On Civility

[Lady Rosalind Avalle]

Rosalind: She left the marketplace for the warehouse. Her dowry, or what remained of it, was still in one of the buildings. Most of the items had been auctioned, but some simply would not sell, and the crates were merely collecting dust. The four Lamont guards she traveled with knew to give her some space, but their relationship was mostly cordial by now. If they sensed the lady was in the mood to speak, they often joked and chatted among one another, and Rosalind enjoyed hearing their banter. It reminded her of having a family, of belonging somewhere less formal than the court. They went into the warehouse and Rosalind found the crates that she must begrudgingly accept, burn, or toss out to sea. She settled on burning, and what could not be burnt, could be cast out on the next vessel moving between the islands. She left the men to their duty and stepped outside to breathe in the evening air. It was briny and fishy, but compared to the ghosts stirring within the clouds of dust behind her, it was fresh and sweet.

Maahes: A patrol set west upon the move, the hunt for the fallen had started early as rumor had it three more men were killed outside the gates of the Underdark. The Montmartre of Skye, but well into the depths of the city and not upon the hills of Paris. For over a week now he had been home, and with the tremble in his steps as he passed the underground shook with the worry of the justice overrunning their bit of peace. The docks were upon lock down, with any suspicious activity to be reported, and perhaps a single lady upon the dock would not cause second look to any other but he. Down the darkened alleyway where the sea met the dock, he found her like the angel of morning she seemed so innocent, and it sickened him to think of who shared her bed. "You are alone this time..where are your men? Do they even refuse to see you spend your time with heartless fools?" He spoke out, perhaps out of place but this was Maahes after all.

Rosalind: Rosalind turned at Maahes' approach. If he was not in service to Skye, she would have called for her men. No matter their personal differences and her distinct lack of trust regarding the Moor, he was no threat to her physically even in a little watched alley. She was practiced, not even her stance changing, though a certain hardness entered her eyes when he spoke, and his words did nothing to dispel it. "What I command my men to do is my business, my lord General." It was not necessary to point out that what they saw and heard was not their duty to form opinions on. The men of Lamont had turned into quite the progressive clansmen, so tired were they of rotating chieftains that the stability that Rosalind wrought out of Argyll was more than enough proof to them that their homes would not suffer in the coming years due to greed and mismanagement. For all the rumors attached to the Lady Inveryne, she was an unyielding force of progress and peace. It was not their place to judge their lady. "But they are inside." No muscle on her face twitched. The mask she wore was firmly in place, and impenetrable. What she thought or felt was impossible to read.

Maahes: "You are not afraid to be here alone?" He asked her then concern filled inside the deep rich amber of his eyes. "You do not fear the underside why is that?" He asked then closing the distance between them and searching out the hidden parts of the street, did she have company? "Most women should never be caught alone here, but perhaps I have done my part well to keep it safe..or perhaps you have no reason to fear. How long has that scoundrel shared your bed? By now long enough that your name swells soon after his mention. The Lady of the Griffin Court in league with murderer, rapist, and Pirate." Though not all of his accusations were true, they were brought up; often. "What life is this for you? Will you let your name be tarnished anymore?"

Rosalind: Rosalind folded her arms across her stomach. They might have been discussing fishing patterns. Rosalind's serene expression betrayed nothing of what those words sparked in her, but perhaps the General was used to provoking rage in others to root out his answers. Rosalind had dealt with far more intractable men. She had been married to one of them. "Forgive me, Maahes, but your right to judge which man shares my bed was forfeited when you chose Fearghus." In such concise words, she easily implied all the bruises he had ignored and all the gossip about the raging fights held in the Lamont quarters, how she had seen Fearghus and Maahes talking like old friends on too many occasions, and the night she had comforted the general when he walked among the corridors, refusing to believe Ealora was dead. "My name has been tarnished enough that it no longer matters. Or do you not listen to your men's ghost stories? The tale of Inveryne is still popular enough. I have heard several variations on its telling, all fairly amusing."

