytical mind set in, he started to weigh the strategy like a chess match. "We must remember.. we are a tool of the sovereign and Skye.. We are not our own agent of destruction....Even if the fight had already been brought to us and a killing would be justified. . ..Would it be for the good of the many?" He licked his lips while he poured the pitcher contents into a cup. Thinking out loud at times sometimes helped the process he knew all to well. Sir Duncan knew that much about the Marshal as well and simply placed his hands against his hips while he watched Balian and learned from his wisdom. Balian sipped the cool drink before lowering the cup back to the table. "No." Balian stated abruptly while Sir Duncan simply lift a brow curious to the meaning. "We will lay quiet and take this one without an action." Duncan took a step forward. "But M'lord.. they tried to.." Balian lift his hand to call for his silence with a faint smile. "But they didn't.. ..I will not have a war brought down on the people for my own biddings and pride Sir Duncan, we will seek council and audience with the Griffon." Though Balian knew if they tried to kill him once, they may be fool enough to try it a second time. This time he was pissed off and ready for round two.
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Post by Master Claramae St. Laurence on Jan 21, 2009 13:17:46 GMT -6
An Interlude of Two Avarians
Claramae:"Let us away to home," Claramae indicated her desire to leave with a few simple words. Everything was not pre-rehearsed, persay, as much as it relied on instinct. On foot for the evening business, Maxamillion assumed his place to the right fore-front as Larkin assumed to the left rear. She looked like any noble woman being escorted from one place to another when the hour was not suitable for a Lady of respect to be out. The moon held a discourse with the stars. Claramae was close to the coveted nature of the shadow. Of late, though, the embrace had become to intimate and threatened a keeper. While one nation was too volatile to step on, the nation of sanctuary was rumbling. Instead of crossing the streets, the stairs of the city were utilized. Walking through the fog-stretched clouds, the lady found her way to the threshold of her rented home on the High-Street-at-Chapel district of the capital. (d)
Percival:``I've been waiting for you, Claramae..`` A voice came from the far left side of her veranda. She had just been moving up her steps to get inside with the clad figure stepped from the security of a thick fog which seemed to fit his usually distastful and grey moods. Long black hair hung motionless about his face, straight and perfect as the veneer which stared intently at her. One hand rested upon the pistol that sat secured in a belt at his forefront, while the other was upon the well crafted rapier. Percival Vizharen. He seemed to move with a grace that didn't match his frame, and this was what initially unnerved people about him. It showed that like a work of true art, there was always more than what was upon the surface.[d]
Claramae: "You and many others, Lord Vizharen, you and many others in these days. Are you going to remain anonymous or come in' pon a step? The chill is not good." The silk gown caught in a bit of wind that rippled the hems like the waves on a dark, silver lake. Her beauty might have been tadamount to twilight were the transcendental not aspired to deathly hollows. Master Larkin didn't appreciate the 'art' of an Avarian greeting. Pressing further to the rear of his charge, the trio passed over the threshold at the veranda, even holding the door for Percival should he deduce to use one. True, there as little flare in it. All practicality. Of all the people that sought her out, it seemed one man either could not or mayhaps had died trying. It was not a thing to consider before many and in fact, it was for her solitude alone. Yet, it had been so long since she and Michael had even looked at one another the idea transpired that his serivce may have made that impossible by paying the ultimate price on his part. He was resiliant, but none of them were immortal. "Do you have something pertinant to say, My lord?" (d)
Percival:``Yes.. yes it is.`` Before her men could react, he pulled the pistol up and fired directly at her. The round, well aimed despite the fact it seemed he hardly even glanced up. She'd not only feel the hiss, but hear it soar past her ear and sink through the oak of the door. Shortly after, there was an audible thud on the other side of it. ``That's one, there's.. eight more, and of course.. others are coming. You are a tough broad to find.`` He brought the muzzle to his mouth and blew the smoke away before continuing to reload. ``If you have some sort of .. escape plan.. I'd suggest you utilize it now, your grace. These men are heavily armed.`` He moved to stand adjacent to her, glancing into the fog before locking gazes with her. His eyes burned darkly intent within hers.[d]
Claramae:"You must take extreme delight in either leading the way or pointing out what you swear is so easily missed, my Lord. Master Larkin --" She lifted a hand when the man wanted to assault Percival. The iron ball whizzed past her head and lifted but a strand of hair, though harmed not a one on her head. "The eves of the house, Master Larkin. Posthaste." A system in place moving like the gears of a well oiled machine. Deux aux machina animated Claramae towards the back of the room as secondary weapon was given to the lady. Outside the stimulatenous release of arrow punctuated the dropping of five bodies. For the two beginning to make it beyond the eves, a challenge lay in wait. If he should elect to participate or no was his concern."These men are precious little to me," she articulated as if talking of tea when she began to take her aim of one. The woman had discovered hand-gunnes. Shaped for the delicate grasp, a trigger's sweet pressure tensed until the collapse of it produced the pop of gunpowder as one was taken to the left of his belly. "I want him alive, Master Voltaire. To inquire of what he knows." Her home on High-Street was more than sumptious it was a stragetic nessity that did not allow one feign a joy at surrendering it easily. (d)
Percival: This was her battle, not his. He only liked to intiate things, and knew that she was far more capable at handling this more subtley than he would. He had finished reloading his weapon and tucked it back where it went, coming to stand poised beside her as she moved to finish the remaining. He only watched and listened more on the conversation than the fighting. Fighting came as a second nature for their ilk, and they seemed to handle it as nobles handled political debates; non-chalantly. He adjusted his cape to cover only half of his frame, as a marksman of noble taste , like himself, would. It was in this position he waited for her lead in operations. In his mind, and he was sure her own.. he had done his part. -- ``You know me well enough to accept that I am a man of explicable timing and a disdain for poorly planned assassinations.`` He smirked, using that as some sort of mask for the coy she would sense in his tone. His gaze followed her own.[d]
Claramae:"Or you would loathe for the common ilk to be so successful in such ease, thus leading them to death is almost mercy given you can not abide poor skill, either." Their ilk was honed to be the best. To accept nothing less than excellence so it came as nature to be the emobidment of that excellence. When the last man was taken down for dead, the ceremony of clearing the bodies would begin. While breathing nary hard at all, a few strands of hair had slid from the upturned coil within a barret. "They are the least of my worries, of current. As it stands the pillars of the earth are far less reliable, here nor anywhere." (d)
Percival: ``Yes, whoever wants you dead... is insulting you by sending these cheap thugs. I would have hired.. someone with more skill.`` He said, keeping his tone and not answering her earlier retort. Their qualms often stayed unanswered, remaining as retorts and quips aimed toward one another as ways of unnerving the other. It was futile for either though, but a unique way they shared in testing if the other was off or emotionally bothered. He pivoted when she did and watched as her men began to stow the bodies. Turning to her. ``Not sure if you heard.. I met a Madonna..`` He smirked. ``She was easy enough to bargain with.``[d]
Claramae:"Oh, the insult means little. At least they serve to keep the skills of aim and interrogation sharp. If you wish to see the sort of things that lurk in the Turas Lan evening, you should come 'pon a meeting of Master Sorschal and myself." He knew nothing of Gottschalk. She never told him, nor any of them just what had unfurled in the hands of one of her greatest catches of all time. It had come at a price, a price that almost cost her life, limb, and every piece of sanity she cleaved to. To be the hunted - it was to be nearly butchered. "But never you mind that. That is not what you hav ecome here for. Oh yes, I had heard of your interlude with the Madonna, warning her that wolves worked within the lady's household. How fortunate that her Chamberlain was once my man of point some time agone. I collected on a debt." Code between them was easy to decipher, for she had taught him, and before him, Master Sorschal. If the man had wronger her by enacting betrayal it caught up with him in a cold warning that no doubt left him paralyzed in body as well as cold with a vivid fear. One would not call them friends but respect compatriots. Sympathy surely had nothing to do with the bond as much as an empathy in understanding what had been fostered and created in the likes such as them. Sorschal was her only "friend" , if their ilk had such things. Percival? He was a comerade-in-arms. A very antagonized comerade in arms (d)
Percival:``I hefty debt I presume. You and your gold..`` He said in a disdaining fashion, dismissing the fact it was what the world ran on these days and times. He didn't work for gold, nor did he have a short supply of it. He didn't lok to gold as an answer to life, he looked at it as an object. He had many ways of acquiring what it was he needed, and most included a dark, warm liquid called blood. It was what he dealt in. He adjusted his stance. ``I do not doubt your prowess, Countess, just your built stress. I came with news, not heroics this eve..news of someone..`` He smirked. ``Close to you.. perse.``[d]
Claramae:"Trivial." Gold, silver, jewels. Her coffers were heavy laden with the past ambitions, inheritance, and the salary of the current day. Even without the work of the old days of Apollo's reign or the meager stipends the Steward would afford his ambassadors, Claramae could live comfortably. She operated in a more potent currency. A pound of flesh. Eyes for eyes ala the laws of old Babylon. On the mention of news she waved her hand at him to cease the tit-for-tat. "What is it you have come to tell me of Vincere, my lord? You do not like him, I am surprised you have come to utilize your breath on the subject" If he had someone, she would have done the same. Often times she wondered if it was the fact that of all men Vincere had taken her fancy and Percival found this amusing, or was it that in some way he respected the odd-arrangement procured them love? His mind was not as warped as many would have it believed anymore. In truth, if Percival had simliar situation she would have given him such information of a beloved, too. Mentors retain a sense of guardianship for their pupils, always. (d)
Percival:``Yes, the Lieutenant.`` He said in a demeaning wave. He was slightly amused, or just played it off very well. ``He's here, in Skye.. only, for whatever reason, has blown his cover in some vain effort to kill whoever is after you. Hence..`` He pointed to the dead hired thugs. ``A tit-for-tat, I guess. I'm uncertain of his fate, I just know he's gone missing. Figured you should know the goal of his quest.`` He started to chuckle. ``I find it all rather.. amusing. But then, when I stuck my neck out.. they lopped my head off like the poor scapegoat I was. I tell you out of respect, Apollo can go f**k himself for all I care. Damn his mercy, and damn his pitty. I'd have rather died without them, but..here I am.. a <i>better</i> man for it.`` Toothy grin as he pulled a small flask filled with water, and drank. ``I'm sure you've the leads you need.``[d]
Claramae: She listened to him enact the story in his nonchalant way. Soaked in difference, he twined the words as if telling a joke that for all intents and purposes the steal faced woman did not laugh at. In fact, the scales were tipped so that the eyes of the mask closed while the hand came to gently be placed to the other. With a back that faced him, she paced off toward another room. "Michael.." He had left Avaria only to fall into a trap of Skye so deep that even she was clawing hard to stay aloft. The illusion that she, or any of them floated, was a well crafted one. To hear that he had gone missing in fact chipped at a piece of the human heart. "He has no idea what it is he goes in search of, or what might have hold of him. I shall have to tell Master Sorschal posthaste, lest one of the Gottschalk heirs have hold of him." Oh, the vile nature of the thought! The mask of unflickering mouth or change of tone began to drain of color as her eyes focused on the corner of a wall (D)
VIncere:``I would suggest you take this as your chance to pull away, Claramae. They mean to use this as a way to lure you in, which I'm sure you've already included in your equation.`` He said, following her to only come to stop beside her. He showed a genuine concern, something of a respected tone he carried for her, despite the hate he had of their bond, for any bond. ``This is your chance to get away. It's the sacrifice you've trained your people to make..and i'm sure he had every intention of being the wild beast in the china store.`` He frowned. ``Don't tell me you actually have feelings for him?``..He analyzed her carefully.[d]
Claramae""How strange is it, to hear the same things from two different mouths. Alendral cautioned of the same. To leave would be to preserve a life only for an indefinite amount of itme, and there is no where to go that this shan't find me. It will make it's last stand here. To claim many and not myself, or myself, and all things. It is akin to a black void that destroys all it touches." The beast was what he went to be when he heard of what had befallen. The eyes that watched over her would not be abandoned if her hands could spare him. "I love him, Percival. There is precious little the ilk of the trade might claim that is not material. Yet I am blessed in that I have but one friend, one comerade in arms, and one love. I am fierce in my loyalty, and it will not do to leave matters unattended. Skye shall embark upon war, one of the field and of the under-dark. In this war shall be a battle of reckoning, one that is long in coming. There shall be no leaivng for me. Either the greatest exaltation of my career comes hence, or my end. With more honor, perhaps, than could be installed. Michael is a simple soldier. Gottschalk's legacy spurs nothing simple." "No. There are but four things that move me: My students who have become my friends and comerades. My beloved, and the causes of Talion. We all one day find something to move us." Claramae loved him, that much was true. She had taken no other lovers, warmed her bed with no one else, (if she ever had before it was a dead pan mystery) and and no one else had captured the ability that Alendral, and perhaps Percival had. to make a smile. To make a laugh. To see any sense of a woman at all (d)
Percival:``Very well, then. You make new tomes for future students or write the dark legacy of your damned past, only to be forgotten over a love for a mere soldier. But I know better than most, we control our fates, and your equations are best equiped without me. Just know, if you die.. hell is off limits for you; that's my domain.`` He chuckled, moving past her. She'd the glimpse of a very satisfying aroma, and he moved on. She knew where to find him if she needed him-- but these pesky love stories.. were enough to make him sick.[d]
Claramae "Hell has no room for you either, nor does Purgatory nor heaven. One would fathom that without confession or lack of it and with Satan not wishig you as company, you will be wandering earth for many a year. It is a small, paltry thing to you, I wager." She turned to watch him leave with a tilt of head "Yet even you are inspired, and by more thant he base, Lord Vizharen." She began to move towards the back of her home for work further, yet one begged to ask. What inspired him to go on. To spare Eirian or remain by Clare as he did. He had bond with something, loathed or not (d)
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Post by Master Claramae St. Laurence on Jan 21, 2009 14:10:59 GMT -6
Lilies and Roses Among the Thorns - An Evening at the Gilded Lily - We are all destined to meet again. Our paths will cross one hundred times before we have one iota of an inkling as to why. All we can know is that there is a predestined energy drawing us toward some place to which the journey, now, is utterly distinguished by the state of which we travel. If we know another and call each friend, fortunate am we. If we are not friends but respect one another, than all the better for at least we wil not suffer of complaint or offense overmuch. Tiberius: It took some doing, but he managed to get himself ready and presentable for the world again. Washed and dressed, he slipped out, ready to seek out Mistress Aramoire. His arm was still quite stiff, but then, so was his body to some degree. He moved out of his room then down the steps in careful movements. He breathed in soft measurement, using his fortunately still good right arm to help by holding the rail. Deep blues searched out those gathered within.
Gerda: She saw Tiberius move down the steps, Gerda herself dusting and polishing in the great room.. most of the Lily's were upstairs doing what Lily's did.. upon Seeing Tiberius she nodded gently "Master Grey.. is there anything I can be doing for you ?" her words were an odd mix of some nordic dilect and the familar Scottish brouge so pronouced in these parts... "Tea or somethign a little stronger perhaps take the chill and the ache outta yer bones?" the older iron grey haired woman pulled up her dusting rag and looked at his pained movements.. with a concerned brow " Should ye be up and around at all ?" Tiberius: *He smiled warm and inviting to Gerda. The woman was always on point.* Glorious evening, Gerda. If it would not be too much trouble, tea with a spoonful of honey would be sublime.. *He gave a small roll of his shoulders.* I cannot simply lay about.. Though, if you could, do you know if Mistress Aramoire is about and available to talk this evening?
Kendrew: His footsteps were long strides half-hitched on a limp that the cold winds didn't help but the Lord Guardian had no time to quip about the aches of olden times. No scar, no bane would keep him from the change of the guard under the consistant chime of hour. Men of moral substance ought not darken the door of such places; gossip haunted the aftermath of each step as he came towards the Gilded Lily to check on the occupants therein. "Ho there. Tis Kendrew," spoke he to the maid beyond the lintle post. "Come to look in on you all." Living in the shadow of his stature, to look up would be to see that he lived in the impression of something far larger: the monarchy. Cheeks chapped with cold were met with pieces of stray hair. Pushed back, the gloves on his hand kept the linen wraps tucked from view. No more vies of sympthetic looks or trying to unravel the man who recovered in a house where the oldest trade on earth was plied in silks and lace
Gerda: "I'll get you some tea right away and The Mistress be in her study.. working on some contracts for the new Lily's , she should be right ready for a little diversion about now " she chuckled knowing Shaden had been dealing with paperwork all afternoon, and probably needed some tea as well " I'll bring you both a spot of tea.. and some goodies from the kitchen..just knock afore you go bursting in.. " she nodded once more and bustled off in the direction of the kitchen soon returning to the Library with a tray of tea, honey and lemon, little cakes and sweethoney bread.. setteling it down on the desk before , she moved off hearing the comotion at the door one of the new maids almost swooning over the Knight Kendrew, from the rumble of his voice and the sound of the maids Neveouse giggling... " Occhhh go on with you back to the kitchen.. " the dust rag popped the girls behind lighlty " you act like yu never see a man before " she fussed then turned her attention to the Knight... " Sir Kendrew.. welcome.. to the Lily.. can I be taking your cloak..?" she waited for an answer then continued.. " Would you like to warm yourself by the fire.. have something to warm your bones.. a nice drink... perhaps..?" XTiberiusX: Thank you, Gerda. Much appreciated. *He moved in the direcition of the study where he would find Mistress Aramoire. Knuckles of his right hand rapped lightly on the wood. Once he was acknowledged, he moved within, deep blues alighting on the kind woman. He moved towards her, his voice soft.* Evenin', Mistress Aramoire. A moment of your time, please?
Kendrew: The gentler of face seemed to be overpowered by his presence; in his defense it was never understood what it was that women found so appealing in a quiet country lad who had only grown older but still lived within the man of thirty-nine solid years. His eyes swam over the face that began to blush. God spare him! He offered bow to both senior matron and foundling youth. Crooked and stiff, the salutations till carried the effect of laughter to regail his welcome all the way to the kitchen where some discourse began on the rumble of his voice, his height, and his handsome face. "Only an ale, good woman. Only an ale. Ye needn't take my cloak." A heavy frog clasp came undone as once folded over only was the cloak fit to hand, so her work was not extended in serving him. "May I look o'er your rooms? Just the ones in common place.." To see how the women there in carried on. Gerda: "Of Course Sir Kendrew Make yourself at Home.. the Mistress say's you have the run of the house.. you and your Lady Campbell being so close with Mistress Aramoire and all.. I'll go get your ale " alright so even Gerda got a little flustered when Kendrew was about.. IronHair or not.. there was still fire in those loins if need be.. and Kendrew was enough tinder to spark a flame.. " Be right back " she called in an almost youthful voice.. was that a blush on her aged cheeks? Shaden: " Ahhh Master Grey.. come in... have a seat " she waited until Gerda had served them both a cup of tea, adding an unseemly amount of honey and lemon to her own.. before looking up to him with a raident smile as the ledger books were closed..marked carefully with a slip of ribbon.. "I am glad to see you on the mend after your unfortunate happenstance.. yes that was polite speak for your henious attack that almost got you and Nairne killed... ( addd end qoutes after happenstance!) she nodded soflty for him to enjoy his tea.. there would be no need to wait as she blew to cool hers.. "What can I help you with.. tonight ?"(d)
Tiberius: *A tip of his head to Gerda, he sat as requested. He would take his cup and spoke quietly* My gratitude, Mistress Aramoire. It will take time and the wounds will heal, but I do not intend to sit on my laurels. I had actually desiredto ask you that very evening before I knew what the circumstances of my day would have been.... I would like to work for you. I am good with my hands, a hard worker, and what I don't know I can learn. I have come to be... interestedin staying for a spell and I would like to see to it that I earn my keep. Nairne had seemed to think perhaps we could barter for room and board, though I would work for a salary and live elsewhere if you like. I am but your humbleservant. Kendrew: "Thank you." The sacrificial boar ventured towards the forests of virgin women who became hunters at the instant of his scent. In crossing from the door towards a place to sit, each step echoed with the resonance of a laugh, a gasp. At least they were breathing, healthy girls! He owed Shaden a great boon on the matter of his life and would repay it by over-seeing that the guards herein were supplied in most part by the Order of the Talon itself. An order of knights, here? There had been stranger things. --
Claramae: Like, for example, the likeness of good breeding's epitome being escorted to the steps of the Lily. Golden brocades would not unfurl a'petal here. No man would pay exquisite amounts for a peek at what lay beneath skirts descending from proper side saddle 'pon a horse. In the tradition of strict etiquette en route to gingerly defy the status quo, her ladyship was put down towards the earth by man, led in by man. By now the fact her circle of comerades included Master Sorschal was a mystery that a child could unravel. Her, on the other hand, proved far more taxing!
Balian : Speaking of wounds, enter the Pale Cloaked Lion with a broad shoulder meeting the door to throw it ajar, catching the swinging door in a gloved palm to carefully close it behind himself. There was a slight strain in his step though those that knew The Lord Marshall of Turas Lan knew he didn't wear his wounds on his sleeve when he could avoid it. His head was bowed upon his entrance and his gloved hands went to work at loosing the thick white cloak baring the crest of the dueling lions upon his back. Icy blues went to drift across the room, hearing the deep voice of men mingled amongst the soft tones of women. His brow would lift while he ventured in further looking for the gathering that he knew to be here for a fifth night in a row. It seemed the Gilded Lily had become safe haven for the many in one of Skye's darkest of hours. Who would have suspected? Gerda Gerda moved back into the room carrying a great pewter stern of ale.. foam dripping over it's sides... toward Kendrew.. offering it to him with yet another blush.. seemed the man raidated testosterone or something cause no female even the Ironhaired Housekeeper was immune.. noticing the Other Knight in attendance.. she dipped a gracefull cursty to him as well.. " Will you be wanting something to drink Sir Windsor.. ?" yes she noted all their names.. and kept them within that steel trap of a mind.. but in all honeslty Windsor did not inflame the blood of the elderly housekeeper like Sir Campbell did..
Shaden Aramoire: "Hmmmmm There are a few things that need fixing about here.. and with Nicholas away training for war.. some of it has fallen by the wayside.. of course.. you would have to understand.. your accomadations would not be in a guest room anylonger.. but in the GateHouse.. with Albert.. he's a kind man who keeps the stables and animals as well.. Guest rooms are for paying Clients.. and such.. but your meals will be taken with the rest of the House.. and if you wishI also need someone to bartend.. Gerda is getting along in years.. and well.. she destest the late nights.. " she smiled as she sipped her tea " of course there will be a salaray as well.. " Tiberius: *he nursed the tea, deep blues watching the Mistress Aramoire. He sat a touch more upright in his chair.* I can provide whatever services you require, Mistress Aramoire. I thank you for the opportunity. *he offered a small smile.* Wounded or not, I can still perform my duties. The accomodations will be more than satisfactory.
Claramae: "Sir Windsor? I beg your pardon, but it is good to see you mending and in good spirits," Her voice was a herald of angels that sung a choral masterwork in precise time and rhythm. Never mind that it was the herald to a steel vice for a great many. The last time Lady St. Laurence beheld Sir of Dueling Lions, it was at the aquaducts where his life had been set to expire. One never knew: was it work or pleasure mingling in conversation that kept her pleasently encased in to-do? -
Kendrew: The housekeeper was a woman who reminded him of a figure akin to his mother or aunts. A blush on her face was resplendid enough a compliment with no words. At least for her, he could spare her the joy of feeling a little frivolous, but run of the house? "Yer Mistress is far too generous, tha' won't be necessary." He mumbled. Were it not for the mention of 'Windsor' his face would have gone up in scarlet fire. His bandaged, stiff person encountered the same with the space of a few lenghths, a drink, a chair, and the Englishwoman between them. First it was the "generosity" of courtesans, now it was the pit viper in brocade. His mind remembered details: to go, to do, the essence of being. Among them he didn't forget his questionable feelings on the darkest color shade stuck into the Order's rank of color or the woman employed therein. Were that Avaria could house the ilk again or any other place besides. Balien: He smiled politely once being greeted and he nodded while making his way toward them. Carefully pulling the thick leather gloves from his calloused hands. " That would be wonderful, a whiskey if I may?" Gold spurred heels chimed before each commanding bootfall met the hard floor until it was he had reached the gathering. "Sir Kendrew." He bowed his head, cause for a lock of wheat to drift across his right eye. "It is good to see you well." Then once more he would dip his chin toward the house keeper Gerda. "Miss Gerda." Before hearing the familiar soft voice he knew only from his time in shadow. His weight had shift from his right leg to his left before his eyes settled on Lady St. Laurence smiling warmly. "Lady St. Laurence.. .it is by your doing that I stand here now. .. I owe you my life and give you my gratitude. .. But its good to see you too." He chuckled softly. Gerda: Off she went fetching another stien of ale for Sir Windsor.. and as if by some sixth sense when she came back she brought a pot of The Mistress's special blend of russian tea, a dainty tea service and some honeycakes and small bisquets filled with cream and berry jam this was laid out before the Lady St Laurence.. yes Gerda was most well informed.. about almost everything and forgot nothing.. " My Lady.. enjoy... " she turned to the trio and spoke quielty not wishing to intrude but offering them information as they could do with as they Wished.. " Milady Aramoire will be along shortly.. she had a matter of business to attend " what that said business was .. was largely left up to the imgination..
Shaden : "I would Expect nothing Less Master Tiberius.. As you know Sir Nicholas is the Master at Arms here.. my personal Guard.. so in that respect you will also answer to him on matters of security.. and Gerda in matters of household things as well as Myself.. " for a moment she paused hearing voices outside in the common room.. " Whenever you are well enough to begin you may.. and I'll have Albert` help you move your things into the gatehouse.. when you are recovered and ready " she rose then.. settelign her cup of tea.. hand moving to the small of her back in a soft sigh.. then a blush.. " Avery tells me it is but one child.. but I swear I feel like the barn cat about to have a litter of 12 or more " she chuckled soflty " Come.. we have guest.. and cannot hide the evening away..." She moved to his side awaiting his arm.. and yes.. she did always expect a mans arms.. she was after all Shaden ! Tiberius: *He gave a sound nod.* Of course, Sir Nicholas, Gerda. Understood. *He nursed his tea quietly, absorbing what she had to say.* I will appreciate the assistance, thank you, Mistress Aramoire. *He rose when the lady did, setting his tea aside as well. His good arm, the right, offered to her. Then he would lead Mistress Aramoire back out into the common ground of the manse.*
Kendrew: "Balian. This bodes well. Vera well!" He rose on stiff feet to welcome a comerade returned from unknown reaches with a fist to his heart in the salute of their sorts. What ill had befallen him, what ventures? To register that the "useful thorn on a rose" had something to do with the fact he was here to speak made him give pause. What had happened? Though different in battle field preference, Balian was a member of the same order that he subscribed. Why were they growing so wane? "She, had somethin' to do with saving your life? Lady St. Laurence, ye are a woman of many tasks." No rhyme without reason. No good dead without repairation? Only God could judge any of them: the lowborne or high, the knight or the courtesan. Among them in the preetiest array all of them had killed, lied, stolen, or used false gains. No virtue secured without vice. "There's no need to introduce you to her then, man, as you have met. What did she pray save ye from?" He liked a good fireside story and had a stiff enough drink to ingest the lesson of the fable --
Claramae: A trio consisting of two knights and one lady fair unsupposing but not without some ceremony for a woman's movement was a dance. In a few noiseless steps she crossed the floor on the arm of an escort to be let down from her part inthe number to a chair where lay refreshment. "Thank you marvelous much." A gracious note paid to the housekeeper, a smoothing of skirt once seated, and she was ready to continue on. Ah, so now the story would be open and thus with the ledgers of profession neatly poised in head, the woman was open for business. Even at tea, such a mind worked circles at staggering rates
Balian : He brought his closed fist up over his heart with a grin in return toward Sir Kendrew before he accepted the stein with a faint smile in thanks before finding comfort in one of those big cozy chairs near the fire, unadmitting that he needed to defrost a little after a long evening in the saddle and bitten by the cold. "Aye, the fates favored her in finding me." One had to wonder just how long he lay there against the icy rocks before he was found somewhere between this world and the next. "It was an assassin im told.. ..An arrow to the back of my shoulder..And several cuts from a blade. ..I have some.. spots in my memory of it." He fell into a stare if only for a moment trying to piece more of the nights events together before his attention was shift back to Lady St. Laurence and then back toward Kendrew. "I am hoping to have my second chance at the assassin.. .. Now that the playing ground is even." Meaning he wont be shot in the back a second time. Shaden: Shaden and Tiberius moved into the great room.. a hearth in which even Kendrew and Maahes could walk inside and turn about.. blazed cheerfully, making the room warm and cozy.. various chairs plaush and comfortable as well as small sette's that were plush and lined with pillows were scattered about in conversational clumps.. Smiling up at her escort.. she led him to the small gathering.. " Sir Campbell.." before he could resist she had lifted upon tiptoe.. ok jumped a bit as well.. to quickly kiss his cheek " I am glad to see you up and about.. " a vixen's smile raked over his face.. before turning to the duet of the trio.. " Sir Windsor.. and if Memeory serves.. Lady St Laurence?"she dipped in a formal curtsy to them somewhat cut short by the bulk of her belly... " I do have the fondest memory of waving out a tower to a room full of suitors that would scale the walls to secure only one dance with you.. fair Lady " oh she knew her well.. Alendrals English Rose..by reputation and ... much investigation... to say she liked her.. would perhaps.. be misleading it was more a respect.. for a woman who's skills were much the same as her own... Like would come with more... knowing of her personally... " I would like you all to meet Master Tiberius.. A guest and now recent Addition to The Lily .. he will be helping with the running of things.. about here " she smled at the tall blond man with teh twinkeling blue eyes beside her ... ohhh and yes.. well when you saved someones behind several times, had mock made out with them to convince gaurds your wernt a threat.. and fought sword battle in your knickers for them.. you could take the luxury of a kiss on the cheek for granted.. well if you were Shaden you could ! Tiberius: *A gentle smile touched his lips, deep blues taking in those she address. A bow from his waist would accompany her curtsy. The tightening around his eyes as he moved. He came full upright again as Mistress Aramoire doted on him. He spoke quietly* Tiberius Grey, a pleasure to meet you Sir Cambell. Sir Windsor, Lady St. Laurence.
Claramae: The story was told with a vague look in the victim's eyes; go without saying that one called not Sir Windsor the defenseless, if not insulting title. Merely misfortunate sir played accurate enough for the palet of present company. A series of unfortunate events if ever there were any. "It was my privelege, m'lord, to be of use." A blunt, simplistic summary when considering she pulled him from the frozen waters of death but by now dealing with the Merchant to replace one pound of flesh for another wasn't new. Nothing was new, under this or any sun nor moon. More on the matter fell away at the emergence of the Lady of the House. Coming to her feet, a curtsy met with full proportions to the perspective action, given Claramae had no physical obstruction. "Mistress Aramoire, a pleasure to see you once more. I do recall the men vying more for the honor of thyself for a dance, as it was your season of beauty, much as it is now. Mister Grey, a pleasure." Porcelin preserved cracked not so with the lack of emotions the skin remained pristine. Her voice fluctuated in accepting tones but she did not smile, nor chuckle out of turn, or any such thing. For Shaden? Claramae developed a respect borne of a woman achieving success in a world dominated by gold minted in male hands. The one diference between them lay in the fundamental element of which woman of beauty displayed the charm and which let it be sampled for a high, exquisite price. Still, each one of them represented a little pleasure to succumb to if one was of the sort. By no means unpleasent to look at, her height and lithe stature was still blessed with womanly apendages delightful to observe in the laced dresses. She merely had other ways to make a "killing". Balian : Despite the strain of pain Balian would force himself to stand at the 6'6'' nearly three hundred pound frame, ever the disciplined Knight to greet the newly arrived company. His head bowed formally before his deep tone woud be heard. "Misstress Aramoire.... ..Aye.. Master Tiberius I am honored to meet you." His right hand swept back behind him to collect the fabric of the pale cloak before he would settle back into the chair. His fingers coiled back around the stein of ale bringing it back to his lips for a taste. Balian shared much of the same opinion it seemed about Shaden that Claramae had. Shaden had achieved something to be proud of there was no mistaking it was a mans world. Things were far simpler as a soldier he was sure. However that much had not been spoken just now, instead his icy gaze moved back toward Kendrew. "I have been meaning to find her Grace as of late, I havent spoken to her since the war....Which is a long time for an instrument of Skye to be out of tune." If that Balianism made sense. Stryker: There was no telling where the old Knight. The sound of the front door was not there, the movement of feet, besides the ladies, was unheard but that did not mean the old man hurt less. A dark head swept a gaze through the Great Room. Great...company..there would never be peace in the house again. A leather breastplate which had been removed prior to 'sticking his nose' in the great room, swung lazily as he tipped his head to those present, stiffly making his way from hall to room to stand by the fireplace.
Shaden : It seemed as if the Old Knight had perhaps made a bit of noise.. or perhaps she was just that tuned to him.. her gaze found him before he left the hall.. glacial hues washing over him like a tide that had too long been out and missed the golden shores... there was want there but something deeper.. had Nicholas parted the red sea.. ? turned water into wine..? risen the dead....? perhaps not but he had preformed a miricle it seemed.. for he had thawed the icy unreachable heart of the fire haired temptress.. a biblical feat in itself.. no doubt.. the smile that curved her lips was not artifice..nor small.. but a thing of rare raidence.. something all aglow and rarely hinted at to another.. besides the dark haired Knight.. with the silvery blue eyes... " Nicholas " his name like a prayer from her lips as she held out her hand beckoning him toward the fire... " You remember Kendrew... and This is Lady St Laurence... Sir Windsor... and Master Tiberius... " she smiled up at him adoringingly good gods in heaving could it be.. the Lady Aramoire.. had fallen.. in love ? Tiberius: *He stood quietly beside her, then leaning down to whisper softly.* Perhaps we should have you take a seat, Mistress Aramoire in light of your condition.. *And if so inclined, he would lead her to the nearest seat.* Noble Puzzle: They must have darkened the room when the comerades rose to greet the additions to the great room. Merely an inch beneath Sir Windsor, it could be said that between the son of England and the one of Scotland dwarfed the light of the A Noble Puzzle: fire for an instant. "Goo' evening one and all. Master Grey, Mistress.." Small, ginger pressure applied in a stolen token of affection that he had no hardship in enduring. True, it did nothing for the modesty of virtue seeming in A Noble Puzzle: constant flux around him, but it was as it ought be. On pain of the mention of another, expression shifted from lax to intent. Just what forces were at work that created the smile on Shaden's face, so visible, so vibrant, so like A Noble Puzzle: any woman that ever doted on a man? It was either on pain of the ale, or he would be speaking with this Nicholas as he would be Tiberius. The Gilded Lily was a house given the Duke's rare sanction, after all. The Duchess herself A Noble Puzzle: decreed the woman should be looked after, and he intended to do that for the woman who had held his life in her tiny hands more than once. As it was the thoughts turned when Balian made mention of instruments lacking tune of song A Noble Puzzle: they ought sing for Lady Superior. "We all be at want for tunin', Windsor," he muttered between them as the company settled in, "In that we are in one piece stands testament enough. In a few days time, m'friend. We begin to play a A Noble Puzzle: right grand war march." Of the immediate vacinty? He wondered what war was being fought that had no battlefield or banners. Where the likes of Shaden, Claramae, and the illusionist Alendral were players. It was a world he favored A Noble Puzzle: not at all -- A Noble Puzzle: "Good eventide, Sir." The lady turned on half-pivot to execute another flawless mannerism. Aye, if Kendrew thought to venture his thought allowed surely there would be made mention of a war where in order to survive, a mind adept A Noble Puzzle: at chess-like structure was necessary. Marble floors were just as deadly as any field. The bodies piled, pulled beyond the long curtains. Blood flowed into cups of wine without a drop spilled on the flesh. So intricate the A Noble Puzzle: illusion the mad were genius and the sage depraved. Sir Nicholas. Another name to recollect. Tiberius Grey. Faces that were catalogued in an astute mind with a discrete pair of eyes so none were the wiser.
Balian Windsor: Balian once more would force himself to stand. Carefully setting a few coins at table side as payment for the ale while the pale cloak battled to find his gold spurred heels. His head would bow upon introduction of Nicholas. "I am Honored to meet you.. Sir Nicholas." His weight would shift from one leg back to the next while his head cant to hear Kendrew. Nodding just once. "When the battle must be.. ..The Riders of Turas Lan will fight it. ..For the now, I shall retire the evening and say good night. Lest the Lady Windsor begins to think I have a lady friend, eh?" He chuckled softly knowing better that Jelenah would never believe Balian to be that man either way. If there was such a thing as true love the Windsors had found it and then some in one another. She had become his very reason for living, his driving purpous to be the very best man he could be. "Good night my friends." He smiled warmly while making his way back toward the door. Pulling the thick leather gloves back over his hands before making his exit into the cruel winter night. CaptainJackFlynn: T'was the very invisible war that Kendrew had a distaste for - a war that was fought not face to face, but within the confines of the shadows - was still at play. Although the Chess Masters of Skye had gathered at the Lily this eve, it appeared that the manipulators of men who opposed Skye still piled their trades. Which amongst the gathered personages would be the first to realize that not all was at it seemed? For the evening sky, already made dark by the setting of the sun, was made darker still. Not by the proverbial clouds of war... but by a cloud of ash. This great beast was fed by an umbilical that extended heaven-ward from the point where the shore and coast of Skye met with the vast expanse of the blue-green sea. Was the Lily close enough to see the flames that capered into the twilight? Did the wind blow just so, carrying with it the aromas of burning tar, canvas, and hemp? Did they hear the crackling of flame, as sea-worthy wood was rendered into coals? For the enemies of Skye had made their first moves in this word, although their target had not been the high and noble of the land. Their target had been the guardians of the sea. This eve, they had claimed the life of an old salt who was to patrol the dry docks where the Griffin Fleet underwent repairs. A dirk had been their weapon of choice for that. But for their true intents, they needed only a bottle of the cheapest of ales and a lit rag. They had smashed their naptha concoction against a choice target indeed. It was not one of the war cog being constructed, nor was it a a merchant that burned. What was gutted by fire, t'was the strongest and headiest of ships in the Griffin Fleet. The Immram - flag ship of the Fleet, personal vessel of the Lord Admiral - had been set alight. Not content to simply burn, the Immram allowed herself a grand death. T'would be a shuttering of sea and sky, a clattering of church bells, as a wave of sound rushed outward from the Immram's very heart. The valiant ship then seamed to force the water down and away from it, to tear itself a sunder. A distant, defeaning, explosion followed later. This marked the point at which the soul of the warship was vanquished, and the Immram's keel - it's very spine - was split in twine . T'was a fitting death for such a grand ship of war. For the flames had at last consumed the powder magazines... and the Immram with it. Stryker: A grin, no a smile curved the mans lips as Shaden's hand rose to him, and as he was, he could never deny her anything. Crossing the floor, he took her hand into his own and brought it to his lips for a gentle kiss brush against knuckles before he was leaning forward to brush his lips against her own. The others were not ignored but he had one more to greet before them and had no qualms of lowering to his knee, with a small grunt, lips were placed at her belly and a murmur of hello to Joy inside before he was rising off the floor, rather slowly and turning to nod his head as each had been introduced by Shaden. "Sir Kendrew, Sir Balian, My Lady st. Laurence. A pleasure." His arm came to wrap around Shaden's backside, rubbing softly, no doubt her back was sore from climbing on tables at the Briar Rose, ahem. This was no time for him to scold her though and his lips found the edge of her temple in a gentle kiss. Shaden: A blush of sweetness kissed the apples of her cheek as the smile widened at his adoring attention to her daughter within.. hands unwittingly moving to his dark hair.. to gently entwine.. there was nothing hidden it seemed so natrual between the too that onlookers might feel as if they had intruded on a most intimate moment displayed so openly.. what gift it was to love without constraint.. As he rose to slip his arm about her she leaned into him.. nodding to Tiberius as he took his leave.. poor man his injuries were still keeping him quite exhausted, they would talk more on the morrow.. Nicholas hand at the small of her back was a boon to the tender ache there.. and soon enough he saw her settled on a small sette oppsite CLaramae and Kendrew.. of course plenty of room for him to snuggle in beside her . Kendrew: The ale in the cup measured at half by the time he was seated but he was not to remain within it. A crackling, hard snap infiltrated the walls that sent him careening back to the full measure of his height. Cautioned against stark motion by healers, he ignored the ache of injury to stare at the great gash burning the Turas Lan skyeline through a window. Frivolity beside the fire was forgotten as he already smelled the smoke stinging the nostrils and curling thick in his lungs by memory of what it was to do so. What is the measure of a man? Is it by the length of stride or the breadth of measured acts? "They are attacking! Attacking!" Shrieks and squeals. Screams and gasps beyond Great Room as he pushed his way through the women to see the dark night become an enraged, unyielding day in blinding spires of illumination. It was as if the sun spewed comets from a cracked place to be born of wood and cinder! "Stay here, tighten yer guard. Don't let a single woman out!" All thoughts on what lay beneath bandages fell to the wayside as he ran back to the great room. "Somethin's goin' on at the docks. Looks like a ship. Keep the women inside.." Shaden would think him mad but duty was to be done. In the midst of it, for a brief second..it flickered over him. As he had stood, so had Claramae. If he would go forward..so would Claramae? Gazing to the English he said, "Earn your colors tonight." --
Claramae: Golden brocade spilled forward from the chair as tipped stance lowered in reverance to command. No stranger companion could a man have elected than a woman in a gown. "Mistress, Sirs." Taking her leave of them she became the scant line on the edge of the Lowlander's shadow. Men who awaited her return near the threshold were put to immediate action to suggest that nothing lay beyond the ken of she. Nothing unexpected or left to ne'er be considered. "Master Voltaire, my Freesian and my fellows, please." Instead of being placed upon the black steed that bled from a slit in the night, St. Laurence took to the saddle herself in perfect demonstration of being more than capable. Going full astride, the decorative tack on either side was pulled off. The side-saddle became in a switch of saddle horn and tether a traditional one. On one side was tethered a crossbow, on the other rested a rapier. "We investigate at best and take at worst, based on what is presented. Let us away." Stranger still? The utterance of "Aye, Major." in conjecture with she. Stryker: They are attacking. The first thing that registered through his mind was the safety of Shaden and her girls. His arm tightened around Shaden as she lowered onto the seat but much more, would have to wait, his arm loosened from her side to follow Kendrew to the window and a skyline filled with smoke and fire. A tight frown pulled at his lips as he moved in a rush towards the hall only to pause, turn back around, cup Shaden's cheeks within her hands. "Gather the girls, stay away from the windows, make sure all doors are locked...I love you.."His lips decended to place a kiss against her lips before he released her to return to the hall and his disguarded belongings, hard leather breastplate and sword. Each would be strapped on with procession and near to no thought. This was, of course what he was built for. Following Claramae outside, he paused, the lady was...no time to think on that and the Knight was off into the night to do what he could.
Shaden Aramoire: Her eyes widened with shock at the sound of the explosions.. so much so that they rocked the foundation of the Lily and rattled the panes of leaded glass.. As he moved to the window with Kendrew she battled to her feet.. then met him in a soft kiss as he ordered her for her safty and those of the Lily... Those sweet words he uttered.. against her lips... were like a tonic.. inducing bravery in her heart that had only moments ago not been there.. She followed him into the entry hall.. helping him in silence as he strapped on the breastplate and leathers.. holding his sword until at last each thing was in place.. at the door as he moved out she caught his hand pulling him back.. lifting on tiptoe to press a kiss to his lips.. soflty before her cheek pressed agaisnt his.. " I love you... come back to me.. safe" she released him then.. watching him off into the night then bolted the door.. behind him.. rushing to gather the Lily's together and secure the house... with the few remaining gaurds that stayed behind.. it would be a long night... of waiting.. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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Post by Master Claramae St. Laurence on Jan 21, 2009 15:01:36 GMT -6
The stage is set as the lights show the scene behind the risen curtains. Is it but one scene? No, it is many that are going on toward the completion of one great work. One magnificent magnum opus! If you grow sick at heart at the foul deeds men can devise or can take not stories of romance for fever to the brain, nor intrigues, then I bid you look no longer here.
"You know.... this all plays out to our plan and we're legends. Thwarting the stuff of rumor and conspiracy. Hmph! I believe that would make our Duchess the most ridicliously lucky noble-woman on the planet."
- The Great Alendral Sorschal, Master Illusionist - Court Spy and Assasin His Grace's Order of the Talon, Black Order, Grand Commander
"In this war shall be a battle of reckoning, one that is long in coming. There shall be no leaivng for me. Either the greatest exaltation of my career comes hence, or my end. With more honor, perhaps, than could be installed."
- Claramae St. Laurence, Noble Dignitary - Court Spy and Assasin His Majesty's Special Military Quarter, Avarian Talon, Major His Grace's Order of the Talon, Black Order, Elitist
-.-.-.-
The line in the sand had been drawn for a great war. No, it was not the war that the Duke gave rousing speeches on with the implications done in the best, straight-forward rhetoric from the inspiration he had read. It was not even a war many knew had gone on beyond terms of ever being considered finite. Good, evil? Fye! That was a bland, theological analysis with no philosophy to cleave to a very simplistic, exquisite fact for the indecisive:
Nothing was ever that black and white.
The days between her meetings with the Grand Commander and appointments to be kept dwindled on purpose. Her schedule was kept exceedingly full, though it seemed at times she moved to no where at all. Adapation was the art of instant change. Where a carriage couldn't go, a mounted rider or feet could. Fur cloaks brushed over the locked stones of Turas Lan's famous step roads. An bird's view of the city was perchance a bird's view of the world. All together, another view of many cases was needed in order to solve the lesser aspects, find where they joined, and proceed to the larger objective. Now again, in the mentioning of a war, on the front of the marble floor, Claramae had been a veteran these years. It spilled from the decorum however to the brutality that lays beyond the reach of many noble spies. Blood was spilling in the city somewhere. Even now, a sword sharpened on a stone and was slicing out a person until they could twist their innards around the blade. Important people were vanishing into thin space just as the people milled through the market place.
What had the severed hand of a Russian merchant, the wife who ran from him, two books, bishops, cardinals, the Church, a courtesan house, an Italian Princess, a Chamberlain, one aquaduct drifting knight, countless assasination attempts,Maubrey, and intrigues all have in common?
Gottschalk, Sorschal, and St. Laurence. Of these three things it would be the first that activated Doomsday. Of these three it would be two that survived annhilation and were faced with the chanllenge of ending his legacy once and for all. These other people were along the web. Little by little the biways were growing too dangerous to transverse so the little flies would be stuck for not learning how to fly away fast enough. She was guilty of the same. Worse, she had the foresight to do so but elected to remain for the great terror of loose ends. God forbid.