Maahes: "I do not listen to much of anything anymore." He spoke running a hand over his face, "But I do not like you here alone." Motioning her on like some herdsman moving his sheep in the field. Or was it the wolf catching the stray? "Your husband saved my life, that in turn saved a nation. How did you expect me to see. I am sorry I do not hold any loyalty to your play thing. If you wish to make a whore out of yourself, then let it be so, but your husband served the same cause. I can not judge him if he wishes to keep his wife in line. You were the one who did not listen." Turning his back on her he motioned for her to follow, down and away from the docks.

Rosalind: He should not have turned his back on her after calling her a whore. The leather grip of her stiletto felt comforting in her hand, and when she slid it from the secret pocket nestled among the folds of her skirts, the gleam of light on steel felt right. The triangular blade was not long, but it did what it was designed for, parting through flesh and mail with ease, making a triangular wound that the body would not be able to close. The flesh would fester and suppurate, the stench would be one Ealora would remember until she was old and gray. "Let me tell you who my husband really was, my lord. He was an abuser, a rapist, and a murderer of over two hundred men, women, and children. He stole my son from me. Thank God he is young and can be manipulated, for I have no doubt, were Aldric but two or three years older, he would have slit my boy's throat." She eased the point of the stiletto against his back, just firmly enough that he would feel the tip of it, but not enough to tear flesh. "If you ever call me a whore again, it will be the last word you speak. I thank you for your concern, but your concern has been damaging enough in the past."

Maahes: There had been a time when all the world could fall away in an instant, when the scent of death came so very close his mind could curl and even block out the images. Yet a life time of battle, and a sickness that had been caused could change a man in an instant. Maahes was quick to let it all fall away, this protective guard he had put up. Like her, he had a son to return to, two in fact, with a daughter. He had an entire of school of children waiting for him in England. Her little advance was not about to be taken lightly. He felt the tip of the blade against his back, and his own mask was pulled over. A massive arm made of nothing but rock hard surface bent to curl each boulder together and swung back at her. His elbow would hit squarely with her jaw leaving a mark that even Fearghus could not rival. Slow motion scene from an epic battle, had the General moving with his turn to take the wrist that held the knife, and with her motion back he would correct it pulling her forward. With the blade now gone falling towards the earth, the sound echoed over time and space--calling the alley cats forward. "I have and will kill for less, Rosalind, and do not mistake my meaning for concern. I have VERY little concern for you, just the man who will leave you after you have satisfied him. I'll have his heart in my hand, and your curse with lovers will keep on." So yes, he heard some of the stories. Holding her then only by her wrist he let her go, let her fall while kicking away the stiletto. "But I'm finished with you." With that he gave way to the day, letting himself be free and not once looking back.

Carmen: The alley cat's smile indeed, over rich red lips as she closed the distance between her and the Lady. "My..my..you really know how to pick a fight. Always aim so high?" Her hands opened the heavy thick fabric of the cloak letting it fall over the small petite shoulders, "Such luck of the fates could be questioned, Rosalind."

Rosalind: She felt his elbow as if boulders had come crashing down upon her, but somehow managed to keep her feet. She held the stiletto with more strength in her hand than she knew she possessed, all the world narrowing to a single point of light, focused upon Maahes. But Rosalind could not move; she was rooted to the spot, her ears ringing violently and the taste of copper powerful in her mouth. He jerked her arm forward and the blade fell, rattling across the stones. With his words, it cemented in her heart how much she hated this man. He had killed men for less than reacting justly to gross insults? He and Fearghus both could beat her until she was bloody, but it did not change the fact that she was a lady, nor that she was right in defending herself even if no one else would. Her jaw was too stiff to move, so when he dropped her, her only response was to spit blood at his feet. She squeezed her eyes shut against the white-hot pain radiating from her leg. She did not hear him walk away over the sound of her own struggles just to breathe. But light and clarity began to return with the voice of the gypsy woman, and after working her jaw for a moment, she was able to speak, though it was painful. "Thank you," she said, pulling the cloak around her. It smelled like the pirate. "I did not pick the fight," she added after a moment, drawing herself into a crouch, though nausea kept her down for a moment more, unable to bring herself to stand upright just yet.