Standing on the road as it overlooked the market it was then and there a decision was made. A lady never travels alone in civilized places, so she turned to her immediate left for the pleasure of Master Voltaire to listen to her request, "Master, you will go down among the people. Ah, there is the companion of one of the Lady's of the city now. I was given an invitation a fortnight ago thrice and thrice declined, but it will behoove me now to accept the fourth. With the fashionable at a lack for things to distract them, a supper shall be just the thing. You will tell her of course my patronage is immediate. She shall invite all of the upper eschelon and the choicest of families." The man was born for his occupation, really. Italian, French, and German, he could have conducted the orchestral score for the number in his sleep. "We are to return to business, then. Thank God. The meetings grow duller by the hour with nothing but the obvious to talk about." His accent, peppered by the influence of his Franco-German mother, sighed, "War, war. So then we return to the field of battle we know best then, oui?" Conversely, he asked the question of why. "Though the timing is strange, Madame. You were ordered to remain obscure.."
Fickle circumstance was pondered over for an instant before she turned to speak to him in a voice that broached no room for anything but the strictest conduct in carrying her wish, "And follow we shall. It will not do to display obstinance, 'pon any level, Master Voltaire. Yet at the same time we have a contracts to fufill of an indepent nature that will reflect poorly on all parties involved if not completed. In addition, we have already suffered petty infiltration and the insult of sub-par thugs. Erstwhile, we have and shall continue to conduct ourselves in a dignified manner. Mark, if we do not set the field then they shall call all the moves on a board we will not be privy to see. I, for one, have operated rather blindly long enough."
He said nothing further, only went to do as he was told. Larkin came to claim his place so she was not without an arm while the woman who had walked behind her moved up a respectful distance forward. Bromheilde, the lady's maid and companion, voiced a simple, "Shall I make your gown's suitable, my lady?" The finest bolts of cloth to match exquisite ensembless. No one knew how to oversee the necessity of a woman's personal matters such as Bromheilde. How else would one dress be able to conceal three poisons per sleeve and a host of stilletos? A rare gem of slight smile creased lips in an upward turn so slight it might not have happened at all. "Yes. See that the ones still packed are taken out, aired, and prepared for our battles." How good it was to hear again! The business of this island began to roughen up her Lady's hands, had ruined beyond salvation good silks, and was counter-productive. It would not be said for an instant that she, like the rest of the Household, worried. That they did. Foolish not to.
"M'lady accepts your invitation and bids you accept her patronage. She is of humble disposistion and will not require your thank you nor shall it be made to be put forth in the streets. Send your word discretely. The times, you understand. Let us arrange one supper where we may lay claim to a host of festivities to be laid to from there."
- Master Voltaire to one delighted, young noblewoman -
War as only the elite can orchestrate it.
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Post by chantalrose on Jan 21, 2009 23:41:09 GMT -6
"I brought you the ring as proof, and prior to this his hand was removed to fufill a promise. He was alive, until perhaps a few hours ago. But now that he is dead you have his seal and a 'piece' of him as proof of my contract. Your household's greatest enemy is dead. So now, I do think you should show me to your Lady now so I might tell her that our contract, thus, is fufilled, as was laid to me by one of my own Household. You will apologize to her, and say that the man she requested to do this is not by occupation of this sort, but connected to the one who saw debt collected. Make haste. You have far worse than Petrov to worry over now.." -Lady St. Laurence
"Do not treat me as if I am made of precious glass anymore! What news have you kept from me during all this time? I have given birth, Seamus, and I am quite ready to start being my own person again."
The eve of the babe's birth brought a great many things- a new life into the world, the naming of the tiny one, and the return of Lady Rose's spirit. She was not one to be coddled and protected. Her moment of weakness upon being approached by Mikhail had been due to her delicate condition at the time. There had been no way to fight the man without harming the life protected inside her womb. Now that it was no longer there, instead held securely in a warm blanket in her arms, Chantal was quite ready to know of what was happening in Skye. Of what was happening with her family.
"Chantal, we cannae tell ye wot be a'happenin'. It not be...fittin'." Seamus's words, though meant out of care for his Mistress, earned him only a roll of her lovely sapphire eyes.
"Since when did it matter what was fitting? I have not been a naive lass for many years, Seamus, and you will tell me now. If you do not I will turn you out on the streets!" An idle threat, truly, as the man was like family to her. Yet, he would not know that by the tight set of her jaw.
Aye, Avery Thorn had requested that Chantal rest and she was, kept warm and comfortable in bed, yet that did not mean her mind could not work. She'd already fed the wee one and had her nap. Seeing the man trying to think of better arguments, she spoke one word, with authority,"Now."
"Och, fine! A Lady a'came. She gave a message..." And slowly he repeated it, the simple words, and passed into her now outstretched palm a ring. Those in her employ had not felt it necessary to show her, or even keep, the hand. It'd been buried in the garden outside the inn in the dark of night. The ring though had been kept, for proof of the deed and Lady's message, and Chantal now eyed it with a mix of...relief...and dread.
"Do fetch this Lady, if you can find her..." Chantal had a feeling that a woman who could deliver the hand of her dead husband to the inn, where she'd been staying, would know when needed. Something in the pit of her stomach made this clear. As Seamus left the room, Chantal's hand lifted and shakily tucked honey-blonde strands behind an ear. "We...are...safe?" Disbelief, as she did not quite believe it yet.
Were they? Or would these people...these ones Mikhail had been tied to...seek them out? Would they bring harm to her family? Had they already? So many questions plagued her mind. It was a small sound that snapped her out of such frightening thoughts and her sapphire gaze lowered to the small body in her arms.
"There shall be no such thoughts on this day, this day of your birth, Isadora Nasrin Rose. I shall protect you, and your siblings, with my life."
And indeed she would. Come hell or high water, Chantal would protect her family. Laying in bed, singing quietly to her daughter, she waited for the arrival of the mysterious lady.
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Post by Master Claramae St. Laurence on Jan 22, 2009 15:45:14 GMT -6
Setting the Stage, Debating over Particulars, and the Wolves as a Distraction
Claramae: "In all of the best circles, my lady, there is an inner ring that keeps confidence while the outer are none the wiser. In the converse, the deductions do not lend themselves to as productive an assembly. Certainly, you may fathom the very nature of my discretion? Humility is a virtue time honored. Our fortunes connected ought not to be dwelled 'pon so much as the lavish spectacle that will hold the guests enraptured.." Her words wedged firm between earsoften harboring cotton-fluff nonsense of youth unadulterated as the lady of high means and pretty age clasped to the influence of the Countess as if it were gold in pauper hands. Leaning over for the next delicacy to sup upon thesage remained ram-rod straight on a carved stool. The pastel shaded young woman was fawning continued over the Countess accepting a thrice offered invitation at long last, while not realizing that her attempts to be versed in the art of orginization faded in the glamour of presence. Byrne House was a structure of grey, rose colored stones fixed together to form a two-story home of long, wide proportions in a city of hundreds. It was the pinacle of taste and interior evidence of tasteful decor. Simplistic had a cost. Much like the party to be arranged on behalf of the young woman. Promising wine from muddy water and calm skies from squalls she held the child just so in the palm of a naked hand. In a few meager sentences, the young woman had given Lady St. Laurence the tools to establish a veritable Pandora's Box. (d)
Alendral: In darker moments, Alendral found himself envying the Lady St. Laurences more official practices. Pretending to be someone else had its share of charms. The irony was in some ways, the act of masquerade--of pretending to be one they were not was a comfort to spies, as much as a trial. It allowed the gravity of the situation to disappear behind the minituate of the game they played. As the Magician himself was learning--such was not true for a Spymaster . For the last few weeks, he had been totally absorbed in the task and organizing of information. But things were not all lost--and so it was that with such good news. It was technically such a breach in protocol--meddling in Clara's affairs, the fact was the two were knee-deep in it, and this couldn't wait. So he quietly inserted himself into the party, doing at least the courtesy of making it obvious that he was doing such, subtle 'mistakes' he made to be caught by the keen eye of the lady. For the while, it was simply mingling with the others, waiting for the proper moment to speak in private. One thing to break protocol, another thing to ruin her cover entirely.
Claramae: A promise from the rich innocent was a promise to ensure miracles from mire. On the same coin's opposite side, a party paid privy to Death cland in elegant array some few nights hence from this one. Wind whipped up against the windows as the Head of Household instructed the newly hired maids on how to latch them shut so that no one caught a chill from the Scottish bone-hallowing air. The irony layered with irony was that Byrne House was the present venue in which the Countess St. Laurence lived, thereby ensuring this party as her party, and how strange to seek cover under one's own roof! As a dignitary, the work was paltry. Dwindling down to meager blood feuds or the occasional intercession between jester-like allies, it was time to assume the time honored practice of living as one was reared. "You are swift in assuring me, good lady. You have brought the plans to your estate? Worry not. The plans shall be read and deciphered in an expediant fashion and our plans." Her plans, exactly, "carried out to the literal letter of specification, in corcordance with whim and necessity.." She ingested the sub-par wit alongside radiant minds so that in the act of social graces the proverbial keys to this, and other kingdoms, would lay square in hand. There was a time where she passed Alendral on the circuit, nodding her head in greeting as if to suggest an aquaintance from another rparty in a season past but as the few people began to disperse to their carriages from the intimate affair it was easier to see one another from across the parlor. Scarlet bled into oil black through burned velvet pattern of blooms on the dark. Drawn in tight, the inset of the gown was made of silk lawn inlaid with seed pearls and tiny rubies. A sprinkling of the pricless gem descended in tear drop from her ear and suspended a blood crescent on the marble throat column. Our Lady had done some thinking, some planning..and the rare form tonight was exceptional (d)
Alendral: Alendral would wait, as much a man of his current occuption were to. Deigning today his old showman's clothes, the finely tailored black suit and jacket, lending both a hint of mystery and a degree of sophistication that would be expected of a 'formal entertainer'. Yes, by all eyes and purposes Alendral's entire purpose here was perhaps to arrange some sort of job with the Lady, perhaps for some future event. After the majority had departed for the evening, the Magician drew himself to the woman's side. There was little arguing with the Ladies taste, in this there was no argument. "Good Evening, Madam. I understand you requested my services?" Layered with thick double-meaning, he flashed her a tight showman's smile, bowing in turn as protocol demanded. The truth was, he'd received a missive from her for the first time in the days he'd assigned her to this whole Wolve mess. Her timing was as impeccable as her taste in decor--Alendral himself had found the past few days terribly eventful.
Claramae: Claramae lifted her head a scant higher to gaze over the showman's head to the depature of a guest before lowering her gaze to his own. As one who gave a service, it was a show of her person to elect the right entertainment for the upcoming soiree. Placing one finger against the tip of another, the entire hand would close in on the other as they clasped just at the center of her body. Elbows outward, the posture assumed was kept with the discipline a woman of substance excudes for the sake of effortless grace, only now it was just that. Effortless. Floating on the soles of her slippers the reply anticipated began with, "Good eventide, sir. Your services hath been asked for as it is on good authority you come of the most high recommendation. Come, if it please you, to the room adjoining where we might talk 'pon the business at hand? " The left hand showed the way with open palm to said adjoining room where drinks were being set on a small, round table. "It will enthrall you.." At a distance it appeared she asked for his secret by leaning forward. Hardly moving her lips, the flection was enough to produce the result as she allowed him first lead step (d)
Alendral: To the offer he smiled. "By all means...." and dutifully he fell to step in front of her, slipping into the quiet little chamber. It was only after the door was shut that he dropped a deal of the bluster, taking a seat at the table , dropping the pretense of the showman and the Countess, greatful for perhaps the respite of another friend. "I trust you have been well." an innocous phrase laden with concern left unspoken. The times had been trying enough for him. Knowing that she was operation largely alone, while the threat loomed over head was, in its own way, maddening. The man fidgeted with a small ring on his finger, one he did not always ware, suitably ornate, but with a much more ironic purpose--it was a showman's way of attracting attention precisely where he didn't want to look, suitably intriciate in design and with a bright, expensive looking sapphire. Seeing as his assistant had currently left the city some time ago, it was a necessary part of his trade lately. "So I trust there have been developments. "
Claramae: "Your trip hence was not trying, I pray. The weather is inclimate for gathering," despite the fact that at least ten had gathered in the parlor therein with no concern for the piles of snow building up on the stone. Behind the door he became a man in the presence of a noble. Appearance transistioned little with Claramae. It was few, terrible things that lent unappreciated flaws but it seemed that whatever pressure was applied to make the mask crack had been repaired in expert, if not startling fashion. "Pray, well enough. Thank you." A decisive answer that left no suggestive, additional details. But he wasn't left alone to swim in a sea of disdain with her company. Offering him a poured cup of wine, she took up a second, celebratory vessel for you see she only indulged at specific times. "The winter season is not without affairs to mark, though the current clime has held no room nor place for these events. So, to sway the fashion towards discrete opulence, an invitation has been accepted on behalf of a young woman who wishes a feast to be thrown. Having heard of my influence on the fortunes or failures of a chosen few, she has agreed to my discrete patronage and aid in the planning of this feast. Her proximity to those in the Cardinal's book and the families in the Book of Accomplishment is of merit. There is a war to be waged, afterall. Even the children of Gottschalk grow bored of alleyways and aquaducts. In order to facilitate the gathering of information for this, and other incidents which bind us in close lieu of others, 'pon the pair of days a meeting with Mistress Aramoire shall be held in that the Order might be furnished with a few select young women to be trained as informants. Certainly you see the merit in this idea. It soothes the ire of the debacle being a lack of trained hands, for they are schooled in social graces and shall be taught the art of the 'cloak' by mineself in the absence of your preesnt time. Business for the Lily will increase exponetially, as will fields and chances to garner information, incentive, and action."The glow of the fireplace lept across still hands. No motion, save the turn of head to look at him for thoughts on the matter. "It detracts not from other means. I have summarized the Wolf question and furnished answer to be applied by specific parties, with subsequent service offered" In so many words? One wolf on four legs was exchanged for the two-legged variety. (d)
Alendral: He knew that expecting something specific from Clara was merely inviting surprise. The woman had a knack for improvisation and turning any situation to her advantage, but he'd thought over the years he'd have at least been able to guess in the vaguest sense. The plan itself was sound, and he nodded along with it in turn, approving it despite the inherent risks involved. "I agree, though I advise caution on your behalf, my lady. It is too soon to move against our enemies, eager as we might be." A realization that took considerable effort for Alendral himself. "I will doubtless be attending than, as entertainment? Just in case one of the more foolhardy decides to take opportunity..." Which still left them under-staffed for what she was suggesting. Such a trap would require an elaborate network, one they just didn't--which was when she heard the second part of her speech, sipping at his wine at such time that he'd nearly drowned on it when he heard just where their pool of resources would be. Incredulous, all traces of properiety went out the window. "Come again? Wait a moment, I shared words with Lady Aramoire, and she had no interest in availing the Lily to us beyond what little facilitated common goals. " It hadn't occurred to him Shaden's opinion of him might have change. Worse, still, were the people she was asking to, a 'select few'. He already knew of one, and the idea felt awkward. "Now you mean to train some of her... associates? and she's gave her blessing for this?" He left a wide-eyed, dumbfounded expression on his face while he asked. He didn't even know where to begin with objections.
Claramae: "In what e'er capacity suits thy need, Master Sorschal. As an illustionist, the masses are enthralled. As a man among many, your eyes are 'pon the same plane as my own." The man had a knack for gleaning wheat from empty stalks toa point but if the field were scant it took a woman to find a seed in the barren soil. Bringing ripe idealism to the landscape, Claramae intended not only to lay the framework but to construct the village square paid for by the product of said harvest. Putting her wine against her lips, she moistened them before speaking again. "Everything will be done in discretion. The choicest families and individuals. Private messangers. No coats of arms and heralds about the square, thus not revealing posistion. Attachment to each festivity is done in humility, thus no recognition in public. We must no longer play on their chess board, Master Sorschal," she advised, "We can not adquetely move the pieces without the risk of being trumped, thus a new board is at hand to lure them to a new set of rules. They can not help but take that. Challenges are the crux of the hallmark." She looked to him to see the embodiment of that world. The spindle woven on spinning wheel with the webs of the mind were so thick in his that he had many tapestries when others had only one. Gottschalk had given hima multi-faceted mind, one of the reasons she had taken him on beneath her, and one of the reasons that almost ruined them both when it lay in another head. He looked stark eyed shocked at the suggestion of resources to which she educated, "The discussion shall take place the next day or the day after, what e'er the Mistress' schedule allows. Our degrees of professional and personal seperation, thus being small, and the importance of their maitenence in these adverse and dangerous times is better illustrated by a member of not only similar creed, but by the designation of how God bade us be made," in short he was man, she was woman. Shaden was a woman, and two women might make more fellowship than one woman and one baffled man. "You already have one serving as cover, so she is an acceptable candidate. Two more will be all I require. Doubtless, Mistress Aramoire has already begun to educated them. They shall be privy to a majority of knowledge, and it serves. Mistress Aramoire needs information and protection that we will not be equipped to provide without resource, and what better resource than those in house? You, too, needadditional hands. Or is it the thought of my taking on apprentices again that disturbs you?" (d)
Alendral: Leave it to the woman to suss out the truth behind all manners of excuses. He felt nearly pinned to the wall at her gaze. The man was a master of hiding himself behind lies and misdirection. Even the ones he considered friend rarely knew his every doubt and fear. All, save one, so it seemed. Forced to collect himself under such damning observation, he set to sip at another wine, and he found himself compelled to admit his own shortcoming. "Lady Saint Laurence, the mere act of taking on my old craft disturbs me enough. I scracely ever entertained my thought of passing on my legacy to others." and giving a considerable number of insight into just what a duplictious and vile kind of animal the man could be when the circumstances required it. And yet despite his misgivings, there was no arguing her logic. "But your assessment stands. Fact is, I need what eyes I can muster, and the majority of the trustworthy here are decidedly lacking in subtlety. No. I agree, this is the best course. Provided we don't merely stop at a stable of Sheet spies and hope they catch the right man's eye." He forced himself to banish the subtle apprehension in the body language, nodding. "And it will not be easy. In order to be effective so soon, we'd need condense years of training into mere days. God, Milady, how long was it before you even allowed me to take any real part?"
Claramae: Women, by nature, were duplicitous creatures that rarely exsisted in their one nature for a guaranteed length of time before transistioning. At times, both natures went on stimultaenously, making the courtesans a perfect aspect. "It was months before I allowed you to partake in even the slightest fathom, but the advantage is this: These women are already skilled to entertain, to lure, to draw in. They can exsist in the arm and and bed of the power poweful men in the nation for their mistress has done the same. What we temper in them is their exception without worrying on the trouble of manners. They are not as young as some, so the maturity will not be lacking. I believe that one alread is skilled in the creation of poison, so my lessons shall go not o'erhead. One is an actress so she will take for the title role. Another one shall prove to be as able bodied as first and second, so the world then is a fitting classroom. Each student is different." He had not considered passing his skills. He had not considered to pass on his mentors and become a mentor. Duplicitous, still, did not equate to monster. Claramae accepted the monicher in a willing fashion for she had been designed, in her opinion, to be a concealed weapon. Finishing near the portion of alloted wine she watched him soak all of this in as he soaked in the vintage."At your skill, it is far time you took on an apprentice to ease the burden of your craft," said the woman alone. True, her Household was not without purpose nor place, but Alendral was not always with her and Vincere was gone, so a steady partner Claramae had none. "and to focus on those aspects of it you would sharpen or make a firmer signature." (d)
Alendral: And despite her reasonings, the thought of an apprentice chilled him to his very core. Passing on his legacy meant, inevitably, passing on a part of Gottschalk's as well. And yet in all this, he made a mental note that one of Shaden's associates was already versed in the concoction of poisons, and vowed to look into that matter later. Even if he trusted in Shaden's judgement, it paid to be prudent. "Very well. Make what you will of it and I'll see them prepared for it... Should one of them show the incentive, then we can decide on the matter of an Apprentice. " Touched though he may be that Clara, in her own way, wished to see the passing on of his abilties, as well as to ease the burden he'd placed on himself. "But let us move on to other matters. Of this... current crisis. I understand you've made some progress on this so-called malady than, and I've not been found wanting in my own. By now you've heard of the wild-men? " whether she had or hadn't, he saw fit to explain. "I was able to subdue one with the assistance of one of Lady Aramoire's associates. Interrogation has proven... fruitless, but the link between the attacks and link between the attacks and them is almost certain. Second of interest was their chosen prey of the night; General Maahes, Lady Aramoire, and Captain Ealora, respectively. Why them in particular I can not say, but with two near-assassinated Generals, the pattern forms. " he folded his hands neatly in front of him and leaned forward while he spoke. "There was another attack by them as well. Another Courtesan, this time, apparently rescued by some dashing hero, it would seem." He smirked a tad before continuing. "They're fine, so I understand, but the most peritent bit of information I found was in the weaponcraft. These... men are wielding weapons made to look crude but hiding a certain artistry. Crafted by some master smith, to hear him tell it. This all, to me, paints a vivid picture. A man-made poison of incredible sophistication, weapons of a master smith, all under the guise of crudeness. It belies... a single weakness."
Claramae: What was it about the legacy of Gottschalk that disturbed his own acolyte? Did he not see that a teacher picked and chose the lessons? To train a spy was an entirely different matter than to breed a killer, but if besides the good set of eyes one did prove able bodied enough to become a Master's apprentice, he would need reckon with his inner demons. Reflection was slight in the Lady, but enough in that her focus covered the various areas of conversation "I have found an antidote to the effects of the poisonous bites of the beasts, and in concentrating it further a toxin that will immobilze the power in them, as well as these wild-men, who seem to be designated the players in a show of savagery spurned on revenge. It is an old reason, and one that wittles quick and leaves one crippled. A master smith, say you? An intricate design as is all of this, yet as you said, with a single weakness. To not consider the mos tobvious avenues, such as survival, are not excptional. " (d)
Alendral: "This is good. If you are correct in the belief this simple revenge, than the players involved have already given 'way the targets. So we know what they are after. Breeding animals resistant to such toxin required considerable effort, and would kill most of them.. It would make each one near irreplaceable. On the first front, we should concentrate on removing as many of them as possible. They can't be far from here, we'll see the rangers set about it, and with an antitdote, such measures can be handled safely. I've no doubt there is a connection between the men and these beasts. Find the beasts, find the men, find the ones responsible. On second, we shall closely observe the Lady Aramoire, Maahes, and Ealora respectively. With luck, our first action will bring pressure to intiate the party's end-game, and with luck, they'll believe their true motive to remain hidden. The men we've seen so far are crazed--too crazed to go to the trouble laid before us. The Wolves are key to this. It's all.. rather like flushing an animal from hiding, when you put it together. " He grinned despite himself fiercely. In a time of crushing burden, seeing victory snatched from defeat was oddy invigorating.
-.-.-.
Victory was invigorating, wasn't it? A little piece of heaven derived mana in the hands of Sorschal went a long way to appease him enough to be able to ingest the other ideas shed fed him along side. Naturally, his ascertations on specific areas were correct, but what the delightful Master Sorschal was not aware of was that in conducting the business of this or any other matter, the proximity to the enemy was still close.
Too close, if you included a woman by the name of Chantal May Rose. A lady of business and private means, she lived comfortably with her household and the recent addition of a new babe to join the children she had already had. A sweet bloom such as she was long coveted by Mikhail Petrov, who's hand of late found way to the household of Rose in a box. Why was this so? One of her retainers had given a member of the St. Laurence Household the mission of doing away with him, but that is not their purpose. As such, the debt to be done reverted to the head of the famous estate. Sitting across from Sorschal was a woman who had taken a man's limb and torchured his fellow in order to get to said handless man. They were not the first nor to be the last. Now Chantal had her husband's poor choice of affiliates to concern herself with.
And a legacy that no one was prepared for. Not even those that bred it.
As the hour grew late, her once apprentice, now Master in his own right would take leave so that on the night of a child's birth a woman attired in fine velvets, satins, and rubies could be lead to the foot of Chantal's bed. In a twist of opportune fate, her carriage was ready, her Freesians fresh, and the hour still suitable enough for interludes. Women with babes are off up at unforgiving hours. Claramae was never a traditionalist when matters of business were at hand.
"I am told you wished for me, good lady. I trust you have acquired the box sent and contents, therein." Indecent. Untrusting. Twisted and curious. The servants of Chantal knew little what to make of the woman they led upstairs or how to feel about leaving their mistress completely alone with her.
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Post by chantalrose on Jan 30, 2009 10:56:04 GMT -6
"My Lady, ye should nae be up!" Ellie's worried voice sounded in Chantal's ears though she was not much listening. The young girl, who'd been about during the birthing of the newest addition to the Rose family, was naturally concerned that her Lady was moving so soon after such an ordeal. Avery had ordered Chantal to rest though the woman was not inclined to listen it seemed.
"Ellie, dear, do not fret so. After the birth of Haji I was up and about cooking dinner that evening." Living in a camp full of bandits meant no time to rest. Especially when you were being bedded by the leader of the camp. Though Chantal had not been wife, in legal terms, she'd been bonded to Astennu in ways that meant more to her than any words placed over a marriage by a Church. Such had given her privileges above the other women in the camp and therefore more responsibilities as well.
Chantal was not about to lay in bed after the birth of little Isadora. Something inside her told her that by doing so Astennu, wherever his soul found rest, would be ashamed. He'd always told her that a woman of his would not be a laze about. She'd proven that she was indeed not one. That was not about to change. "Now, Ellie, fetch me the satin, the maroon one I think with the gold threading about the neck, and do hurry. I do not wish to meet this mysterious lady in my nightclothes."
Hearing that note of authority in her Lady's voice, Ellie nodded and hurriedly fetched the gown spoken of from the wardrobe. In moments Chantal was garbed in it, honey-blonde hair done up in a braid and coiled artfully to be held in place by decorative jeweled pins, and looking as though she had not just given birth that day. Lifting Isadora, who was fussing, into her arms, Chantal hummed softly to her while standing by the window.
Swaying back and forth, sapphire gaze watching those on the street below, she heard the door click open only after a light warning knock. It had come indeed later, and at an obscene hour of night to have visitors, and yet Chantal did not care. The sound of an unfamiliar voice had her turning to peruse the woman with an oddly noble lift of chin when she was not of any such thing. Just the daughter of a Portese man, wife of a wealthy merchant, and concubine of a bandit. Now though an inn owner and mother, nothing more or less, though one would not know that. Except this mysterious lady had delivered the hand of her former husband to this place...and none in Skye besides those in her own household or employed to protect her knew of that bond.
"Leave us. Ellie, take Isadora please." The young woman came to fetch the new babe, barely reacting to the change of arms as she was so sound asleep, and Chantal watched her depart. It was Seamus, and the others, who still stood there. "Leave"
A slight lift of brow and a firm tone had the men leaving though they grumbled quite a bit. When the door was finally closed, Chantal gave a polite smile, only a bare curve of lips, as she looked at the Lady standing across the room from her. Moving to the stand by her bed, skirts making a light swishing noise with each step, she lifted Mikhail's signet ring into her hand and held it out under candle light for the Lady to see.
"Though they seemed to have dispensed with the hand, buried under flowers so I hear, my men did give me this. It seems that I owe you a great debt if this did indeed come off Mikhail's hand." Sapphire eyes watched the Lady's face quietly, for any signs that may give clue to whether or not she'd been lied to, before she continued,"Nonetheless, my mind does wonder how you knew to bring this to me. My family, of course, knew of the marriage and those who are dear to me. Outside of those I have not spoken a word of Mikhail to anyone. The marriage, by my standards, was over long ago when the man tried to have my children and I murdered. So, now I must ask. How did you know I was married to him and who are you?"
Some mistrust was evident, but Chantal could not help it. A mysterious woman had delivered her Mikhail's signet ring and his hand, claiming him to be dead, and she wondered just what the woman wanted. Was he indeed dead? Or was this a ploy set to lure her out into the open? There were many questions to ask of this stranger.
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Post by Master Claramae St. Laurence on Feb 6, 2009 13:38:46 GMT -6
The household of Chantal May Rose was delighted at the birth of a girl-child named Isadora while the prospect of a grown woman named Claramae St. Laurence on the threshold turned joy toward a look of perpetual dislike. It was in poor taste to speak aloud against one's betters, so no one said anything. Claramae hadn't come to collect opinions towards her class nor even toward the 'token' left in regards of a business matter. Business indeed was the reason she came. Loose threads hanging had to be cut, so to speak.
Through the dark night, the Freesians hardly left any sign. All that was traced? The steady, militant clack of pracing feet drawing the carriage of dark materials to the inn door. "They believe we will cause them harm or bad luck," Voltaire bemused as he opened the door, stepping down before his mistress. In retort, Claramae offered, "Tonight will be one of education, Master Voltaire. What is not learned of now shall be before our exuent." Up to the place of presentation, the servants pressed closer to her. What did they try to do, absorb her malice? Of all things, Claramae did enjoy droll happenings. Life, of late, lacked amusements that would make her recollect later with pleasent thought. She smelled of such things as rose-water in the dead of winter. Rustled in heavy silk lambasted with filigree across the bodice. Her neckline was tasteful, for a sheer piece of fabric came from the top of the bodice to tie beneath the throat, thus offering a modest cover.
It was beyond twilight, and certainly none needed to see the blessed work of woman's figure by God's hand at this hour.
"It seems the Lady has asked for all to leave, Master Voltaire? Comply, there shall be no need of you now." To be on equal footings she dispensed with her escort to join (oh so begrudging of it were they) the remainder of the household. The child passed her along the way. Radiant in features, a true beauty. Yet, all matters deduced that this was not the child of Mikhail Petrov. The question of how she knew these things was poised to which the source said nothing. No, it was not a silence meant to infuriate, merely Claramae was assesing the situation at hand. The signet ring caught the candle light where the spectrum bent to foster rainbows. Prismatic aura ensnared it before a bust of breath on her part killed it. Much as it had the owner, for that matter.
"Mikhail Petrov became esconsed in affairs of state by his appointment to the head of the Merchant's Guild. Furthermore, his appointment was arranged by certain persons within the Holy Church, who's money is far more blood-tainted than any body part of Petrov to be offered. The web thus, with his bully men, ensnared him and them to be taken by the spider. You, his pet obsession, are thus connected by no fault of your own to the designs of an orginzations and Orders that would make any attempt Petrov placed on the heads of your family a game for peasent children. In short, Mistress Rose, your former husband's ambition has secured thee a legacy of constant threat. It is my belief that, too, you are being watched by the same eyes he hired to watch others. Fool that he was, he took on for himself an uncontrolable entity. The Church, too, will no more be able tocontrol these fashioned monsters. Have you ever heard of Gottschalk, The Book of Accomplishment, or the likes of things such as Illuminati or the Order of the Ruby Asp? No, certainly not"
Where as Chantal's skirts issued light sounds, the patterned silk of St. Laurence spoke nothing to the late night. The shoes on her feet. Her breath. To some it proved a fantastic horror, others a unique irratant that properity fashioned the epitome of the woman who was seen and not heard if that was what was called for. In the window, her brown hair could be seen hanging loose beneath a veil. The exposure came at the top of her crown, where a decorative band came to a small peak, sloped out in slight curvature before going straight behind the ears. Seed pearls and sapphires wore glisten from the dim light of the room. "You saw the man you approached for the purpose, or more to the point, had your men approach on your behalf. Master Voltaire, though highly efficient, is retired from The Hunt. It was his place then to give the dispense of his mission toward one who could complete it thusly. On behalf of our household and good name, the task fell to me. You may have passed me a thousand times, mistress, and ne'er heard a word. You may have seen me yet recall my face only for an instant. It is the same in my knowledge. I acquire all while seeming to acquire nothing. We are all issued a purpose in this world lending to a caling. It is obvious the nature of mine so we needn't continue with that particular."
She folded her hands, one over the other, and let them rest before her torso. "As it was told your servants, Petrov is the least of your worries, now."
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Post by Master Claramae St. Laurence on Feb 6, 2009 14:32:32 GMT -6
Feelings: From Shadow to Substance or How to Make Blood from a Stone
"Thoughts are the shadows of our feelings - always darker, emptier and simpler.” Friedrich Nietzsche
It is easier to think than it is to feel. It is easier to stand among the world to observe it with logic than to reach out, running the risk of the fingers will want to graze through the soul. People aren't pieces of granite no matter how much they do not move, do not make noise, or do not behave as others do. Some are only strangers to the experience of humanity. Others, having taken in the lot, expell it from themselves and adapt anonimity. Disdain. Loathing. Happiness. Humor. Sorrow. Pain. They are felt for the skin of such individuals is not dead; gone numb it has until it is forced to a wakeful state. Then, the world becomes harsh, bright, and rebellion is the only way to make sense of being forced to crash into the universe.
-.-.-
Claramae: The Lady St. Laurence had left the jewel of Skye on business and returned to find it in an uproar. No place was silent! The roads toward the castle twisted as Christ's road to the final act of the Passion with nay-sayers pitching stones every inch of the way at the travelers going up, up to beseech the throne for answers or rail against given order. The prescription for the malady of disention was certainly not disagreement, but she had no land here to be a true voice at court nor an opintion as other than one who observed the borguois, roaring boars of the upper class make ready for armor instead of feasts. "This will not do," the hallmark of consistancy denoted that nothing was consistant, "I wonder how Sorschal fairs in the situation. We go hence to discover." She road a'side the saddle in a frock of ice blue beyond the gates of Griffin Castle with her company a'matching to be a household most uniform. It was true while she had no opinion to throw officially, she enjoyed a certain degree of room that allowed the woman her graceful maneuvers. But my! The guard had thickened, and it took the full breadth of titles and posistion to open the thick doors. Man was more a problem than said door, but she would not defy ettiquete for if such was abandoned, then all would result to ruin! To the front, to the aft, a guard was placed as they went on tour through the brilliant, upheaved halls. People spoke of leaving soon or never. People spoke of war, death, and figures. Oddly, the petite fatale came to caress the mental nuance of the same matters. "Master Sorschal, there is a Lady waiting to be announced to visit ye, should we do so?" Like any of repute within the castle, he had been given a small staff to see to his needs. Did he need silence or did he need company? (d)
Alendral: "Let her in." Came the voice, haggard and tired. It was more of a burden than he cared for at the time. There were too many threads of the tapestry that needed his attention.. and he had already taken to the most grim kind of his work over the past few days. It was taking its toll on him. He knew he needed rest but he found few moments for it. Even his endurance was wearing thin. Taking a deep swig of brandy at his desk, he'd wait, drawing himself into an impassive mask as he waited for the guest, and to his credit, he did not show his surprise--or even the glimmer of relief, when she finally did arrive. Standing up again and nodding as she was announced in, he'd motion quietly for his assistants to leave him be for the time--already reaching for a kettle and teacup that had been brought by another servent at her annoucement, pouring her a small cup and settling in behind his desk. "Lady St. Laurence." He put on his best smile, like nothing was wrong, and slipped behind his desk. "I'd say that it's been too long, but that is becoming a common thread in all our meetings. Please, sit. I've been waiting to hear from you for some time now. " The undercurrent of which was where the hell have you been?, masked behind pleasantries.
Claramae: "As you wish, sir." The tall door was pushed open and the servant didn't have to announce the Lady because the master did it for him. Bows and curtsies came next as both maid and valet left the pair in the company of only one another. If anything, the staff was well schooled to each one they were given to serve. Sorschal's service demanded: 1) Quickness 2)Discretion and 3)Silence. Preference of personal environment aside, it became essential if the subjects were sensitive. The Grim Reaper, for example, would never be called by his name or told what he did was hideous, but given tea. As he pulled on the tapestry strings to see which didn't unravel, Claramae stood back to observe the half-hearted work in its entirity. Haggard and sleep deprived, stoic, smooth, the brewed leaf liquid was passed with impecable timing. In ungloved hands she captured the cup to her right hand, balancing it against the side of supported index finger on the left. She wore her most pleasant serenity to accompany the silver filigree in her gown, pearls against the golden thread netting that was sheer over warm sleeves, confining the brown hair. "It is a pleasure to see you, Master Sorschal. Our interludes are strange at best, marvelous much, would you not agree? The times are not condusive to regularity I fear, nor is business. So upon first chance, it was prudent to make appearrence immediately." To which the under-word read I have left but am here again, and so it is. What is the evening's means? (d)
Alendral: "Your timing, as always, is impeccable." First was the matter of strife to tend to, and he gestured as if the mayhem was all around the very room. "Drums of war are sounding, I understand. The Bruce's forces mean to full scale conflict now. Duchess is even considering uprooting the Court and moving it to a more safe location... I protested, naturally, but I believe my concerns fall on deaf enough ears. Can't risk avoiding a phantom when the real real threat is at your doorstep, I suppose." He tried to scrutinize her behind the inscrutable mask she so often wore on her expression. He wanted to know just what caused it--what had the woman had been up to? But he knew almost at once--the woman didn't want Alen to know, and he never would. Repressing a flicker of ire. "Then you bring word of something? Pray, tell me. I would wish for a relief, but I am no fool."
Claramae: "Uncanny." While he sounded on about strife, she began the ceremony of taking tea in the midst of surmounting odds. The English habit, you see, would prove to be centuries hold by the time "stiff upper lip" was coined as a phrase for attitudes. "The news in Edinburgh is that the King has little to do with this, though a small portion of his men have been summoned. Those with a vendetta seek to go. it is the English treasurey financing this venture, and Maubrey is pulling 'pon the purse strings. As it is know, the Lord William is Adam's father, and Adam is the son. It iscreator against progency. I have also heard that the players 'pon the field grow more each day, and that his Holiness himself is within the fray." Edinburgh was hundreds of miles from Turas Lan, so the talk of travels continued. Continuing on with news sought for, relief was slight. "There is talk that this war will surely spread beyond this Isle, as it is a war for control of not one Island, ultimately, but many. It was predicted, at a council in Glasgow and London that the war would spill down surely to the second place, and they would not be alarmed if war ships came sailing down the Thames." All of the Celtic Isles were watching? Another rsip of tea taken here. "The Duchess considers the safety of all that uphold the government as the Duke is on ride, seeing each village and city is prepared. It is my thought one knows not of the other's dealings, and will not as the roads seem to grow smaller. Twas quite a journey returning, I assure you." (d)
Alendral:What seemed to strain her old pupil so much. He said, without convinction or life, the steady decline of it felt keenly with every day passed. "Kryptmann and Ulnor. " he let the words hang, waited for the flicker of recoginition before contiuing. "That's so far. Ulnor was after Shaden, can't fathom why, didn't get a chance to learn him before I gutted him and threw him into the Ocean." It would have seemed overly descriptive to the apparently delicate flower, but he found carthsis in putting an end to at least one of them. "He slipped up. Another player, woman named Malice, unleashed by Lord Geruine--remember that old bastard?" he chuckled at an inappropiate nostalgia. "An old fool, even by the standards of the old Order. He was a Cardinal now, but apparently he's no longer within inner circles. Kryptmann's still out there though. I came close, but then they flushed out the tunnels he was hiding him. I lost him. "
Claramae: "Trial by fires, decided in adversity. What does not kill us will make us stronger, but remaining alive proves the quandry, does it not?" Ramrod straight back kept an upright neck where a head was able to turn this way or that to advantage. His style was slovenly, dishelved stress while she took and presented things with the utmost propriety. Would not her family have been proud to see the 'lady' she turned out to be? The names, too, did little to break form. Not a shiver from Kryptmann. Not a cringe from Ulnor. No twisted eyes at Lord Geruine, or risen brow at the proposterous choice of name that Malice was. Description could be spared no expense for the gory would not upset her constitution. Her rose remained defiant; blooming pristine despite season or the recent trevail, one might have said going abroad to the nests with hatching eggs did her well. AS it was, against his brandy induced stupors she was sober. " Deichenhause. Rivnor. " Two more names to the equation given, divided by the introduction of, " Viscount Alderman, the first two are here, the third is in context and contact with the first two and ." by now will be close to his arrival from London, having come there from Bucharest. The game is a'foot, Master Sorschal. Our old partners gone rogue or adversary turned coat has arrived for the festivity." Elric Deichenhause. Darius Rivnor. Viscount Alderman. One had been the man who laughed with Alendral only to kill their associates. One had been the on the trail of Gottschalk before vanishing, only to appear more powerful and corrupt, and the third? His title as a minor Viscount meant nothing when he was a Grandmaster within the Order that spurned the heirs of Satan. The tea was three quarters gone, balanced on her hand by gravity for t for the hand that held it aloft by handle was gone. (d)
Alendral: What other choice did Alendral have? He laughed, he actually laughed at the absurdity of the news. Three more now! "T..This is absurd!" he sat down the glass hard enough to nearly crack it on the table, staring at her in naked amazement. "The Bruce should barely be able to afford one of them! He's hired practically the whole damn cast! Krause is the last one, for god's sakes! There's still D'estes, and I'm not sure how he's tied to all this, but I know he's in operation and against us. "You're telling me they're all here. All... poised, with a dagger at the Heart of Skye." he had to stop, his hands fell to the desk and he laughed, a bitter, almost defeated laugh at the very concept, pausing only to literally throw his hands up, shooting ramrod out of his seat and setting to pace. "There's a pair of us Claramae. Just two. And you're telling me we're to... somehow uproot and kill no less than four of Gottshcalk's finest? his mind reeled, tried to find something, some way. God, he hadn't even finished sorting out this mess with the Wolves yet--with that.. that animal, that had wounded him already! "By God... by God Clara, there's two of us. "
Claramae: "Two of us, to six of them. The odds do not lean in our favor by figures but by wit, I would say so. They have become over-extended and sloppy. The Bruce can notn afford them, you are right. They are hired by Maubrey and by Church agents and by fellow order members. Robert Bruce, Sorschal, is dying. He is more concerned with his life's work unraveling and the salvation of his soul than condemning it when he could expire at any moment." He began to become excited. Remaining seated, she watched him pace. Still as stone she was while he shuddered and shivered. A derailed sounding laugh was met with a simple sigh. " Listen to me, Sorschal, we may be two but we are not a pair of fools.." (D)
Alendral: "And they are...? " he bit back harshly. "What do you propose? Lay a neat little trap for them and expect them to stumble in like novices? Rally the guards, give descriptions, and wait for them to bungle? Even rushed, even operating alone... every one we allow to operate unhindered will strike a devastating blow. " Given time.. given preparations I could deal with each. I could... I could anticipate them. It's what I do. It's why he picked me. but there's too many threads. Too many styles. Kryptmann will wait, he'll choose another target, in the midst of battle and strike again. D'estes will be in it for the long game--he's likely already been employed creating some damned Catastrophe, and with him it will be a matter of simply adapting quickly to it, before he can react. But each one will require... days... weeks of preparation to unravel them. Even if we are at our best... To counter all of them." Finally exhausted, he sank back in his chair, running a hand over his face, suddenly so very tired. The events of the last few days had been trying for him. They'd rattled his nerves, made his hands shake. Now he was on the prospect of something even in his supposed prime, he doubted his abilities. God, how he had wished Clara was here only days earlier, now her tidings only made the burden once. For a fleeting moment, a tiny, panicked part of his mind pleaded. I can't do this. There was no choice in the matter. He banished it without a thought. He forced himself to sit straight again and rubbed his eyes to stall for time and consider his angle. "...We'll deal with the threats to home first. Everyone else will have to wait. Strike as they come. " as long as Krause wasn't involved, he felt safe employing Claramae. Even if it would strain her, as he knew it did.
Claramae: Eyes narrowed. Narrowed, but didn't blink. Unwavering, they scrutinized his appearance for each flaw. The flicker of his eyes, the tremors in his hands coming like the panic attacks that dotted cold sweat at his brow. "Indeed, and traps we meet with traps. It is all a game, a very clever game only this time the pieces will be laid in a differing favor, and there is no intention, on our part, to surrender neither Queen nor King. Many of our choices pieces willremain by the time checkmate is announced. D'Estes and I have ffairs, you have affairs with the others. Effectively we shall summarize it and embark on the other ventures. Sorschal, you must lay down, and lay away from the spirits They will not help your mindset, only dampen it. Somehow you must eat, sleep. Twill do nothing for you." Star-fire eyes met with placid calm. How did she do that? Why did she not waver? She reached over and removed the Brandy from his desk, applying it back to a distant tray. Once corked, she turned to regard the entirty of him. Appraisal. Scrutiny. Placid, unwavering doll face (d)
Alendral: "There is no time to sleep. This.. Mary Alice--of the Campbell clan, if you believe. This Malice. She threatens the General of Skye and his wife. She's poised to strike at any moment, and I'm poised to wait for that moment and put an end to things. I've operated for far longer than this without sleep, and so have you. I will rest when it's over. I've already screwed up once. That's how I lost Shaden, chasing after... damned Ulnor! he spit the last part bitterly, giving a glimpse at at least one reason he was taking this so hard, rubbing his chin a moment and meeting her gaze, seeing the disapproval in her eyes, suddenly finding himself angry. "What....? What, damn it? What do you expect. I'm the Spymaster of an Order of two, and my only other asset has been... God knows where? I'm not an idiot. You won't find me... with an arrow through my back after one too many drinks, so stop looking at me like some damned fool past his time who forgot the very basics! If you actually believed that, you'd never have saw me fit to take up this damnable art again!"
Claramae: "You must apply the past to the present so history will not bare the same lessons here, Sorschal. Is it not part of the experience to be worn thin, to frazzled nerves? This is what they will expect, play on, and begin to utilize The Unwind...." The collateral was real. Real people of merit who would for all the world find thedisassembling of all foundations just like Shaden had. What had become of she, Mistress of the Gilded Lily? Claramae had given the woman a respect for being a woman striving for what she wanted in a world reigned over by men. Men. They may have stolen something precious that no coin could ever bring back. "You are Grandmaster of more than an Order of Two. The Duke has other Blacks, yes? Outriders. Among the vigilante of the militant are minds you might mold, and if not then it is time to look with what the tides have brought you and build this order, from the bottom upward, because as you saytis a foul way to have war, foul place, but the troops must be rallied. Now do not take to such dramatics." His flaring temper was blast down by the nothing of her presence. Silver silk lawn billowed under long ice-blue velvets when at last she took to standing (d)
Alendral: "The Duke has other Blacks, all untested and uncertain. And the prospects... " He snorted derivisivly. "One of the which is capricious and occupies herself with stupid games. Plays at games and fancies herself clever, the very definition of unsubtle. The other is willing enough, but I've little measure of her. I'd say only one shows an aptitude for our arts, but she's such an aptitude and I am uncertain of her true feelings. She may not want anything to do with this world. They're babes Claramae. They'll be cutting their teeth on the most highly trained and dangerous Assassins in our circle. You know that. Worse, this entire damned Country seems to actively rebel against Subterfuge. Kendrew... bloody Kendrew, lead an armed brigade, with archers and horseman, to shut out Skye's backdoor. I'm told to make bloody peace with the man, yet every time I approach him the bastard puts me on edge. " His frustration and rage finally broken against the impassive stone wall of the woman, he sat back down in his chair again and rubbed his temples furitively for a moment, trying to work out the strain of it, a slow, rattling breath. "The hall is complete. to my specifications. Renovations are waiting for the students. One has already agreed. The others I haven't spoke to. As... as soon as this matter with Malice is over. I'll set on it. I'll get the our assets up and running. "
Claramae: "Then they will either become the most revered in our Circle or they will die in an honored persuit that will render them national honors on their death beds, then. We haven't time to be overly picky over the contents of what is to be, so if potential is there it must be shaped, and quickly, before resolve is lost. The country is one of an openness that is utmostly strange, that is at once easy to blend in public yet hard to resolve matters as one would elswhere, but it is good for you. It will allow you far more resources to obtain by saying a greeting than by committing murder. Now, as far as to the matter of the Duchess' most revered guards, a favorite of the Duke, and a hero in his own right. I have heard of the matter yet it was not to read upon your domain, in a sense, so much as to tighten his own. His men were vanishing from their post in the network of passages. They are the domain of the rulers, thus the domain of him, in part. He went father than decorum allowed. No different than yourself. Have you sought of him what was found or what he learned, or he of you? There is no time for you to both sit as angered cats, so if you must smooth him to get him speak, then you must! You will win no favoritism yourself by getting on the outs with the Lord Campbell. I suspect you will be of used to each other. You are dealing with Campbells, he is one. " Now the matter of the hall. The heart of the shadows, the very center of the new order. A place unlike any other in the city. "Then allow me to help in the burden you carry. I will see your remaning specifications are put to exact place as you finish other matters, and thus will begin the great work, as we may call it" Slow, rattling breath. A recovery for what she already had. "Master Sorschal, would it aid in recovering thyself is you spoke openly in regards to something twixt you and I? Your breathing seperates, as it does when you find irritation" (d)
Alendral: "Forget it." he at first refused. The expression on her face brooked no argument. It was pointless. What good what it do against this, the impassive face of the woman he once knew? but he knew at once from the subtlies in her expression that she would not leave matters well alone. His eyes narrowed, cooly, and his hands folded. His voice grew cold. It wasn't Alendral's voice anymore, it was the voice of old, the one his master had cultivated. He was tired of it, and if she refused it, so would he. "Do not think me a fool Claramae. Do not think me incapable of understanding my old master's motives. I know damn well why I haven't heard a word from you. I know... the only reason you're here is because, somehow, That you're here simply to correct me on my path.. and as soon as it's settled, you'll be away again. I know I won't hear a word of it, because to tell me what you are up to is to disobey my orders. I know all this, and I still pretend that you are as a fortress, Claramae. And I pretend that I haven't seen all this before. You're shutting me out Claramae. Just like you did all those years ago, after Gottschalk. Pretending to be invincible. Damn it, Clara. I need you right now, and you.. you slip away!"