Carmen: "But you did not finish it either..We will have to correct that." She would clasp the gold leaves of the frog that held the cloak over her, and smiled. "He was afraid you would be cold out here..Let's find you a quiet spot hmm? I'll send for your pirate, for he'll have the head of the General. He as well has killed for less." She would help ease the woman up, "Come, I saw Jean-Claude this way, we'll have him look at your face?" Such a little minx this one!

Rosalind: The world turned black when she stood up, but she kept her balance by holding onto Carmen with a death grip. She blinked, but the darkness remained. Were she not so close to passing out, she would be amused by this symptom, but her brain was thick with pain, and amusement was the last emotion that would fit this encounter. Carmen named all the right names and Rosalind nodded, though she felt as if something was sloshing around in her head that did not normally slosh. She leaned on Carmen as they walked away, leaving behind the four Lamont men piling crates onto a cart in the warehouse to be taken on another ship and dumped into the sea. Men who had much more interest in Rosalind's safety than Carmen.

Carmen: "My child, what a nasty color it turns.." She curled the woman into her arm worried already of the people who could see them and pulled the hood of his cloak over her. "We'll find you a place to lay down.." Up the plank they walked, the sound of the sea bellow them and the heartfelt sigh of the wind begging her not to go. "Come in here, lay down I can see Jean just in the distance. He'll have you fixed in no time..magic hands of his." She teased pressing the woman back on the bedding, and feeling covering her up. However, when the door closed the locks gave out, outside holdings that would keep her in. No fool could miss that, and as she grinned while walking away her pockets were full of much more coin then any night in the Cat's Eye would bring.

Rosalind: Rosalind sat down on the bed. Dizziness swept over her again and she felt herself falling. By the time her head hit the mattress, she was out cold. Whatever happened outside that room, wherever that room was, she would remain ignorant until she regained consciousness. Unfortunately, that would be many, many hours from now -- long after deckhands with thick French accents put her in a captain's cabin and threw the bar over the door from the outside, tossed the ropes and left the harbor for a rendezvous with a much larger vessel bound for port unknown. She did not even realize she was on a ship until she felt a sickening lurch as the vessel glided gracefully down a large swell. "Oh, Carmen, you pox-ridden bytch," she cursed, and clenched the bed sheets for dear life.

[Lady Rosalind Avalle]

Colban: It was a drizzly late morning, one in which the entire world should sleep in and pray the new day came early. But he had already been up for hours, since well before dawn. Perhaps he had not even slept at all, but paced in Rosalind's room while Aldric slept, waiting for her to return. The Lamont guards were useless. They said they went down to the warehouse to load a ship with the last of Rosalind's dowry, but she must have left. They saw no sign of her when they were ready to leave. "That doesna make anna kind of sense, ye clotheid," was Colban's measured response. Rosalind always told her men where she was going, and when she did not, there was always the advance warning to look the other way. They had fought this battle a million times before, and this was as close to a compromise as they would ever reach. Rosalind knew better. What would Aldric do without his mother? How did a three year old handle all the clans of Argyll, on good looks alone? He interviewed the servants who should know Inveryne's schedule, but she had not been seen in the larder that morning, nor in attendance of the High Lady. He asked anyone who would know, only to be turned away with questioning looks. "The lady does as she's wont to do, milord, she doesna confide in us her comings an' goings." Unless she instructed her servants to look the other way. Donning a cloak against the fine misting rain, he left the castle for the only one who knew where Rosalind went when everyone in the castle seemed to go blind. He stood in the entrance to the Underdark, and hoped his Lord was looking down upon him now, for he needed all the holy protection he could muster in a place like this.