Claramae: "As you will." She gave a nod of head to acquiesse. Then he changed in expression, he took on a new expression, and began to try and figure her out. It was not the words that disuaded her acceptance of statement but the tone it was issued in. "He does not brecome you." Putting expression on the first word, one syllable, she began the clockwise walk around where he stood. He began to 'read' or percieve to read her, which only served to irratate. Alas, no ripple brockered the smooth, pale white pond. She was tired of what she called 'theatrics'. The resorting to dramatic usage, flailing about .What good did it serve? What good would it do for her to feel in this time or surrender tothe pain in hour long numb limbs after awakening from a nightmare of Gottschalk's embrace? "You needn't pretend if you claim to know the reality, though your acceptance of the same leaves soomething to be desired. I am as I am, no mmore, no less Sorschal. You take a great leave of my Christian name in your dramatics and it grows wearisome. I went, to work. I went, to remain low, or was that not your order to me? Gone forth to perhaps even see if any worthy were heading this way, yet you pretend to read me as an open book. Therein, Sorschal, is your falacy. I am here yet you claim I slip away. A lack of contact is a lean toward good sense, and the necessity of reviving it is done with care, or do you not forget the proximity you may share with me may prove to be a handicap? There is no advantage I will give them. Not this time, nor any time after." (d)
Alendral: "Is that so? " he responded bitterly. "He chose me, didn't he? He never chose without care. Always a perchant for aptitude, always a perchant for a particular talent. He must have seen something or he would have never chose me. and I may prove to know you a little better than you fend off. Tell me, than, Lady Saint Laurence... who does have a good measure of you? Hmm? Your associates? Your lover, perhaps?" he stood up again and leaned over his table, staring hard into her eyes. "Does he even know about this? Does he know the signfigance of... him. entering into your life again? Hmm? Does he know why at the mere mention of his name, the good Lady St. Laurence won't let a supposed friend use her good Christian name? You're a woman of distance. milady. That is what you do. Make no mistake about it. Just because you're not making the same show of it doesn't mean I can't see you unraveling at the seams. All those years ago, you did the same thing to me. You went from Mentor, to ally, to a mere phantom in my life. All after what he did. You withdrew, and you withdrew, until you were merely an old name. Do you even know why I thought you might be out to kill me when we met again? "
Alendral: He laughed, bitterly, again, at the very idea that she had reckoned with it. That she had somehow put it all to bed, and now thought only of the mission. That he didn't, for a brief moment. "Reckonend!? You!? Do you really think that I believe that but for a moment? I know you Saint Laurence. I know why you avoided answering any of my questions, I know why you haven't told the dearest supposed love of your life why you sometimes wake in a cold sweat and I know why you that, despite all perception of invinciability, despite all pretense of the always controlled Saint Laurence, that, once cornered..." He met her bluff full on, stepping closer and closer until she had no where to retreat unless she was on the damn desk. "Breaks. Down." He kept his gaze, level and fierce, on the small woman that was once his master--that was once thought without fault. That, after everything they endured, that everything they've suffered, he saw a brief glimpse of humanity, and saw it closed to him mere moments later. Saw her break down, and build herself, piece by piece. "I was wrought by his hands. You and I know this to be true. A part of his legacy is in me, just like every one of them. So I'm left to sometimes wonder when you look at me, Saint Laurence, for fleeting moments... Me? Or the weapon?"
Claramae: "The past is not the present, you would do well to recall that as you go 'pon your little tirades. It is plain: I do not favor the use of my Christian name, nor have I ever, unless it is a matter of intmate preference and certainly not amidst the dramatic, as you are ocnducting yourself now. The name Gottschalk." He said him. She said the name, leaning over his table and coming around it. "I have reckoned with. In my time, I have used the past to become the fuel for what will be no less than the present's success. His allies? With them, and their part in log ago I have reckoned with. Perhaps it is professional apptitude, but I will not be undone by the legacy of a madman with no sense of impunity, honor, or fealty to a single thing save the self-deprication of others. A woman of distance?" Canting her head, she couldn't help but to chuckle. There was that sound, plithy and quick, the flicker of lips transistioning before the expression went placid again. "You confuse demeanor with interior self, Sorschal and that is quite foolish indeed. I take it you are angry for my years apart from you, and when you thought I would kill you, I must profess I was amused. Had I wanted you dead, my dear, that would have been done years before. As it is, I am not in the habit of reversing my loyalties without unwavering cause, and you have never given such cause. You have your own devices now. Your own mind. You fly 'pon your own as you do in a partnership, this is the crux of what you have been taught. So do tell me, why did you percieve I would kill you? I will indulge your want for impassioned recollection." Hands folded squarely together as she awaited it. Unravel at the seams, pretty bird. Come undone with broken wings, pretty bird. Nary a breakdown looked as lovely as she. Her eyes did not betray the interior device but it was felt. Would he go for a button to bring it forth, a switch
Alendral: "Of course you do! " he barked, a stab of red setting off the color of his face from where he was sent reeling. Still he didn't budge. No more. He was tired of it. He knew she was lying. He was tired of being the only that suffered out loud. Not with the only person who knew what they were suffering other, his voice growing briefly passionate again. "Because you are cut from the same damned cloth! That's why he sought you out above all in the first place! That's why he laid trap upon trap to you. That's why he let you have me, let you subvert what he thought was his first creation. Because you were made with the same goal in mind for him, and he wanted to see which one of the pair could be dismantled first! And here you are. Exactly as they made you, exactly as you are to be! You're the same as us, the only difference is for some damned reason you nurted me away from the part that mingles this all! That remembers the name of every man woman and child that I betrayed! That felt for each of them, and will feel more for the ones I continue to betray under this damnable art! But All those years I saw a flicker of something Nobody ever's seen in your eyes Aisling. Doubt. Pain. It was the only time Saint Laurence's mask ever slipped and beneath it all, I know she still suffers. " To her last threat, he said responded, darkly. "...No. " the next attempt she made--if she slapped again, he'd even go so far as to catch her hand. "No."
Claramae: "How dare you! How dare you make move to assume anything of me in this way, cornering, picking! Is that what you do, Sorschal? Ah but that is what you are good at, isn't it!" Her voice raised and her eyes were livid. "To assume anything of me in this way, cornering, picking! Is that what you do, Sorschal? Ah but that is what you are good at, isn't it!" Her voice raised and her eyes were livid with a twisting, writhing beast that wanted to break the bounds of her gown and tear him limb from limb. It was a dangerous thing to invoke that. The part thriving on instinct, the part destined to survive by any. means. necessary. "You are being more than unnecessary, I would venture to say that you are crossing towards a cruelty that does not become you, unless it is his teachings you would favor to get what you seek? IS IT?! Because I swear, I will take you to ground and to the borders of hell for this if you do not...let...me..go!" Two hands he held but the body began to sway, the feet lifted up and began to buck at him until one leg wrapped at his left, pulling it out from under him by hooking her lower foot against his calf. Unsurpassed strength in the tiniest form. Gottschalk had been shaped by the hands of Elusha Vittergaust. Elusha Vittergaust had taken on the English court's prized courtier upon seeing the unusual mind and the talents for court politics she possessed. Gottschalk, in turned, fashioned Sorschal. Vittergaust rebuked his "son" but the "father" paid the price, and Claramae could not save him. "Vittergaust was a man, no more no less, and he knew my veneer has been in place since youth, but by God even human stone is still human! Gottschalk was a pure bred monster! I have no qualms with what I have done nor whom I have killed in the name of God,honorable kingdom, nor country. But I have never once...NEVER bordered on the transgressions of he. I took you with me because I was not going to leave you to become like Vittergaust. How many of his students actually survive him, do you consider this? Enough to start an order, a handful to continue on. Do you know how many more he and Vittergaust had between him and that the legacy of Vittergaust has not even three of us left for his madness! DO YOU. Do not tell me no, do not try to pull apart what you have never sought to understand. You think I am less than human for how I am? If this is so, you have absorbed not one wit of the truth. If I am only human to you when I tremble.. or when it is real enough for you, THAT is not humanity." By now her body leaned forward, and she had the look of an enraged thing set to claw his eyes out. "You are NEVER to use that name. NEVER! You are not my mother, and it was only for her!" (d)
Alendral: It happened fast enough, just as he anticipated. To his credit, he was not completely compromised. She fell on top of him, but she was angry, sloppy. For once. He was able to keep her from a position otherwise set to deal a killing blow, hands on her shoulders, keeping her at maximum arm's length--too far to appy the leverage to strangle or strike a blow that would crush his windpipe--ironic that such thoughts flashed in the mind of his former master. But he needed to see this. From her, needed to know he wasn't the only one. What's more, when she leaned forward--it was off-balance. His expression suddenly twisted, he snarled, and suddenly shifted all his weight--not back at her--but to the side, to misdirect, to suddenly reverse it so his weight bore down on her, pinning her arms down. It was cruel, it was picking away it. It was his old trade. He wanted to say that it was the only trade, but his capacity for brutality only lasted so long. He met her gaze for a moment, a harsh spark that said I win this conflict. and he'd relent on her, intaking his breath sharply and pulling away... moving to the side of his desk and slamming his palms on it before pointing accusingly at her, wracked with emotion. "I know damn well every single one of them lost, and know that his sick legacy survives to this day. I know of your master's horror in realizing what brought into the world, and I know what it cost him! The wrong order survived. All of us! that's the truth. Damn it, Claramae. That's why I gave up! When I was branded a traitor... Part of me was relieved. It was over! I wanted it to be over. Do you see it now. Do you!? Everything I know. Every skill I employ. It was crafted from him." He leaned forward and shut his eyes against everything within, tried to banish the part of him utilizing the trade. He had gotten what he wanted from her. Whether or not she realized it, he had gotten it from her in the end. "I never understood it. In all my years. I never understood why you took me under you. I never understood you didn't want me dead. I never understood why you put me here. I can't fathom you at all. Nobody can. I just... I need to know..."
Claramae: Ironic he would have thought it, but not impractical. Not illogical considering the state he had forced her to because Claramae was very capable of taking down a man twice her size and weight. He knew that within those hands death lurked. It could have had his name on it before the time had come nigh because the woman he contained by mere breaths looked as though she would have murdered him by sheer will-power alone. "If you wanted out, you should have remained an Illusionist. Plain and simple. It was a CHOICE you made, be it that you wanted to find some honor in your skll or that something was unresovled, you returned.........you are branded a cruel man who knows nothing but contempt an ire. If our associates..are few.." She struggled against him as she sneered, only to be let go of. In the end after her spoke it amounted to naught. Once freed she careened into him. It was standing still. Watching. Listening. Having been pinned only to be set free, the open nature of the room mattered little to the crawling feeling of being imprisoned he'd set in motion. From the desk she threw him against the stone wall and began to shake his shoulders. The grip of her hands would leave marks, and when she held on, she dug her nails in. "You NEVER, NEVER DO THAT! NEVER! Never.....ever....corner me. NEVER impress that to me...AGAIN. .You are a fool. You have but to ask me and I would tell YOU. Don't you see that?! You vile, vile, snake! You cruel, awful.." She pushed him back before she sought to do worse, beginning to walk the floor as in her head ran many facts. Random facts. Long,mathematical and calculating........."I put you here because you were at lack for no where else to go, and I saw that you were being hunted. The only thing between you and Maubrey was this. Your skill, and the arm that would back it. I had no ...want...to see you perish. Though it seems you have so little..regard..of me.." Pieces of hair in her eyes came as her breathing grew rapid, her brow in a cold sweat as she glared at him. Her hands opened and shut as her body began to tremble, and she turned her back on him in the state she was in. (d)
Alendral: "Tell me!? Like you told him!? Like you've told anyone!?" He wasn't willing to take this any further. Let her vent her rage, he'd only defend himself now, slammed once, twice by the dimunitive woman, cushioning the blow each time. It was a strange experience. In the instant Clara had forgotten near every aspect of her training, and another dark thought crept into his mind. She had a weakness. He saw it, plain as day. Exploitable, easy to spot., once one knew where to apply the pressure. God help him, others would to. "... No. not why you proposed the idea. You know what I mean. You're still avoiding answers. Even now. You tell me but to only ask and than you construct ways to avoid the question. You do it even at your rawest. " He stopped and pulled himself to full height. "I have every regard... for you. St. Laurence. Gottschalk was the closest I had to a father I had. If you hadn't appeared then I 'd be dead or perverted into something just like him. When he betrayed... your master, me, everyone... it was you. That's the truth. You pulled me from it. But I screwed up when I hunted him. I slipped. I made a mistake. It cost me. It cost you. "
Claramae: "I do not recount the past because it is that. It will not come again, and for me, it comes far too often. You presume to know a great many things, and while Michael," She used his Christian name with an ease that would astonish him, "May know nothing of Gottschalk, he knows of my fears. God help me. He has seen them in one of our missions! You have no right. Not a singular one to do as you have done now....what I answer, or avoid may not come to your idea of expedition, but you would have known in time...You never ask, Sorschal. You always assume, and I do not like to be turned to a presumption. You always demand, and I abhor the terse brevity you use in doing so. You are no better than I for you lack the ability to ask as imple question. You have no regard for me, and you may not as well call me by my sirname now, there is no point" Worn voice spoke now on things as she put a hand to a pillar across from him. Resting her face to this, her voice became hoarse. "I have fears that may ne'er be undone. Dreams ne'er erased. All I can do is to take this into myself. There are but a few people that have ever known me, and fewer still that hav eknown me as the years have gone on. It cost me a corner of my thoughts, a piece of my body, and a part of my soul. Yes, I have a soul. Scant, as it may seem to the likes of many. I have the constructs of and partake of a life with things that have little to do with my designation as a court weapon. There is you, there are a few people to respect, There is Michael. Michael....is gone. You do not know.."She shook her head and sighed, letting her head come to her hand, "What it is..to know ..I may have lost my love entirely." (d)
Alendral: And there she was, cornered. "...Who took him?" he asked, and yet somehow he already feared he knew the answer. There was nothing else for him to say. He stared at his old master, a truth wrung out of her, and waited. There was no use relaying what it meant. She knew as well as he did. he let the words hang heavy in the air, and lectured her no more on the subject. He even rose a hand up, thinking to place some means of contact to remind her he was there, and stopping just short. She wished for none of it. The price he paid for wringing it out of her in the first place. He even knew how it happened--and that, despite her protests, she was feeling the sting of one part of truth. For Michael, in an attempt to perhaps lay the burden of his lover to rest... tangled with forces he knew nothing of, and paid a price for it. "...Claramae. He isn't dead. You and I know both know it. The only reason they would take him is to lure you out. The price they pay is we know he won't die until they're sure he does the job."
Claramae:: "You can't even touch me. After you have shaken me to sixes and sevens..now you won't touch me.." She choked as she watched him, sighing. She felt the stng of more than one thing. "No matter of logic has escaped me..all I know is that I must find him, but it has not detered from my other means. God.." A part of her didn't want to talk about it any further but there it was. Tired and worn, exposed and vunerable he had his wish. What was it to look at her now? to know that she hurt and deeply? That she did not risk all for him, though how she wanted to? "So there it is.." He needed to know. To Clare, it was selfish. So exposed she was that she felt cold and stood by his fire to remedy it. He wouldn't touch her anyhow. He could wrangle her down, but he could not comfort her, he wasn't brave enough, eh? (D)
Alendral: Some part of it was alien to him. Alen operated largely alone. He had received little in the way of affection--had never loved, not keenly in the way some had. Fondest memories he had was of a woman before Gottschalk, and they were but brief fragments. The emotion... lord, he didn't understand it at all. but it wasn't a matter of fear of her. A fear of what he'd finally laid bare. Only that he had ripped her apart to do it--that he could be capable of both. In the end, it didn't matter. He strode forward, brought hands up and gingerly brought them on either side of her. Words of false comfort--of vows to find him no matter what would mean nothing to her--they were promises he might be incapable of keeping. he resolved to do so anyhow. God, had she really meant to bear all that alone? To hide this from him? To keep it. And at the same time, he knew why. Because he would tell was to tell her the same thing any Spymaster would tell her in his place. Forget him. He's already dead. Don't risk it. He didn't dare speak it.
Claramae: "Master Larkin has vanished, too. I can not abandon them to this. They have ne'er done such unto me, and Michael is all in this world that is love to me just as you are anything that is friendship and mirth. Sorschal. I resolved not to let this interfere with my work because their lives can not pay the forefeit of so many others, yet my own life is worth precious little without them that fathom this life." She shut her eyes. "So few do. I do not sleep much. I eat even less. Percival told me much the same, to leave while there was still a chance. But there is no leaving. My greatest success shall be here or there will be nobility in the way I perish. It untimately is that simple." She felt for a chair and let herself slide down to it, his hands still to her side. No, she did not disuade him from touching her now. "He wishes nothing of me but myself and all of that he has. I thas been half a year since I have seen him, and it is known to me he has been here, missing, at least nearing three weeks. I dared not to think..but it dawned 'pon me perhaps a week ago or more at best. I am haunted by it." (d)
Alendral:"... So it will be. Listen, Claramae every promise I make to you contains the chance of failure, and may not serve you comfort, but I swear to you. If there is any way to bring them back I will see to it. I will not see everything taken from you, so long as there is breath in my lungs. As your friend, I could not bear it... So you will hear no words from me to drop them from your life and move on. To safeguard yourself. I put you at risk by such sentiment, but so be it, because I will not try and rip that away from you. My every resource is at your disposal. We end the Gottschalk's legacy, we find... Michael, and Larkin." the Spymaster leaned over her, leaning over the chair to wrap an arm around her neck, peering painfully at the woman, the friend he had gone to such pains to see the soul borne of matters. Selfish perhaps, but he had to know what burden his own friend carried. "We will divert every effort we can to find him. To bring him back to you, and to see happiness and life again. " So that one of us may continue to live. He thought ruefully There was no lie here, it shook him to see his old master stripped bare like this. To see someone matter so keenly to her that, expertly hidden beneath masks, this lie beneath. He had gone to such pains to see it unraveled, and now having witnessed it, he wondered if it was the right thing to do at all. He still had questions--had things she never answered to, but so it would be.
"God willing Clara." he said. "We'll bring him back."
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Post by alendral on Feb 18, 2009 0:23:08 GMT -6
Daniel Kryptmann tensed from beneath a thin shade of foliage, caked in recently churned Earth in the low trench carved from it mere hours ago. He was not pleased to be in this place, nor was he pleased with the men for whom the trench was built. He had not been pleased in weeks. Considering the work he was about to do, this was unusual, and very unsettling. It was a curious nagging sensation thus far unfamiliar to him, a sense of unfinished business, like leaving home but forgetting some last minute chore. The name of the unfinished business was Balian Windsor. The reason he could not finish it was Alexander Sorschal. It was not like Kryptmann was particularly angry--neither at Sorschal, nor at Windsor, or even the man who flushed so many of his men, like rats from the tunnels. Kryptmann knew little of anger, or joy, or any strong emotions at all. Most killers would have been furious, furious that Balian refused to die, furious that Alexander had found him in the sparest time, even angry that Alexander, of the same teacher, would turn his eyes to Kryptmann, try to flush him from the shadows, that in the cusp of compensating for all these factors, his plan was spoiled. They were annoyances, complexities in what was supposed to be a simple plan, an elegant culmination of months of planning, but Kryptmann was a curious void of any strong emotions at all, reserving no ire for all the wasted months and energy, the brush with death at the hands of many. Oh he very much wanted to kill them. He would take distinct pleasure watching the light flicker from their eyes, in the last breath that would pass between their lips, of knowing that, in a single moment, everything that made them the men they were would vanish, forever, but he wasn't mad at them. Just irritated, if he could be bothered to put to words with it. He'd get to them eventually, in the mean time. It was okay, he mused. Fine because others would die today, and another job would be completed. He saw the first sign of them first, the organized caravan of the fleeing Clansmen, the eloquent carriages, the carts filled with the most ridiculous wares, fine art and wares and eloquent silverware. He cracked a smile, tilting his head with almost canine curiousity. He found a colorful interest in what these, the leaders of the Isle, deemed unable to live without. They could flee so much easier if not for their baubles, their most cherished possessions. The leaders were not complete idiots, however. At their flanks rode their finest guards, tense and alert. Warned, perhaps? Or simply jumpy, prepared for war. No matter. He'd pass a subtle nod to the other men at his side, as they each silently prepared, drawing weapons from their cover. Waiting. A knot of excitement twisted in Kryptmann's stomach, and he stilled the boiling bloodlust that seethed within. Another moment. Another moment and Bastard Windsor, refused to die. He saw the light go out and he heard the breath but the bastard refused to die. Sorschal's intervention spared his prey, Gottschalk's favoured denied him, harried him. He'd prepared for near everything but that, everything and Kendrew, damn them, denied him! He'd gut them, hang them by their intestines and--! He forced himself still, taking deep, rhythmic breaths--the legacy his old master taught him. He heard the creaking wheels of the carriage. Three... two... one. The first crossbow bolt rang out from the foliage, striking a guard with enough force to drive him from his horse with such force that the rider took horse with him, the beast letting out a terrified scream. Several follow, struck several others, taking the carriage riders clear from their perches. The animals attatched flew into a panic and, without the guiding hand of their riders veered away and ran...right into the heart of the hidden trench, where the men would surge out. This was the first part of the plan. Kryptmann and the others leaped, the carriage bolted past, and fell into the makeshift trench, well concealed by foliage. There was a sickening crack and a series of animal neighs, the cacophony of crashing carriage. The guards rallied and raced to the aid, crashing headlong with Kryptmann's forces. And it was glorious. The serenity gave way to the inarticulate cries and roars of combat. Men-Kryptmann's mercenaries and Guards voices mingled, till one was impossible to hear from another. It was the only time he felt a stirring, in the throes of combat, a weapon in each hand, a whirling devil that fell men with every blow. A spin, eloquent twist of long hungarian blade, and a guardsmen fell, his head nearly severed from the neck. Another, mounted, approached him, swinging a thin saber. He brought his dagger--long, thin, made for parrying blows, and turned it aside, stabbing his blade not into rider, but horse. The beast let out a terrible cry and staggered away, trained for war but fighting its own instincts. The rider struggled to bring it under control and in so let his guard down, giving Kryptmann time to clamber up the man's own beast and plunge in between the plates of armor, severing an artery. The man screamed, pain over-riding his nerves and setting his world on fire as he stumbled off. He heard then another cry, feminine and terror stricken, snapping him from his reveire. It was one of the Clansmen's wives, managing to clamber out of the broken carriage, blood seeping from a gash on her forehead, the image almost comical. Her fine dress, all proper and of fine silk caked in mud, animal terror on a refined mask, scrambling for any perch, she'd scramble for the trench, no direction in mind, only away from here. She was too far to catch up, too much of a head start, she might even escape. The notion irritated Kryptmann. It meant another failure, another escaped victim. The battlefield became a dull haze, the sounds fading, blurring save the image of the fleeing woman, time stretching to near infinity. There was precisely one chance. The killer reached for a small knife in his belt, lined a shot, and hurled the knife achingly across the field. It sailed across and hit square in the back. Her scream abruptly cut off and she fell to the ground. He grinned savagely, feeling a course of something. Already the grim, bloody task was nearly complete. The noblemen blubbered from inside the ruined carriage, some wounded, others dying, some still simply too rooted by terror to free themselves. Kryptmann occupied himself with one, the woman on the other side of the trench, face down in a pool of her own blood. When he approached, she whimpered faintly, scrabbling against the dirt, her fingertips having carved small furrows. She was still alive. He took a few halting steps beside her and leaned down, wrenching the knife free with a sobbing protest from the woman, moving with a booted foot to push her over. The poor thing, caked in dirt and dried blood, sobbing pitifully, aware of her own fate, alive only through some desperate, animal instinct, looked to her attacker in a mixture of terror and pleading. She wanted to live. In that shining moments, there was no difference between her and anyone else. No opinions, no thoughts, no political alignment. She was an innocent girl who only wanted not to die. Kryptmann crouched low, tilting his head, canine, offering no comfort. He'd hover over her, almost mockingly, as the light left her eyes and she died, terrified and alone. It was small comfort. At least he would not return to Maubery empty-handed. He would be pleased enough. He had an associate who must be informed of Sorschal's involvement. He had a feeling his mutual associate would be very interested indeed. Perhaps Maubery would reward him for stirring him to be involved in the matter. And at the very least, the idea that he could watch the light leave Sorschal's eyes brought a small stirring to Kryptmann's heart, however brief.