Carmen: "Mmm, mm, what has the cat brought us now." Her voice purred form behind a little lift of her foot to brush his thigh as she walked passed, and her skirts swayed as she stepped. In her arms she carried a basket, making way back to the Underdark from the market. "Looking for something soldier?" She asked with a coy grin, and a heartfelt sigh as she turned to face him. "Perhaps to help a lady out?" The baskets were heavy, of fruit and other supplies for the pub; once that perhaps she would not have been able to buy had it not been for Rosa's little venture. Boy...this could not be the same man as before? He looked so lost..so useless, like a stranger wondering the streets. What had him so upset? Oh..yeah..that's right.

Colban: "Stop that." He swatted at her, and of course, missed. Though the man no longer held a torch for the mother of his child, she was his single intent and purpose for being here, and was not amused by the gypsy's wiles. She was beautiful, but far from Colban's type. The Scotsman's eyes narrowed at her request for help. She seemed to be doing just fine on her own. Perhaps, if he had not been attacked by the pirate, he would have offered at the expense of losing a hand for fending off or initiating attacks, but he was not so stupid now. "Would you know where that pirate is? Blond hair, yea high -- " he stuck out his hand to about his waist. "I have business with him." If she did not give him answers, he would enter seeking them on his own. He did not want to, given his experiences in Peregrine's domain, but he would.

Carmen: "Mmm short cakes, yes as a matter of fact I do know where he is. What's it worth to you if I show you hmm?" She faced the man closing the distance between them and handing him the baskets, of course making sure to press out her plush heavy chest she went. "Follow me.." She turned opening the door to the Underdark and the cold air that rushed would have any running in their steps. The wind hallowed with words lost and forgotten a rushing sound with voices lost on the breeze. "Peregrine may not be the tallest of men, my dear, but I would not lack his size..for we hear upon a nightly hour his stamina..is that not all that counts?" A dark brow rose in her tease at the man.

Colban: "My undying gratitude," he said in a level voice, not quite as dry as Rosalind, but it was clear they shared one another's sense of humor. He took one of the baskets, ignoring her chest -- he deserved a gold star for that one, for he was a great admirer of the female chest -- and followed her. He was not spooked by the cold air, but he was uncertain of walking into a lair of criminals and lowlifes. They did not fight like men, in Colban's mind, but they did know how to fight. "I wouldna ken the foggiest about the wee man's stamina. And actually, I havena come to pound him a few inches shorter, though he deserves it." His business was his business, however, and that was the most he would share with her. If she said anything else, he merely grunted in response. For a man of science, logic, and good humor, he certainly was a bear when the unexpected happened.

Carmen: "Mmm, well you will not have to go far. He falls here after he's spent the night with your Princess." Opening the door to the tavern she would turn the lantern up filling the room with light, "You know..up all night." She winked at him before pointing to the staircase, "Second door on the right..and straight on til morning." A few drunks both dead and alive remained upon the floors and a little bit of noise was heard in the kitchens where she disappeared to. "It's unlocked, go on in you'll need no key. Wake him up..I'm sure he'll just be thrilled to see you." She laughed then as the door closed leaving the man alone.

Peregrine: How many times had Rosalind found him like this? Asleep until dusk, clean and well fed in both appetite and pleasure...or whatever came first. He was alone, half naked of course but well lost in a deep slumber. Sleeping beauty and the beast...or whatever came first.

Colban: "Yes. He is a stud. I get it." He waved her off and planted her basket on one of the tables, then marched up the stairs, following her directions. He did not knock on the door, but marched right in, quite sure this entrance wouldn't win him any points, but he was already at negative numbers anyway. "Wake up." Ah, he slept with the peace of innocent babes. How old was this man, anyway? And Rosalind found him attractive? Not at all effeminate? For heaven's sake, he did not even have a beard. "I said, wake up!" He knew well enough to keep clear of the bed's reach, just in case. Men like Peregrine rarely slept unarmed, no? Well, that was Colban's experience, and so the Scot reacted accordingly. "Rosalind is not here, I see, so where is she? Ye tak' her off somewhere an' sold her? Kent it was only a matter of time, anyway." Despite the accusation, his tone was a mere drawl. Whatever he believed, he didn't believe Perry was aware that Rosalind was missing. He had sacrificed too much not to care.