On a cold winter's night, a number of Skye's ruling elite found themselves the target of a series of vicious attacks. None were spared, not women, nor children. The strikes were military in nature, with precise ambushes and vicious, bloody attacks. Despite Sorschal's best efforts, Kryptmann has escaped detection. His current whereabouts are unknown.
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Post by chantalrose on Feb 20, 2009 20:11:42 GMT -6
Chantal had found herself in many interesting situations. At times she constantly yearned to still be the simple daughter of a merchant and crofter. Instead since having married Mikhail it seems that life was never simple. She'd had to handle so much as his wife, due to his status and wealth, and then had taken on a different lot being bonded to a bandit leader. Even after his death with her return to Skye...nothing had changed. She had tried to be an innkeeper, that was it, and yet her association with Mikhail had ruined it all.
Now, here she stood, listening to a woman that should have terrified her. The way she spoke, moved, even her stare, would have at one time made her uneasy. She would not have been able to stand here as she did now with the same calm, unnerving stare and hands clasped in front of her. Everything out of the woman's mouth was received with an acknowledging nod and she outwardly did not show the fear that knotted her gut.
What trouble had Mikhail got them into?
"I see, m'lady, that it seems Mikhail has caused more trouble for my children and I than could have been perceived. Who do I have to worry about now?" Chantal was amazed at how softly and easily she asked that question. There was no hint of fear nor did her voice shake. Though her hands did clasp tighter at her waist as she worked to relax.
That this meant her children could be in danger, after what they had been through and Isadora only being born recently, was frightening. What could she do to protect them? That was all that mattered now.
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Post by Master Claramae St. Laurence on Feb 22, 2009 13:44:40 GMT -6
"He has consigned your children and you into the hands of malevolence."
Malevolence, for all intents and purposes, looked Chantal in the face. It as attired elegantly and called St. Laurence, but there was little by way of benedictions that came from the lips. Only omens of destruction and dark tidings. By all accounts the Lady Rose was taking this with an exception. To her credit, it garnered her a badge of merit with Malevolence, Lady Death. Claramae. Tears would not have fit her, no. She rose to meet the night dressed for a sumptious affair when by all rights, St. Laurence might have amended the troubles rising in tide tandum for herself, for Sorschal, by dispatching with an element of it.
Good show, Mistress Rose, frightful good show.
"Petrov's affiliation with the long arms of the Church and orders of the underworld were beyond him. Above him. Daniel Kryptmann was one he refered to. Daniel Krpytmann is a man who hosts the legacy of Gottschalk with him. Gottschalk is a killer, but his legend was so that it spurned him to teach, and in his stead others teach. His children spurned seats in old orders. His children feed you wafters at Mass and sit in the holy palaces. Some of them walk among us even now. Daniel Kryptmann has taken orders from many powerful men and I believe those men ordered Petrov dispatched when their plans went awry. They will take a pleasure in offing what was next to him as well. They kill for pleasure, Mistress. That is their soul aim. Killing unto art. Torment unto perfection. Your children and you will become part of this master plan. Also," the more she spoke the colder the room became, "The Church has been keeping an eye on you, as Petrov mentioned you incestantly. Now, with you connected to one of their long arms, they can not allow you to go too far. The Cardinal and Bishop who would first have enacted these orders are dead. Your name was listed for abduction, for surrendering to their cover for being here. An Inquisistion. Have you heard of the Inquisition? It is their mastework and a Gottschalkian favorite cover for using their..father's..technique."
Alendral would have been suprised at her finesse when explaning anything Gottschalkian. She had learned, to their chagrin, to control what she feared. But if Chantal did not draw fear from that, then the garment she wore would be a phisode. In a way, the Lady St. Laurence wished to test that strength for if the lady truly wished to help then she would need be useful.
"Have you leave 'pon the morrow to meet with my collegue and I? There are things that should be revealed instead of merely spoken over."
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Post by Master Claramae St. Laurence on Feb 25, 2009 12:11:40 GMT -6
"One can never speak enough of the virtues, the dangers, the power of shared [glow=gold,2,300]laughter[/glow]." - Francoise Sagan The Ebony Halls are built, the order shall have a home at once above and below the city. Still, there is never a home in which at one point there wasn't the sound of laughter. They, too, can be human. They need to remember that because it is what the enemy wishes to take from them most of all.Claramae: "The windows in the Great Ball Room are mirrors. " She told him what he knew. Preperations laid out, plans, money exchanging hands to make progress happen in times that were scarecly fit for rising buildings. Only this building was unassumed for from the outside it was plain, yet aesthetic. It was following the city's unusual deep foundations that made the Order's home. In the ballroom, for example, one might flip a window's pane of glass to see a subject across the room. Looking above, if one knew where to stand the room's hidden angles were showcased. In fact the room itself was an illusion because it was on two floors, and not one! The art of illusion and Persian mirrors made the Great Ball Room a place to host lessons in traps, or if need be, it oculd become a trap. Beyond it, corridors where other rooms of studies, armories, libraries, and great rooms formed Alendral's desired shapes. Florins, crosses. When he wanted to comment, Claramae drew quiet to take his notes as if she were but his faithful apprentice. A line of ink was viewed through a tiny magnifying glass to see the notes were precise. "Does it match your desires, Master Sorchal?" (d)
Alendral and Vance: "I have to admit, it's the kind of things mentors dream about. There's a particular attention to detail most surprising. To say nothing of the Hall's uses outside of training Noviates. Certainly, if one were looking for a way to to set up a place to learn the secrets from diplomats, the entire place could serve as a passable hall without a single hint of its true purpose." Beside the elegant Claramae two men strode on either side, the impeccable Magician in full regalia, tail-coated jacket and approving looks, and the decidedly much rougher Vance, choosing Earth tones, unshaven and looking rather bemused by the whole thing. Vance was inclined to comment. "Awfully fancy, you get my say so. " "Elegance belying purpose, Vance. the very nature of our work." to which Vance only snorted. They'd weave their way through the various halls, with Alendral scrutinizing each detail. "Still, it's hard to say whether this place will make up for the time we can't afford to spend training them. The term 'trial by fire' springs immediately to mind."
Claramae: " It is every dream, certainly. The masons and various craftsmen were instructed to obey the plans to the letter of the law, with only allowable creative license as instructed by the Grandmaster and his elected representatives." Hall after hall, Claramae walkd upright between the fashionable magician and the salt-of-the-earth Vance. In reply to what the simpler among them offered, she lifted her voice in agreeance with both, in a fashion. "The fancy comes with purpose, though we shall need two generations to see that, for the first will be put to the test." Between her ungloved, still soft hands the book snapped shut with a crisp chuff of air as the leather bound pages sealed. Beneath ground, their attire was sumptious while above the public talked of smuggling in goods as the choke at last came to the city of wonders. Below ground, even the simple shade of brown was of the beast woven wools, cottons, and furs. What would be said of them as the city suffered, if for the sake of her defense the ones below ground did not? True it was hard to accquire certain necessaries. Cost was doubled, if not trippled for papers, inks, cloth while the aesthetics had to be concocted from either what was already near the city. The Lady St Laurence had no one to appease by way of populace, so for the completion of necessary aims she relied upon unorthodox sources. The last of their glass, the using of stone, wood. Tasteful renderings of art in bleak, gray world. "Still, the tools are in place. Misstress Viscreed assecured our necessities by way of our tools. As the times become scarce, one must work quickly. We have all we need. With the threshold shut, we will still last into summer." (d)
Alendral: "I've already spoken with a few of them. They were... more exhuberant than I had expected. In fact that's why I'm so concerned about the choices we've settled on. I'm deeply concerned that a lot of them think this is some sort of game--some little clever side-work in their profession. I'm pretty sure all of them are trusthworthy--" "Most are trustworthy, you mean. I still have doubts." "Noted. Most are trustworthy, but the gravity of the situation seems lost on the lot of them. Under normal circumstances I'd be more careful in evaluations but, as was said, time is the essence here. Do you really think we can prepare them for what we expect of them? I mean, this isn't just training Noviates here, this is training them, in time a fraction of our own, to work against masters of their field." "Well, and let's be honest a moment here, you don't mind me bein' a little upfront Lady Saint." getting Vance to use her proper name had been maddening enough--apparently now he decided that saying 'Saint Laurence' all the time was a bit on the long side, and was playing with shortening it in various interesting ways. "Just about every candidate we have is, at best, only good at getting' men on their backsides. We're not talkin' about tried 'n true folk. Not sayin' I'm in the same place as either of you, of course, but, I still know which end of the sword goes in the guy. You really imagine someone like Moira or' Nairne bein' able to cope with somethin' like that? Shaden, maybe. Ursula, well, she's a con, not a bloody brigand. I admit I'm fairly new to all this, but we're dealing with bloodythirsty bastards, right?" Alendral cleared his throat, a little put off by his candor in the presence of Claramae. "That.. is a valid concern, of course. But I must say again that we have little say in the matter."
Claramae: "I am sorry, Master Sorschal. I haven't had the pleasure to speak with all of the candidates, only their Mistress Aramoire and observe a pair of them at a distance. Going off from your observations, we may be making silk purses from the sow's ear, water to wine. You may be honest Master Vance:" A master, really? If it were based on manners and decorum alone he would have been lower than a pauper. To his credit, he knew which end of the sword went in, how to twist it, how to make he job final. Claramae had learned that in Skye it was best to forgo one's necessity for matters: Her name was shortened, her titles forsaken for business sake, and her Christian name put before Lady. Absurd!"Women learn to cope and the skilled of both genders adapt if this is their calling. Either they shall adapt or they will die. I fear it is that exact with no room for negotiation 'pon the finer points. We have little say, we have little time. They talk of smuggling in the streets. The city is growing thin, and even when it recovers we shall still be at wit's end. Our war will go on far longer than what they fight with banners, knights, swords and valor. We in this case shall have to settle. Merely to finish this Hall was trying in the last three weeks, so until the Blocades are broken, I do not wager we can cal for help, and even so, who would we summon?" The risk was too great to call on old debts that could turn at a moment's notice. "Our trade is at war unto itself." How startling it was for hair to be unveiled, pulled back only by dark combs the shade of strands. The picture made her appear naked, fresh. "We have to breech The Underground, ourselves." (d)
Vance and Alendral: "I have news regarding that. A handful of Clansmen found dead a few days ago--you know, the one the guards chalked up to a Brigands attack? I looked into it, It's Kryptmann's handiwork alright. I recognize the bastard's style from the clansmen killed after Lord Kendrew made a big show of cleaning out the seemy underbelly ' Skye. I still had a few of his contacts in the city watched, but it looks like Kryptmann ain't around anymore. Not quite sure where he was headed, but we might take a minute to catch a breath. Might even surprise 'im when he gets back." Vance shrugged again, though Alen did not look particualrly comforted by the idea. "That likely means our one advantage we had is now gone. If they weren't aware of my involvement before, killing Ulnor but leaving him alive will tip my hand. " he cursed inwardly over missing the opportunity a,nd found himself again lamenting at the complete mess the lack of communication between Kendrew and Alen led to. "Let's get on with the prospects then." They came to a stop in the open courtyard, one of Alen's precious little gems he wished--modular in design, it currently sported the various wooden stages that would assemble into his 'agility' course, three in total, of varying difficutiles--the first an elegant dance, testing upper body strength, the ability to ascend and descend quickly and a handful platforms simulating an escape on a series of close rooftops, vaguely based on some of his experiences in London--to a particularly punishing course that required several nets to prevent a mishap from a noviate turning into a fatal of small platforms simulating an escape on a series of close rooftops, vaguely based on some of his experiences in London--to a particularly punishing course that required several nets to prevent a mishap from a noviate turning into a fatal one, including one jump that, if not landed correctly even if it was achieved, would almost certainly result in injury. at the repsonse, Vance snorted--his opinion on several had been heard several times, and he didn't particularly feel like voicing them again.
Claramae: "Lord Campbell is currently being the valiant Lord Guardian, taking a lesser stance beside his younger contemporaries on the battle field. Yet, his work, while thorough, still leaves much to be desired." The courtyard course drew her eyes upward and on. "We are, afterall, able to be underground for the same reason Turas Lan is above ground. The city's pockets, puzzles, and networks. Master Vance, perhaps you wll have more...luck, relating to him. He is a simple man, and he nor Sorschal can truly get along, but we must have what he knows. I think it is beneficial, too, that we try to remain unbiased over the noviates. You, too, Vance, must have a hand in cultivating them. The front must be continous. Have you seen Miss Vicreed yet? I'd like you to keep a close association with her, our business I think you may explain to her in a way that would not be as..intimidating as it would be 'pon coming from myself or Sorschal." As it was the girl was the cutting image of proper. Her eyes did not raise too high, nor her voice, nor her dress hems. Her hair was covered, and it was hard to talk her to the practice of unmarried girls allowing their hair to be left down. The "marriage" she was to have been united to was a farce to secure her, but her dowry would be used to establish her in the city as time went by. As the moon rode on, she looked outward toward the course she modeled after Italian apartments and waterways. Princely halls and bishops dwellings. Water splashed from the aquaducts, deep in places where if one was not careful or had no nets, they would drown. In a corner that looked like the night where they'd been cornered by Gottchalk, she saw Michael, but shook the sight of him away. (d)
Vance and Alendrall: "You uhh... do realize it was Lord Kendrew who put me away with the rest of the lot in the first place, don't you?" to say that Vance was not looking forward to having to say hello to that man was colossal understatement. The color drained from his face at the mere mention of it. But seeing as Clara felt little need to let something like that dissuade her, well, he'd just change the subject. "Ah, isn't that... the one from the Nunnery? You can't be serious. Isn't that more, uh, your department?" Alen suppressed a grin, wondering if he was picking up on faint traces of the Ladies sense of humor in the suggestion. "Ahh, better then the bloody stockades I suppose. The lady points and I obey, 'n all that." Feeling Alen's disapproving look aside Clara's words, he sighed. "Look, I ain't gonna be rubbin their faces in it the minute they get into the hall, I'm just sayin'. Moira's untested, Nairne's gonna push 'herself to look better then the others, and Ursula.. well I'd trust Ursula as far as I could--" "That's enough, Vance. " "Why'd you ask for a bloody opinion if you didn't care to hear it? Ursula's bad news, boss. And Shaden's in it for herself more 'n country. That's all I'm gonna say on it, disagree all you want, you did ask." Alen sighed. "Your point is well taken, Vance. With respect, this isn't my first dalliance on the subject, but I will take it under consideration. " Vance only nodded then, and sensing a bit of a subtle change. "Find, send this.. Miss Vicreed my way and I'll see to it one way or another. If you'll excuse me..." he'd set out his other business without a word, leaving Alen to sigh. "...Not a bad sort, but obstinate in his own way. Figured he'd be a foil. A man who only thinks sideways 'long as he has to, as opposed to someone who can't think any other sort." he turned to regard the young lady again. "..So what what's your analysis of all this?"
Claramae: "Good evening, Vance." Acknowledged by voice, her eyes remained on the waterways of her own design. While his steps became lesser and lesser, her observations came to light in the solitude of only them. "He is a hard man, uncouth,but not without his scruples. I trust Vance, he has never steered you nor I wrong before, but the others we are gambling. When has it passed that our affairs are akin to a game of dice played by laze abouts? A cup with bone squares to decide not one, but many fates. The great Gottschalkian children against two masters and novice women in pretty dresses. Alendral.." The intimacy of name was a privelege reserved only for a few. He was one. He deserved that now. "What would you have me do. There is too much work here for merely you. If you bid me take them on I will train them, rigorously, in what you see fit. I will take on more work. I will go into the dark heart of this and try to stab the beast. How poetric that sounds.." (d)
Alendral: Unfortunately he knew the real reason she was asking of this, as she was eager as ever to rescue Michael from the clutches of these so called 'Gottschalks children.' "I have to tell you Claramae, I'm still not comfortable giving you orders, my particular status with the Duchess aside. " which was true, ordering his mentor to do anything felt almost foolish, he still looked too closely to her for guidance, hesitating for a brief period before he glanced aside her. "I'll give some of them from you. The more... let us say independent ones. Nairne and Moira, might do well with a subtler touch than I. Perhaps we'll leave that one. Leave Ursula to me." which given Vance's concerns on the matter might have raised an eyebrow, but it didn't matter much. "If the Spies have indeed left Skye for the brief time, we should take advantage to consolidate our defenses and not press the issue fruitlessly trying to seek them out. Stay your course for now, and keep an eye on the new students. There's still the matter of Lady Aramoire's involvement in this, as well." He stepped lightly again and smirked, particualrly, on the most advanced of each course, smiling whimsically for a brief period. "I designed this with you in mind you know. I'm not convinced I could complete it myself... but I thought I'd design something I thought only you capable of. " He side-glanced her a moment, letting himself gather on the masque of a showman again. "If it's a game of chance we're playing, perhaps I fear too greatly. After all, I've long since learned the easiest way to win a game of chance is to stack the odds in your favor. I am, after all, quite good at that."
Claramae: "You are my equal now, Alendral. You must learn to stand on the ground thy efforts have given you so it will not erode. This is not my country." Loyal to the allies; to cause, to justice. But she had no 'King' nor a crown for it was crushed under the Steward's heel. The thought of settling here in lack of that or in the wake of a looming loss was a quandry. Still, the woman absent of decoration smiled so that was her only ornament. It decorated her, and the friendship, very well. Claramae knew that of all the orders he might not give, keeping her away from the Gottschalkian children was his biblical commandment. "It is good to see you have risen so far. The course will be stayed then, Nairne's independence needs to be fostered with the guidance afforded by good sense. Moira, Moira seems a pretty feature among them, so it it is her mind we must seek to unlock. Mistress Shaden's mind will be scattered given what has befallen her of late." A sorrow was a risk that could turn into collateral damage so it would do to handle the Duke's favorite very carefully. Alendral Sorschal turned his course out of part hero-worship. If driven, he could complete it, but he designed it after the abilities of his former master. "The game is a'foot, isn' tit? We are not late to the hunt but the quarry is a challenge. But we are good at hunting, chess, and dice. You are exceedlingly good at it." She walked about him and stepped closer, standing on some makeshift London, the waters of Venice, the stone of Skye the firmanent in humerous irony. "Alendral, I would dare say that I am moved by those words." (d)
Alendral: "I wouldn't count Shaden out so quickly. She's a resourceful woman. one who has an grudge to settle with Lord Maubery as much as anyone." as she moved to inspect the course he'd debate on the matter, nodding in agreement despite his commentary. "But we'll address it as we need to. I suppose things could be worse. It's an excuse to work alongside you after all. How long has it been since then?" he smiled nostagically despite himself, surprised at the proximity of the woman but welcome all the same, passing her a wry grin. "Really? Well then, I suppose I'm growing up in such ways after all." he smirked lightly again and folded his hands behind him at that. He had no idea that Clara was hesitant at the idea of settling here--had she asked, Alendral would have moved heaven and Earth itself to accomodate her, given the circumstances.
Claramae: Clara was hesitant to settle here alone. If it came to making a place where there was any semblance of friends, than Skye would hold her heart. Nostalgia kept the phoenix emblem pressed gently against her chest as much as it made her recall their last adventures. "You have grown in that way and others -- resourceful, industrious, talented in your specialties and all that was ever taught you. Brava, Alendral. It feels right, doesn't it? I think that there were halls like these, some spying from rooves, and parties below them where you danced, and spouted great epics of poetry." Her hands clasped together, "Ah yes. I do recall. The countryside, away from London, pon holiday and there in the manor you were as dazzling to the youth as you were trying to sway me. Elusha couldn't fathom your approach at all." (D)
Alendral: "Lord. yes, that was always a sticking point. I recall many chidings, 'Really Alexander, you should think about a more subtle approach! ' he snickered, apparently not even realizing the use of his old name in that snippet of nostalgia. "The bemused look on some of our associates faces in the way. I rather think I originally acted in such a way just to spite everyone." he played a wry expression on the attempted workings on his charm on a woman most would have thought daft on the mere attempt of such a thing, smirking subtly. Seemingly growing bold at the mention of it, he hummed quietly to himself, trying to place the old tune all those days ago before, in exaggerated, fluid motions wrapping his arm around the slender woman's waist, gently taking her hand in impulsive gesture and stepping through the motions in much the same way of the old dance, even playfully dipping her if he allowed so much. Seemed Alendral wasn't thinking of much of any of the ramifications as he was doing this. "Of course if I had realized what I was trying back in those days I would have died from embarassment on the spot. I rather think I'm quite more... capable on these days henceforth." He put any reservations to rest. The poor woman never actually got to be the kind of gregarious sort he was on most occasions, perhaps she could use some of that good humor now.
Claramae: "Oh you were so obvious! Certainly, it served as a distraction but there was nothing subtle about your poetric musings..." Her eyes rolled in their head as the course passed back to years before when she was younger, and he was younger still. Hero-worship had him spouting the brilliance of Elusha and the cunning of Claramae in odes that had them wishing to sink under their chairs! He was a poor poet, but dazzled at the same time while making doves disappear! "Oh my! It has been many year since I hav eheard that song..oh cease not on that note! There was more.." The ridiculous little show had two masters dancing to their poorly hummed recollections. A dip, a sway. A lift that had her giggling slightly as they made forms, figures, lines. "There are too few occasions where on emay dance. You were always a good dancer, certainly now you might..dance your way with the fairer sort?" It was as close to saying he would woo a woman to bed as the mannerful could ever come! Still they twirled on. "Things become better with age, Alendral. Back then you were hideous but now you are quite smoother upon floor and with word. But it was still quite charming. Very charming and sweet. How did it go..."Oh Strong heroes of England! Strong heroines of the land! Thy Nike of Victory take the hand of Zeus!..." She leaned forward, actually chuckling! (d)
Alendral: "All those years spent emerging from the shell of a man I was never meant to be, it can't all be perfect after all, one crawls before he walks and all that. But Poetry was never my strong point, I'll be the first to admit." at her bequest he'd continue, in between spouts of laughter cutting smooth lines, the pair of them like liquid across the courtyard, strangely lighter than they had ever been. "I whole-heartedly agree. Sufficed to say I've had my share of experience but so rarely with one that could keep such fluid pace. In so many partners, never have I found my equal save in you, dearest." would such mannerful lady find her heart a flutter at the layered meaning beneath what he said? Perhaps so. but all smooth movements and honeyed words would fall flat as she decided to drag out a few lyrics from that rather embarrassing little litany he had 'gifted' the pair of them with, and his face actually turned red a small shade. "Oh good god, you actually remember some of it!? I'd long since banished it along with the embarrassing pratfalls in my days as a noviate..."
Claramae: "The world was yours for the taking but Poetry you should have left alone as it curdled and died in your hands. The rest of it oh my heavens..." Memories gave them wings! Unweighed down by the war, the pair of them flew like a pair of birds who'd found warm enclaves in the winter. Come sun, and welcome! Bring forth happiness! "I'd never forget it! Oh it has delighted me for many years after Elusha came beyond the intitial shock of never being able to teach you poetry and learning why I would not impart such to you either. Many dances? Many chances to become exquisite in step..." Now it was her turn to wear color on her face, laughing gently as he turned her beneath his arm. Layer on layer but it was never hard to read him. The mannerful lady said You have always kept me well, Alendral, in the dance and in all else. (d)
Alendral: "And so you have to me, Claramae. I mean it when I say it. Were it not for you and Elusha I'd long since lost myself to the darkness. No matter what happens between us, know that I am greatful for that." and on cue he'd dip the lady in fluid motion, supporting her weight with an ease beguiling his own frame, grinning marvelously for a time. "Come what may, we shall have each other to keep well, and I can ask for little else." he would add no more words then, only playfull humming the old tune as he carreid the dance to its completion, his voice rising and falling in its cadence whilst he locked gaze, falling in step with nary an error, till it rose to its conclusion and he ended with an exaggerated bow, unable to keep the laughter at bay. "Lord... Clara.. I've missed you." a heartfelt, genuine statement, layered in more meaning than he could say with a simple phrase.
Claramae: "Oh my friend. My beloved friend, never would I have left you to the darkness nor will I let it take you now." It went unsaid that because of him, she had not subsided to it even now. Bitter, lonely and sad. She dipped a curtsy, rising up as she laughed only to capture the edge of his arm. Incandescent light from the water cast strands bands across the courtyard, as her hands gently slid down to his fingers, taking them in her own. "It is odd to be missed," said once before, said again, "but I have missed in some way the parts of myself that could laugh, openly, with at least a few others. I am glad to have you back (d)
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Post by Master Claramae St. Laurence on Feb 25, 2009 12:57:49 GMT -6
On a cold winter's night, a number of Skye's ruling elite found themselves the target of a series of vicious attacks. None were spared, not women, nor children. The strikes were military in nature, with precise ambushes and vicious, bloody attacks. Despite Sorschal's best efforts, Kryptmann has escaped detection. His current whereabouts are unknown.
"There is nothing to tell, Countess. He has all but vanished into thin air."
"The air is not that thin!" She punctuated the middle words. Hard, efficient. She dared the lesser one beneath her to challenge her against the air itself to suggest that a man like Kryptmann, who delighted in leaving signs of his handiwork, had nothing to offer. "Master Voltaire, you will bring back proof of Kryptmann's presence, or that of his subservients. We are in service now and failure is not an option. Or shall you consign your collegue Master Larkin to the same? I do believe our Joseph," a use of first name, a speaking to his character, "deserves better. Besides that, we can not have the ruling elite dying during a war. This nation tires little of killing so we must help them keep it on the battle field and away from the castle."
Knowing when he had lost a row, he bowed and departed back to the streets from where he came. Oh, one could appear to vanish. Their sort did it all the time, with ease. But to actually accomplish the act was another matter entirely.Kryptmann knowledge was essential to building the other components of the case. Kryptmann was a prominent Gottschalkian at large:
- He had appeared not once, but twice. He murdered on battle fields and in castles, so surely he was selecting other targets. Balian hadn't died, nor had the attempt on the Lord Marshall. The Duke hadn't died, either, and Kryptmann either did these killings himself or had a hand in fashioning those that did. Shaden's kidnapping was another..hmm.
- He had a connection with Petrov, for whom nothing remained of him save a signet ring. His connection with Petrov would bring out that of Chantal May Rose. The Lady was in a great deal of personal danger, was in fact a risk factor for the Order. But she was astute, brave.
- The dead bishops were probably in association with some of the dead elite, and surely, among the new noviates, there ladies would have access to them as clients. Nairne, Moira, her two personal charges appeared to have fascinating lists with odd little agendas. " I must suggest to Sorschal the idea of a record's review," she murmured, returning to her jottings.
- Maubrey was financing a great lot of England's war, and England was financing Maubrey. Many hands washed Maubrey's and thus the other. He has a connection to Kryptmann, whom is connected to many.
"All of your names are listed in the black books. If you have not been kidnapped or killed, you will be enlisted for the Inquisition. I see, here, names of the killed in the Book of Accomplishment," she spoke to herself, "Meaning that the bodies coming thus to Skye have known precisely what to do, successes or no! A ha! Why did I not see it before! Kryptmann, you have gone and done as we have done. You have established your own order already! My, my. No wonder you have 'vanished'. I would even wager, this is where you keep not only your noviates but your victims, either in remnants or alive. I would even dare to say you have watched our noviates as much as we do, trying to pick from among them." She rose out of her chair in the halls and quickly made for the staircase that would twist up, up to the front chambers, the doors, and the streets. "My Freisan. Not the carriage, I need a full view," the page was quick to turn a corner to where no stables ought be, but were. Gathering up her skirts, she mounted to sit side saddle, hooking her left knee over the bend place behind the saddle horn. The unique device allowed her the luxury of a hard gallop up the streets and steps, for they were near one of the lowest points of the city architecture.
"Where should I tell the Masters yer goin', Lady Master?"
"To business!"
In fact, it was to do what the noviates would grow to hate. Watch them. By watching them it was a possiblity she might watch another, and besides, she had promised to begin to fashion them.
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Post by chantalrose on Feb 26, 2009 4:52:26 GMT -6
"He has consigned your children and you into the hands of malevolence."
Those words, spoken by one so elegantly clad, sent a chill down her spine. Simple words that held so much power and caused so much fear. Only the slight darkening of her sapphire gaze showed that the Madame de La mort, as she was suddenly dubbed in Chantal's mind, had caused any reaction at all. She did not let the extent of her fear fully show. Now, was not the time to be weak. Astennu would be much displeased observing her if she caved in after all she had been through.
Long arms of the Church. Why was she not surprised? One corner of her mouth would quirk up at such a thought, an amusement found at this time seeming most unusual probably, as she continued to listen to the woman and then paced toward the window. What she did next would be most stunning to the other woman in the room. She turned to face it, to look down at the streets below, and allowed her back to be observed. Yet, she was not concerned. At this point it was obvious that if the woman was a threat she could have killed her long ago, guard or no guard.
"Mikhail was truly a fool when it came to ambition. He never thought any endeavor through before diving into it. My Father, God bless him, married me to him due to his status and ambitions to further it. I was not fond of the match when I found out and I was never fond of the marriage though I tried as any good woman is taught when made a wife." Pausing thoughtfully, one hand lifting to allow palm to be pressed flatly against glass chilled by winter's breath, she continued,"As his wife, I was responsible for his furthering success while he was away on business. I associated much with his clientele."
That tidbit was given for the Lady do with as she wished. Chantal had never thought Mikhail's ambitions anything to be proud of. Those who admired him for it had never seen the black soul that resided inside the man nor felt the sting of his hand against flesh. A humorous laugh came upon hearing the description of this vile beast, Kryptmann, and of these other children,"It sounds to me as though Mikhail found perfect bedfellows if he had any dealings with them. He was a cruel man in his own way though probably not on such a level as these Gottschalk Children."
There were few things that could break Chantal's hard-earned composure. She'd managed to stay strong even when face-to-face with a bandit while her, and her children, feared for their lives. She'd thought rationally, even killed a man when finding that Mikhail had betrayed her in such a manner, and yet now in this moment that wall crumbled. Turning quickly, brow raised, a fair face now ghostly pale, she whispered,"How close? I was not the only Mikhail married nor fathered children to. My sister resides in Portree along with his other children. Will they seek her out? Will they bring them harm?"
Rhetorical questions as Chantal's mind had already answered them. Aye, they would. Swallowing, quick strides taking her toward the door, skirts whispering frantically with such quick motions as fabric brushed against fabric, she wrenched open the door to call out,"Seamus!"
Anything else the Lady asked at present was put aside until this could be attended to. When the burly Scotsman appeared at the door, quickly considering he was only a decent amount from it to respect his Lady's privacy, he murmured,"Wha' be tha matter?"
"I cannot explain the reasoning. I ask that in this you do as I tell you without any questions." Chantal paused, awaited his nod, and continued on with urgency,"Take men to Portree to fetch Lareena and the children. You must leave now."
At any other time Seamus would have questioned it except that he saw the anxiety on Chantal's face and in the taught lines of her body. Even now she clenched the frame of door so hard that knuckles turned an angry white and red. "Aye, m'lady."
Waiting until Seamus turned to head down the hall, she closed the door and took a shaky breath, trying to gather her control again. If anything happened to them. Mikhail and his damn ambitions. Everyone paid more dearly for what he had done than he ever would. Damn his soul to the blazing fires of Hell! Turning, jaw hard, eyes cold, she stated quietly,"I can meet with you and your colleague when you wish me to. I will not be returning to the valley as yet."
Her words were firm, crystal clear, and once again not a single sign of what was being felt was on display. It was quite clear that Chantal Rose was a woman capable of handling her emotions and being strong when the need arose. As now.
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Post by Lady Liliana Campbell on Feb 26, 2009 10:43:16 GMT -6
"Why do you think it is God punishes good people and allows evil to prevail?"
"Just like there is a sun and moon, Mistress, there is good and evil. To either we have what the angels do not. Free will. In some it is malaligned, but he does not punish the good."
"Are people born evil?"
"People are only born. Neither evil nor good, tis what is seen, what is felt and in time what is decided that makes someone so. It is the freedom to choose. We all have a choice Mistress Liliana. " -Conversation between Kendrew & Liliana Campbell ____ Mayhem Amidst Moonlight
Insanity was generally a bedfellow with genius, at least where Gottschalk's Children were concerned, and to find it in this one would be no less surprising. Such genius enabled them to enact skills that were frightening to those whom they had been practiced upon. For one could not learn without practice. This one especially had learned quickly though had taken the time to savor each of her lessons. There were many names to call her by, many that were known or not. It was not a challenge for her to blend in as the years had taken away the stunning beauty, as had her consecration into this order, yet she was not bitter. At forty-two she was a woman still limber and agile with a cunning mind. Gifts much better than overwhelming beauty any day.
There was also the ability to slip into a crowd and vanish in the blink of an eye. It was this one that came in handy the most and that she used at this moment as she followed after those who would be punished for their association with Mikhail Petrov. A woman and two children. Lareena Rose Petrova, Camden Petrov, and Keita Petrova. The children were to be taken care of too. Most would have an issue with such, but not this one, as she sized up both. The boy was almost three while the little girl on the woman's hip was about nine months. As for the woman, she had a willowy and tall frame, and long blonde-hair, that reminded her of Petrov's other wife- Chantal Rose.
She would be punished at some point as well. Would she get to kill that brood? A cruel smile of pleasure curved thin lips at such a thought as she wove through a group of people, never losing sight of her targets, twirling a ribbon about two fingers idly as the other hand lifted her black skirts to keep mud off them. She was a sight with her oddly kinked, frizzy curly hair up in a loose bun at the back of her head and body framed in a black silk gown with a shawl about her shoulders.
Most who seen her would likely think her to be some widow lost her mind when losing her husband. Of course, that was not the case though she'd been "widowed" a few times. Her mind was...always long gone. Since birth her parents had once told her. They found out just how far gone when she burned their cottage to the ground at only the age of twelve. Standing outside, watching the flames lick along the building, eating it faster and faster, she'd shivered in ecstasy at their cries of mercy and screams of pain. That had been the first cruel deed that she had gotten away with, allowing flame to lick her own gown, burn part of her flesh on her legs, and singe her hair until she'd dived into a loch near their home. Finding her such had made the other villagers believe her story that it'd been some crazed bandit who had done the deed and an innocent man had been hung for the crime.
To those who glanced briefly at her she appeared harmless with her barely over five foot frame, unusually thin though not unhealthily so, and the lines of age about eyes or corners of mouth. She did not appear to be a dangerous crazy person. Of course, they could not see inside her soul. Blackened, charred to pieces, and stained with more blood than any of those who resided in Hell. Demon spawn, tha' is wha' ye are! Shuld 'ave gotten rid a-ye years ago! Words drifted through her mind, though it never seemed that such a stream of memories caused her to lose track of the present. We be wrong in a-namin' ye Hannah! It was her Mother's harsh voice that cried out in agony, Ye be Desdemona! The devil's whore!
That was the name that she adopted as her own. Hannah Cobb, in a way, got devoured by the flames that killed her parents.
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Post by Master Claramae St. Laurence on Feb 26, 2009 12:43:30 GMT -6
The Last of Madame De La Mort's Second Meeting with the Rose, a One Chatal May
"She wore a face of a stone strength until the world quaked; it faultered, but returned again. We are mortal, not stone. But we are strong all the same. I will recall that, you see, as the we embark toward the future. She will need that face of stone, Voltaire, for the world we are to show her will sicken her thrice as much as the one she already knows."
Claramae told this to Maxamillion Voltaire after she had left the inner sanctum of the Rose Houshold. Behind a closed door, two women gathered at midnight in their best array to talk about the world as it was crashing down. Shattered pieces of her life were cupped in Madame's hand for review. Chantal, too, turned over pieces with indifference only to be pricked by others. "You have a sister," she recited in route as the Lady felt threatened. More family that might be seen as victims, "Yes, my dear. Gather them close unto you, if they are as close as Potree. Be adviced to take quick routes, and if one is familiar the wilds tis advisable. The roads are choked with viscrients and enemy troops. I will tell you, Lady Rose, you will meet many others possibly in this encounter. Your status may rise and change. It may suit you to consider taking your former posistions as Petrov's widow. It is my understanding he emassed a tidy fortune in his dealings, which now belongs to you." Lady Death passed the Lady Rose as one transistioned away from the door, the other two it. Breathing in the same air, their scents mixed: fear, intrigue. Resolve.
"Come to the square of the city, and I will find you in a pair of days. Worry not on how I will, only that it will be me finding you, and nay in the other fashion. We will go together to Master Sorschal. Bring anything of importance with you."
-.-.-.
In another matter, Madame de la Mort considered her interludes with others: D'Ercole of Naples, for example. Clansmen. The Gottschalkian children wore many faces, came with many ambitions, and had many plans.
Anyone who would come near Sorschal and Claramae now was going to experience baptism in the arts by fire.
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Post by Lady Liliana Campbell on Mar 1, 2009 16:34:38 GMT -6
"I was told by a woman, my own Stepmother, that...I was evil. Something to be detested and loathed. I always thought it to be true after my father and sister were killed. I thought it was my fault..."
" She did you a harm that has been left too long undone, my friend. The evil, the detest, lay in the spewing of vile words and those that committed the horrid act. Her bitterness poisoned her,and mark tha' lesson.."
___
Mayhem Amidst Moonlight Continued
From that day forward she became Desdemona Lovell. She wandered alone until that day that He found her. A man who had such potential, such power, such skill, and who was misunderstood. Their relationship was more one of Mother to Son, as she was in her mid-20s, having just escaped the clutches of the pirate she manipulated into killing that whore of a gypsy child and her Father. Her years as Semara Marston, wife of a merchant, were not pleasant. Bitterness ate at her for the man had more affection for his daughter from his previous marriage and then that little gypsy whore Liliana. The child had all the makings of sin in her...
Desdemona was pleased to encourage where others would discourage. She helped him, fed that hunger in him as any Mother would a child, and yet if he ever became angry she was quick to ease it. Manipulation was an art to be used that she knew well and considering that he was a younger man, it was not too hard. This was what made her one of Gottschalk's children, yet at one time more like a Mother to the man, and that was why she strove now to carry on the legacy of the man she'd admired so very much.
It was the sound of a shout, the sight of rider upon horseback, that had Desdemona drifting away from the past. The man was trying to make the crowd get out of his way and keen eyes noted that he watched the blonde-haired Rose disappear around the corner. Ah, so one had been sent to interfere with her plans. This meant only that someone had figured out the Rose and her little buds were in danger. A lilting laugh, barely heard above the din caused by the rider, issued from her lips as she began to move more quickly through the crowd. It would be time to catch the Rose and her buds as they walked along the path toward their cottage.
They laughed, they smiled, as if they had not a care in the world along the worn path. Hunching her shoulders some, one thin hand messing her hair a bit to have curls fall loose, she called out wearily,"Lady, do ye know tha way ta Masta' Irvine's cottage? Ah be hearin' he a-knows his way with weapons."
Foolish speak, in her mind, yet not unnecessary as if she'd spoken with her usual British accent there might have been some panic caused. Instead the young blonde woman and her brats came to a halt near some trees that shaded the path and looked in her direction.
"Actually, Hamish be my brother-in-law." Desdemona knew that wasn't completely true, as the man hadn't married her sister yet, but did not speak a word. "What be your name?"
"Semara Marston. Mah husband once be a Ainglish man." Disgust was allowed to play in her tone, the words coming as if being spat off her tongue, and she saw the amusement that appeared on the woman's face. She reveled in it. Already she was trusting her.
"Well, Lady Marston, you can walk with us." It came in that moment, the very opportunity she'd been awaiting, as she could not take her time with a rider looking for them, the Rose turned away. Semara allowed her hand, one that looked so scrawny, to shoot out and grasp that long blonde hair in a harsh manner. A yank had the woman stumbling backward and arms tightening around the eight month old that cried out in her arms. The three-year old boy froze, staring, frightened and confused which was to her advantage.
Another rip of her hand had the woman's legs buckling beneath her, the grasp on the child slipping against her will and it was almost sickening the sound of the child hitting the ground and neck snapping from the angle. Lareena Rose screamed as the child, Keita laid there and Camden fled to his baby sister's side.
"Camden, run! Run!" Lareena's desperation was not enough to quell the Mother inside that demanded she see her child protected first. Yet, there was no hope for little Keita who was clearly gone. "Run Cam! RUN!"
Desdemona's heart fluttered uncontrollably at the thought,"Aye, run child. I will hunt my prey..." She whispered against Lareena's ear, feeling the woman's shiver of fear as Camden raced off into the trees, and a dagger flashed into Desdemona's hand. It'd come from under one of the many folds of her skirt. "Now, now, pretty...we will let you die slowly while I go hunt the little one."
The sharp tip was pressed against the tender flesh of the throat, cutting only deep enough to allow blood to flow in a horizontal line, that caused outcries of agony, and then she ripped again on the braid to make Lareena fall to her back. An 'oomph' of pain came from her, but nothing compared to the scream as the dagger was placed to eyelids, drove in to impair the eyes. "Now stay there my sweet."
Her steps were spry, lighthearted, as she twirled the blood splattered dagger in one hand and hummed softly to herself,"Where oh where has the little one gone? Oh where, oh where, could he be?" The sing-song voice she sang in was filled with dementia and clearly proved that her mind was not right.
"If you come out, little one, I won't hurt your Mother. I'll let you both live..." That was not a total lie. Desdemona was partially telling the truth. They would be alive when she left them, the babe dying so soon had been an unfortunate accident, but it would not be for long.
Slowing her step a bit, nearly standing still in her movements, she let her ears pick up the sounds around her and closed her eyes. In that moment she was one with everything, God's favorite, as she'd been told many times by Him. Not God, no, but one who spoke for him. At least to her mind. As she moved nearer two trees it was a sound that gave the boy away: the snapping of a branch, stepped upon by his foot, and his sudden frightened breathing.
Holding back the urge to cackle with glee, she moved about the side of the tree and came up silently behind him. He had his cheek pressed against rough bark, tears covering his cheeks, and was praying in a near whisper. A cruel smile curved thin lips as slowly her fingers grasped a shoulder, nails digging into it, and after a moment he began to struggle. It was the tip of the dagger against his side that had him freezing and she whispered,"Come, come, little one, your Mother waits."
It was a pale, shaking boy that she led back to the path where Lareena laid bleeding. His sudden gasp of fear was enough to make her dance with joy for the boy got a good look at his Mother's eyes- well where her eyes had once been. Now the sockets were empty. Digging her nails harder into his shoulder, making him cry out louder, she saw Lareena flinch and heard the murmur of 'No, no...please...' that preceded the reaching out of a hand in pleading of mercy.
The boys throat was done in much the same fashion as the Mother, though his more jagged as he fought more and screamed more, not that Desdemona minded either. His eyes followed. Once she'd done the same to the corpse of the baby, she cut off fabric from her own sturdy skirts and use each to make a noose.
Afterward Desdemona slipped away into the bushes to avoid being found as she waited to watch the horror on the man's face who now approached. She could hear the hooves. For what he'd find would be most cruel- hanging from two tree branches were the still breathing, well mostly, body of the Roses. Except for the small child who was clearly long gone. The other two were barely responsive, empty sockets where eyes had once been, and throats bled from a single slice. They hung by a noose made of thickened cloth and would not live out the day.
Horror did not begin to describe what the man felt...and Desdemona basked in it.
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Post by Master Claramae St. Laurence on Mar 2, 2009 20:53:59 GMT -6
The Opposite of Solitary
"You are not alone." - Alendral - ClaramaeThe first interlude had passed and now the second came: Moon risen, dark leathers drinking up the shadows to hide the night bird atop the orders towers. She hopped upward of the wall, climbing the roof to see the world pass on. A silent ship in a silent sea. Suspended on a chain before her was the emblem of Vittergaust: A rose, who's heart held a blade for stem, thin and unknown. Clutching it in her hand, it was not unlike the Lady Claramae to think, but the emotions that had risen were being reckoned with in the same way she lived. Near utter silence. (d)
Alendral:"You know, I didn't actually design the tower to be climbable in such a manner. " and right on cue the silence was shaken, along with Clara's review, by the quiet voice, having traded the uniform for the form fitting, quiet fabrics that had allowed him to climb up to a comfortable perch beside her. the illusionist knew that the last conversation had unsettled something within her--had left some amount of business unfinished. For some reason, it was Eirian's words that resonated only then, and prompted him on this wayward journey up the tower. Shiftng over beside her with a wry expression. "Now, this is an old habit. if I remember all the times I nearly killed myself just to try and talk to you..."