Peregrine: Upon his chest he slept with a pillow curled in one arm, and without missing a beat or even appearing he had let himself tear away from the good dreams. However his voice rose with little amusement, but little change, "You of all people should know Ros wouldn't sleep in a bed like this." Stretching a little he still wouldn't part his eyes, but would roll away from the man. "No matter how handsome her keeper is, his tricks can only work so far on that one." Raising up out of the bed after a few moments he would rub his eyes looking up at the man. Chest was as hairless as his face, but it was his genes no? "Couldn't get much out of her with her gimp leg, no I'd have to lop that off first." He grumbled raising his eyes to meet the man's, and brushing back the mop of curls atop his head. "Why, you looking to buy her?" Was he serious? Of course not, but his dry humor had become one to match the man's own. Under the blanket he curled his leg as it seemed he was stretching a bit, but it was his barefeet that cupped the hilt of a blade to have it ready.

Colban: "No, she wouldna, but she's also no' been sleepin' in her finer bed lately." This knowledge was, primarily, the reason he was leaving for Lanark in a matter of days. He did not wish to know who was occupying her bed or what she was doing in that bed. He needed distance from her if he was to keep his sanity. The agony of it was leaving his son behind in such uncertain times. He trusted Rosalind with his care, knew she would be a fine mother to the boy, but he -- and it seemed, so did half of Skye -- wondered what sort of mother she was if she occupied herself with this pirate. He saw Peregrine draw the sword and merely smiled. "Believe me or no, I didna come to fight wi' ye. I would ha' picked a more favorable place if tha' were so. While ye've been sleepin' in bed until all hours, I've been up looking for Rosie. She's no' at the castle, nor annawhere in the city, for her guards wouldna ha' let her go unescorted. They said they saw her last outside her warehouse at the docks, but there's no sign of her, and none o' the merchants I questioned saw her coming or going. I've got a sick feeling in my gut, pirate, so no, I didna come here to fight."

Peregrine: "A sick feeling in your gut huh?" He looked the man over as he stood pulling on his shirt, and slipping into his boots, "That's from too much meat..and well..you've had your fill." He smarted off pulling on his sword and turning to face the man, "And Aldric is? Did you look with your son, she's very fond of him you know, often plays..you know what that is right?" Swinging the door open, the little bird has his feathers ruffled, but just the thought of Rosalind in trouble made his blood boil over. He'd kill everyone of the Lamont men if something happened to her. "Carmen!" He called out, as the stairs were finished and the room opened up, and the two bit whore came out with her brilliant smile, "You get Jean-Claude here instantly." She would nod her head and make her back into the kitchen. "When was the last time you saw her?" He turned upon the man, "Or your son?" What was that supposed to mean?

Colban: Colban gave Peregrine a look that would strip paint as the man dressed, but said nothing in response to the first barb. He was intent on not shaving off a few inches from the already pint-sized man, but the pirate was making it difficult to keep that promise. "Aldric is in her room, sleeping, with two guards posted outside the door. He has been wi' me for the past two days. Rosalind probably told you, but I am needed at Lanark." It was not, as the pirate might think, a retreat. He and Rosalind had already parted for good. She'd made it clear she was not in love with him, and he accepted that. It made him feel old, but he could let her go. Part of letting her go was giving her some independence, which she would not have if he remained. He followed Peregrine down the stairs, the pirate bellowing for the tart. "I last saw her when she left Aldric wi' me, two days ago. But the last her men saw of her was down by the warehouse." He was quieter with his next words, but they were no less important. "It is where she keeps the last of the dowry Fearghus sent her. She goes there, sometimes. But from what her men said, this time it was to see all the crates were burned or dropped at sea. She must ha' stepped out while they were loading."