Claramae"The man with two left feet comes to converse with the cat on golden paws, or so Vittergaust used to say when you came to stumble up trees and rooftops." Where had she gained the odd ability with balance? Fostered in part by Vittergaust, Gottschalk was utterly enamoured with it.. Perhaps that was why he'd suspended her between two narrow ledge points, waiting to see if she would fall. Talion had molded it. Instead of fortunate and graceful, it made her a militant weapon. "But you've gotten better as time has gone on. You needn't make your way hence." Her leathers had been loosened, as had her hair. Still, to wear them so long the color may seep in beyond the skin. "But you are here now, and it is good. " (d)
Alendral "I still maintain that if we were meant to climb anything without a ladder or a stairwell we'd have be bloody cats." he quipped before smiling wryly. "Why master, you honor me." he made a mock bow in her direction before shimmying over to her side, letting his legs swing out over the edge and passing a spare glance over at the object she was holding... and the smile died, in small measures. He opened his mouth a moment, intending on saying somehting meaingful but deciding that speaking so directly on it would get him nowhere. No, first he had to tease out a hint of the woman under the mask again-just wouldn't mean to go so drastic about it. "I never could figure out why you did it, you know." he waited for her to ponder what he was meaning. "When you climbed up... highest point you could. I always thought... " he paused and searched the ground below them, trying to find words. "I always thought that I've never seen such a lonely sight in all my life... and I could never fathom why you would go to such trouble to be placed there. But well, I was young. Get used to a life of solitude, and well... I suppose you'll go to considerable lengths to seek out the quiet, from time to time..."
Claramae:Here it is easier to think, Alendral. Here, no one seeks me for they can not reach me. It is only mineself, the moon or sun. The air. These things can not talk to me." He was better now at finding a grappling place than in his youth, when he did literally risk his life or limb to have a conversation when it could have waited until she was 'pon the ground once again. The emblem was put between her breasts for safe keeping, out of sight, out of mind. "Old habits die hard. It is not very ladylike to climb, let alone to such heights. But on the heights, things make take on clarity." Brownish hazels regarded him in the way that was neither too intense nor too lax. The world was crumbling but to look on her one would never know. (d)
Alendral: "Like I said. solitude..." he looked forward again, growing quiet before he let his words slip out. "...You always take the long view, Claramae. The high view. Where you might better get a view if only for missing a few details. Than gain, I suppose your'e good at details too. " he let out a mild sigh, watching that little slice of the real Clara disappear from sight along with the pendent, the subtle shared past that neither dared speak of. "...Personally I never could do it. Whenever I felt strain I'd... throw myself into my work, or in the city. I've never been comfortrable without the dull noise of civilization. Suppose that's just the streets of London..." he'd draw quiet again, leave her to her silence, before denying her it. "...Tell me what drives lady Claramae to the tallest tower, what may send her reflecting on old legacies, free of distraction... that demands so much of the Ladies attention, Clara..."
Claramae: "Yes. Solitude. It is not so terrible as one might think, if you find what it is good in it, one dwells on not what is terrible. The high view is not bereft of detaills, Sorschal. I argue that up here, all the details are laid out so that tis easier to put such things to assembly." The pendant was out of sight, ou tof mind. If the legacy was not spoken of, there was no need to open the wound of it. A time would come, the time might even be now but delaying was an effective tool. "The great work now is what motivates the movement of limbs and the lubricatio of thought. It is so close to the end, yet so much careens with it to tumble down the hill that balance is necessary. Up here, in the solitude among the towers, I do not feel as lonely as I do among the people of earth. I am considering...what to do with the remainder of my Household." Two chief servants, but a few retainers from Byrne House in Bryant Row. " I am considering sending Bromheild to the continent. To France or Normandy. Master Voltaire will refuse to go, naturally, but he is excellent. "That house has been attacked, once, twice. By the Steward's men, so I think it best to subside into less obvious surroundings. I may become a creature in your dream. " She nodded, "Live here, if nothing else for awhile. Apartments in the either Griffin or Blue Castle seem not the correct thing, nor the proximity to the people wise." Regrouping. She wrapped her arms about her knees and in a softer tone did say, "You give me a purpose. I thank you for that." (d)
Alendral:"..You don't need to thank me..." he hesitated a moment and, again, feeling oddly impulsive put a hand on her shoulder. "Claramae, I can't believe I'm saying this, but you should reconsider. I know... that your assoicates are dear to you.. but you are just as dear to them. They can help you. In however small a measure. And..." he stopped a minute and lowered his eyes. "...I say this.. as the friend you claim I am. Don't do this to yourself. I..I understand how you feel, believe me, I understand more than you know, but you can't protect everyone... and.. isolating yourself from the people you care about won't make them any safer.. nor will it bring any resolve to you. " ironic that the words came from his mouth. Advice was so much easier to give rather than follow. Bring them here. I can deputize them. God knows I could use a handful of more experienced hands here."
Claramae: The hand on her shoulder was met with a turn of eye. Why was it when the other willingly touched, if both were not at the same plane it was strange? Bridge after bridge was being crossed. The span of years between them shortening again. "Bromheilde and Voltaire have been with me for years. Voltaire...he found me shortly after what happened in Venice. With him, I found employment. Bromheilde we found together, in Sweden, to become my Lady's companion. I do not want them to endure the same fate as Larkin." He was referred to with the finality of a past sense. Letting her fingers come to his hand, she didn't push them away, instead, they were rested gently atop. "When we see him again, he will be a corpse. It will be as the years testing me again. If they remain here it will be their choice, I simply.." She tilted her head softly, looking to the tips of her shoes before looking to him. "I merely wish not to see my associates in pieces again. From the olden days there is no one left." Her voice dipped low, almost a whisper. (d)_
Alendral:"...There are a few." he replied, a quiet, meanigful statemen. They were at least two left, by his count, regardless of how she felt. "..Then give them their choice... they'll choose you. I know it." his fingertips lightly encircled hers again, with no eyes to see it. He leaned in to speak quietly to the woman, near a breaking point, leaden with emotion. "...Claramae... things are different now, I promise you. Frightening yes, but these are..none of these animals are that monster. And we're not the same Noviates we were. I'm not saying this won't be difficult. I'm not saying there won't be casualties... but we can handle this. And..." and why did it twist his innards to reassure her about this? "MIchael is out there. Whoever took her intends to use him to try and gain an emotional edge on his opponents. He kills him, and he forefits it. We'll find him. " How he wished the words felt as meaingiful as they sounded. "I'm here. You understand that? Come way may, I'm still here..."
Claramae:"They will choose me and they shall never be the same for it. But the choice they will have, all the same, I will not let what befell us befall your noviates now. It will marr them for life, and one must take on a great deal of responsibility without the weight of what we had. If I had not been around you, Alexander," his old name came out without a thought. He was close, and she the same. "it would not have befallen you. Michael is out there. God willing he is strong enough to hold on. Larkin.." It was best to assume him dead. Something told her Michael could be the same, but like the ease at which she shut off emotions that conduit was blocked lest it inhibit her thoughts. He was there? She looked at him as he tried so hard to make himself believe, to make her believe. "You are here.. I understand." She nodded softly, letting her lips graze his cheek where the world would never see that she had a heart of any sort. "God knows why you are, but I am glad for it. Though this is your time. I want none of this to marr it for you, the pride you should have." she spoke to his ear, "I am very proud of you, Alexander." (d)
Alendral: The words almost threatened to break him. the hint of emotion, faint, a brush against his cheek, a praise he had remembered wishing for so keenly now, years afterwards, he had to close his eyes and steel himself just to avoid being overtaken by them. but layered within praise, within vows, he caught a sight of the frail woman beneath the veneer of the impeccable assassin. He took a deep breath, letting the air fill his chest before he spoke, forcing himself to exhibit his control, though he drew closer to the woman without thinking. "Claramae... everything I am. Every.. strength you might see in me. It was you. It was always you. If you had never entered my life... I'd.. I'd be the man tormenting Skye. I'd be the man carrying on his sick legacy. Clara. I'd be lost without you. Don't you understand that? After... after years. Had you never thought of it? he turned his face, subtly, to face the woman. "... You would never have to ask of it. You shoudln't have to ask it... " His eyes fell heavy on her. Searching. She didn't know. God help him, she never saw it. He was completely floored by it. It was only then he realized just how he sound, and realized just how close he'd came to crosing a line. His averted his gaze studiously. "...There is no way that you... could marr any moment of mine, Clara."
Claramae:"Too long you see what I have wanted you to see or what you believe you see." Her voice sputtered outward after he spoken. A part of her wanted to press a finger to his lips but didn't, to stop him before his heart was on his sleeve. Now it was between that and her hand. Late, a fingertip intstead turned his head to face her again. "Alex. You do not need to use words. If you think that I have never known, then there is still the youth's foolishness in you." Their ages were bridged now by experience and by time. For the age itself, the difference was slight. "Never would I have left the darkness take you, nor you become him. My worst fear now is not that it will grip your heart, but that it will devour you entirely. I worry for you now, as I did for you then. You have paired me to you. Do you not think I know why? For beyond the obvious, Alexander." Fingers gently, in spite of themselves, spread across his face andover his neck. She straddled the line herself -not oblivious - only one with such a hard veneer it fostered a look of ignorance. "Forgive me, for years ago. The same way will not detere you now, but I did it then to save you from me. From rebuilding. From the potential that danger could arise if you were by my side. But never for a moment were you never with me." (d)
Alendral: The name. Repeated over and over. A name he'd put behind him. Not after Gottschalk. No, Claramae had still known him by that name then, used it. He discarded only after that. The chilling tone, the clipped response. Claramae was leaving, and Alexander did not--could not follow. He remembered the myrid emotions then. Just like her. Be more satsified with the off prospect that he'd feel betrayed and destroyed as opposed to broken over his own failure, reaching up to brush fingertips along her arms. "The past... is the past. There's no blame to be had there." He shut his eyes again and fought back an impulsive recolletion to relive his past, however fleeeting. "...I won't falter Claramae. I promise. " he knew that wasn't what she meant. He had no illusions where this may end. That was exactly what terrified her. The reverse terrified him. God, how he wished to just... "You're not alone. and you won't be." he took a long, rattling breath and, with what boldness he could muster, leaned forward and brushed his lips at the very corner of her mouth, an affectionate gesture, an agonizing one in the circumstances. It was far from what he wanted in that moment. It would have to do. "I promise."
Claramae:"You never did faulter! Understand that, for I need you to. You have not faultered now, and should any harm come to me it is still not your fault.." Either of them, both of them, or things around them would suffer. That muc hwas true, that was undeniable. When he leaned in, her eyes shut. "I hold you to your promise as you hold me to mine.." The hand about his neck slid up, gently through his hair. To look at him was to have found that despite distance she did not forget, but had done so well of a job at making him feel that she never knew, or cared to acknowledge it. The edges of foundation collapsed enough for her forehead to gently rest against his. It was an unaccustomed thing for the Lady St. Laurence, of all people, to tremble. (d)
Alendral:Alexander only nodded, his forehead pressed to hers, pulling his arm gently around her, choosing no other words, reassurances or ways at aiding Claramae at her most vulnerable. Much as it pained him simply to be so close to her, dredged up a well of feelings he had long since tried to banish to meomry, teetering at the edge when she had reappeared in her life. He just.. held her, for as long as she trembled, for as long as the emotion weighed heavily on the girl, lifting his face only long enough to press his lips to her forehead briefly, vowing silently that, whatever happened, she wasn't left alone. No matter what happened, he wouldn't abandon her again. Even if she thought it was the only way he was safe.
Claramae Claramae was stripped of all things that made her appear the ghost of a human woman. Propriety's grand marshall, she held fast to custom but not to the world itself, hiding away the parts that would have made her as anyone else. On top of the world it fell into Sorschal's hand just as his heart was kept somewhere between her fingers. There was so much pain..so much lonliness, hurt, fear and regret that it threatened to press her until it blew all the cracked pieces away into the night. As his lips grazed her forehead she nodded, as if he'd spoken to her. Her arms went around him, her head she let lapse to his shoulder. In the world of spires there was no need to pretend. With Alexander, she never had to. His choice would cost him, as hers would cost her. Their greatest vindication or their ends would happen here. God pray, be kind, it was the first. After a time, when her head turned out to face the moon, she said, "I do not sleep anymore." (d)
Alendral:"Not since I heard his name again. Not truly." He replied, numbly. and it was true in almost every meaning. Despite all the ways he sought to alleviate it, his nights were still deeply troubled, his mind still dwelled on them. He paused, briefly, and added. "...I'll stay here with you all night, if you need it." and it was all he would say further on the subject, reaching up to put fingers lightly through her hair, to touch at the skin beneath it, if only briefly. To offer his comfort to the woman beneath the veneer of the perfect weapon. He knew there would be a price--a terrible price to be paid at the end of this. It was to be paid the moment the men were killed. For her, he'd pay it and anything else.
Claramae"My mind is troubled. If I do sleep, it is because Voltaire has Bromheilde lace my tea. They assuredly no I am no fool, but i do not blame them." She leaned into that touch and nodded, "I may be up here awhile - even watch the sun rise. Do you remember the last time we saw a perfect sunrise, Alex?" Just like the dance, this nearness was a testament to time. The time it took to even become as friends. It took harsh arguments to make it real. Now there was the admittance, in a way, of something that was lived up to in odd ways that hurt more than they made smiles. "We were akin to this, only your head was in my lap, and you held my waist. I much rather prefer this." She looked up at him with a small smile, before looking back out to the moon. Thre was never a moment you weren't with me would be sediment that echoed throughout this time together. The little charm was taken out again, worried in her palm as he held her, guarding her from the darkness she spared him from, waiting for the blessing of the sunrise to remind them that they had lived to see another day. "Once you asked. There was no answer. Yes, Alexander. And always.." Cryptic words uttered in a soft voice to which he would know, and that was all, like the world of spires now, that mattered (d)
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Post by Master Claramae St. Laurence on Mar 4, 2009 13:57:59 GMT -6
Mayhem Amidst Moonlight; Uncovered in the Daylight
"The shadows are not so tangled that one can not find proof of some vile misgiving done under the moon's watch. If thine eyes can find it not, then be taught were to look. At other times, the proof is simply evident."
- Elusha Vittergaust to Claramae, when standing on the outskirts of a murder's scant evidence in London - The city thrived as a capital ought thrive - in capital. With a few broken places on the road, every man from peasent to high and mighty merchant was taking no chance to wait and see if the enemy would congest the passes. As if the war had never happened, the gates bustled with people constantly moving in and out, in and out. Ungodly amounts of mooing, bleeting, and cuckolding of man and creature went on under the eyes of watchmen. Pieces of hay were not uncommon in the streets, along with all sorts of prices. Even in the low dip toward the labyrinths of the Under-Dark, the still respectable sections could hear their neighbors and scurried out to be a part of revival. Claramae could appreciate the commotion: In earnest, it was far easier to slip in, a thread in the eye of a great civic needle, then go through the custom of being both thread and needle alone.
In the light of day, everything came to awareness. Eyes were opened, even if in refusal to full acknowledge nature's phenomenon. Children scampered out into the square to be chided or laughed at by mothers at the task of laundering. Amidst baskets on hips, the jingle chink, the excersise of the high born caused the usual display of fascination. "What a lovely lady," one said to another, "Aye, indeed she beh lovely! Gaein' fer a ride, tis near spring n' a good time! Ye know Mary-Beth Covens in the country is gaein to start fowlin! Isn't tha' somethin. My Jeff hopes fer a good plow 'orse from her so's we can move to the country."
How frightfully drool, she thought, looking over her shoulder back to them. Oh, the thrill! She nodded her head with a whip of amusement trailing the ghost of a grin. The two who were paid respects by "a real lady o' quality" ran off to the fountain to tell their fellow keepers of hearth and home while the lady enjoyed their perception. It was a good day for a ride into the country, and even better still to fetch the sister of Chantal May Rose. That man she had sent was entirely too slow for the quick tastes of Madame de La Morte. It was by the North Gate's way she went by the archway of stone, leaving Turas Lan to her backside and thoughts of Potree to the front of her.
To business, then. To business, in the frock of buttered yellow and green. The only of her sort to work on matters in the formality of her station, it was expected of no less. Vittergaust had trained her in nothing less than her best for being a source of speculation, the highlight of rightful envy, and using it to evident advantage. Speculation garnered curiosity. Curiosity turned to jealousy, which often cleared the way for avoidance. No noble delved too far if they didn't have to, but were expected to entertain the custom. "You've a mask on, little one, already. I suppose it will do you well here." His words were coming up more of late. It was as if she could hear him, just over her left shoulder as he had been, leaning over to pour lessons into his vessel. Claramae. Alendral. Gottschalk. All of them in some way were a combination of one skill possesed, one desired, others found, and accidents.
Hannah Cobb wasn't known or that she became Desdemona Lovell, a woman bent on destruction. A penchant for encouraging the decimation of the living desirable. Licking her lips at the burns of fire over bodies, or thrilling as the blood spilled onto the hems of her dress. All children have mothers, don't they? Hannah Cobb killed hers only to let Desdemona finish rearing another char black soul. Her work would appear on a hanging tree in Potree
Her name, One more name on the wall.
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Post by Master Claramae St. Laurence on Mar 4, 2009 15:09:41 GMT -6
Mayhem Amidst Moonlight; Uncovered in the Daylight
The Hanging Tree, Part I
Claramae: "You needn't come, Sorschal. One might ride to a village not far, whilst under good guardianship." The English manners appeared on a fine day near spring. A good day for a ride, a poor day for individuals unbeknowest. Indeed, it could prove a most uncapital day for everyone involved but one retires to the proverb of ignorance being blissful. It had been not only some hours into the journey, but a near day's ride to which the Lady found a small entourage. Claramae was scrupulous in planning: all of the road ways to this particular hamlet were cleared, the more nontraditional ways free of brigands. Buttered yellow and soft green folds of fabric formed the riding habit. Now some women were in teh fashion of whimples and veils. It was a rare thing, but Claramae prefered hats. (Concealing feather darts was useful in it). With the look of a lady out riding, all of gloves and guards and such, Sorschal didn't seem the sort to be enthralled with the formality. "I have fetched a person before." Under the assumption this person was still a live, mind you, which by turns she was not as the party would soon come to see (d)
Alendral: "And I have no doubt in your abilties St. Laurence." They were back to using formal names now. By now he had long since gotten used to the subtle rules that dictated when and where formalities were required, and he felt no particular need to broach them. He must be getting better at judging Clara's character--he could sense the tension wrought in her form, even under guise of a pleasant enough morning stroll, of which Alendral was adequelty equipped, in more stark black and white, but still managing to look more comfortable than he felt regardless. Truth be told, he disliked Horses, but it was a small discomfort. As to why he came, it was two-fold. He'd made a promise to Clara, which he intended to keep, and he suspected the hand of Gottschalk here, which in turn, made him subtly nervous. "But I needed a little fresh air myself."
Claramae: "Indeed, your palor wants for sunlight" The chit-chat of the well-to-do couldn't be heard but was only speculated on as they passed travelers going one way or another on the road. Comments on her dress, his attire, or the guard were a normal part of the peasentry dreaming of what it must be like to be a class or two higher. Sorschal's opposite, she was wholly comfortable on the back of a horse. This Freesian was like a piece of jet stone, slick and sleek. Presentation was the key. First impressions were everything, and often no one looked deeper. She felt a slight bit of self-brava over deciphering Alendral's alterior-motives, all of them. Speaking of hand, she kept hers free of outward speculation. In due time a quaint, picteresque country scene found them at Potree. Fish mongers and farmers, quaint squares. The sort of thing that London folk once scurried towards in order for respite but ran from when the "sweet life" became too boring. Here, she was " to fetch Mistress' Roses sister and children, that is what we shall do. Her man has taken a great deal too long." Not that said man knew he had been kept under eye, either, but that was another affair entirely (d)
Alendral: "Oh, wonderful, can't wait to introduce myself!" with the playful overtone that suggested that introducing himself to was simultaenous with ulterior motives. Just because he was playing a part didn't mean he couldn't have fun with it. For a time he'd let his eyes wander over the 'folk' so removed from the bustling cityscapes that the two called home, smiling pleasantly before sparing another glance. and though he refrained from speculating about the exact nature of 'what went wrong' he found himself hard to dismiss his instincts. He suspected something at work here, and it was something he could give no voice to. "Pleasant enough village." he added as a side bar, flashing a full on charming smile to some passing by woman that caught his eye, however briefly.
Claramae: "Quaint." Women washing clothes in the fountain. Drawing up water from the well. All milk pails, bread makers, fish mongers, and cobberlish sorts that tinkered over wood tables in one room cottages with ten children a'piece! To some of the guard it served as even a shock! So open it wise their eyes continually peeled as Claramae dismounted. "Turn the horse over to the stables and livery, if you would. I shall the rest of the venture 'pon foot." Paintings of blue days are often a capture of that. Or, the artist is clever enough to make the watcher believe the day was so. Looking to an acquirred correspondance between sisters, she moved with Sorschal in a unison that befit the highest thesbian standard. Side by side with him, it seemed they talked of how lovely it all was, how delightful, when in reality she was describing to him the settings that would reveal the sister's cottage. It was some ways down the delicious little country lanes that an unsavory realization struck with a good eye. At a reasonable distance away, she looked to the window that flapped back and forth. No hand came to claim the wild shutter. (d)
Alendral: He noted the details, one by one, read between the polite banter--categorized layout and relevant outlying details from pleasant conversation. But the games ended when they came to the outliers, comfortably out of sight from any passerbys, that the Illusionist went cold. There was no need for instinct now. A hand tucked into the folds of his vest, an unconscious movement to test for the feel of the stiletto hidden beneath the vest. He passed her a look in silence, confirming the conclusion that she had came to, and carefully striding forward, inclining his head sublty to the doors while he made his way around back. It may seem foolish, 'splitting up' and approaching from two angles, but it was rooted in pragmatism--both were capable of handling themselves, and prepairing an ambush from two angles of attack would be difficult at best. He acted his best casual at first, folding his hands behind him, perhaps pretending that he was going to lounge about outside brief, give Clara a private moment, but once sure that no bystandards were watching, he'd approach, silent as death itself, and make his way a servent's entrance. Maybe our shared concern is for naught. Maybe a stroll, or an errand, sees them out of this place. though he found himeslf unconvinced of his own excuses
Claramae: The unhinged shutter gave a point to the poor windowbox flowers that were crisping on the edges. Early blooms gone to die early with no care would not bloom the same in the height of the season. Given Chantal's character, she found it unbelievable that anything of value would fall to the wayside. To acknowledged him, a swift nod of the head came as hands were folded over the front of her body. An upright posture complimented the gesture of a lady continuing her stroll to the front cottage door. Unknown to the world, those folded hands drew out a thin stilleto perched in a faux dress fold. Releasing it only an instant, gloved hand wrapped on the sealed door. If the answer they wanted was from air, why, jolly! A quick twist of the wrist brought the stilleto out. Cottage doors were no challenge to open, God bless the assuming souls that all strangers would pay them kindness, so she entered the domicile. No sign of any foul play. No blood, no knocked over possesions, merely the appearance of dust on furniture, as if the house were going to sleep. Tapping thrice against the wall with knuckles, it was a signal for Alendral to join them in the front. (d)
Alendral: The rap was the signal--all was clear, or so it seemed. Alen investigated only an instant longer before returning, stiletto in hand, his expression devoid of the cheerful Illusionist he had put on mere moments before. "This place looks untouched for some time... doesn't make sense." They had not only arrived 'too late' from the look of it, they'd arrived well after whatever happened finished. He asked with no convinction. "Is there a chance they got wind of what was happening? Relocated before they struck?" he knew better, naturally. "...We check every room. If something happened here, there must be a sign of it somewhere. Even phantoms leave hints of their presence." though in their experience, there were quite a few who did not.
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