Peregrine: The very name had him stop in his steps, and a hand close over his chest trying to start the heart that stopped. Did he feel it too? This knowing she was gone, he would hope not, but as his chest pained he worried. A darkened expression covered his face, and as he slowly turned to face Colban once again the happy-go-lucky little boy was gone, and the very spawn of the devil came alive, "Don't ever say that fool's name in my presence again." He hissed the sound escaping his lungs like hot fire. Before he could continue Jean-Claude stepped into the room with a breeze of fresh air, always at the right time, and always with the right things to say.

Jean-Claude: "I have heard the news, and will start searching now.." The man's movement was always so poised and fluid as if he were underwater even as he spoke, it was with pure grace. "Lord Campbell, it is good to see you."

Peregrine: "No. I don't need you to look Jean, I need you to go watch over Aldric in the castle. Don't let anyone know you are there, and don't leave him until I return. She could just be around the corner." He lied through his teeth, but Jean-Claude would give a quick bow and make his way out. "She has never told me of her past, not enough..we've not been given the chance, but are their any enemies?" He asked as they made their way out into the day, and his steps started towards the docks.

Colban: "I wish it were under better circumstances, Jean-Claude," Colban returned with a polite nod. Despite how many drinks he'd had before stumbling into the Cat's Eye, he was rarely so drunk he forgot any detail of the night before. He listened to the exchange, dark blue eyes moving between the pirate and the frilly Frenchie. For some reason, it never struck him that Rosalind was French. She was as much a part of his landscape as the lochs and bens, and despite all she'd been through, she was happy here. Happy enough that she would not go back to France and the small bit of land that still generated a slight income for her, at least. "She would very much appreciate an extra set of eyes on our son." Perhaps Peregrine felt no need to be polite to the man running his errands, but Aldric was his boy, and he was grateful, too. They left for the docks and Colban thought about Perry's question. "Weel, ye mean aside from every clan in all Scotland? Rosalind's served in Lady Mary's court, sassenach, and is privy to far more information about the clans than a woman ought to ken. But I am no' certain if anna would dare such a brazen act. Fer clan unity, they'd march t' th' Griffin's drums or suffer th' fate o' York." It was far to say, then, that Colban didn't believe, if any foul play had occured, it happened by Scottish hands. It must be unrelated to the clans. "There -- tha' building is hers." He pointed out the roof of her warehouse.

Peregrine: Colban would suddenly lose his companion as he walked, as something stilled the steps of the Pirate in the alley. A childlike look of youth finding the first clue, but it was simply the way realization that struck him. The small little sharp object had been her favorite, as he well knew this from one of their first encounters. Bending to pick up the stiletto, he curled his hand around the tiny blade. For a good long moment the pirate was quiet, as just the day before his blood lust got the better of him, and now here would be the answer to that call. With his back still turned to Colban, his voice was a quiet sound but a fierce rush of his growl, "What clan wants her the most?" In other words..where did he start?

Colban: "Not mine," Colban said firmly. Campbells had suffered enough at the hands of Lamont during the recent battles. But there were so many things he did not know. "She ... did not tell me everything. I ken she was in negotiations wi' others, fer tolls an' trading." He walked past the pirate. A few feet from where the man had picked up the stiletto, he saw an odd smudge on a rather light-colored cobble. It wasn't old, and if the alley was not protected by the sharply-slanted eave of the neighboring building, he would not have seen it at all. "Blood." He crouched down. It glistened. "Spit." What the devil was going on? He stood up and faced the pirate. "It would not do to make war with clans she is attempting to make peace with. I would exercise caution, until ye ken more. I dinna think it's a clansman, annaway. They wouldna risk running afoul of th' Mo'r Triath. No' for now, at least. It's got to be for a reason no' related to th' clans. Or someone no' from Scotland. De ye ken iffin patrols run through this part o' th' dockside district?" It might be worth questioning the city guards.

Peregrine: "No only dirty under the table trades start here. You won't get any of them to talk..but I have my ways." He closed his hand over the stiletto and placed it in the small little holster beside where his sword rest. "What about her family? A jealous sister?" He damned her then for having such a pleasant mouth when she spoke, as often he couldn't resist to silence it with his own. Where nights could have been in deep conversation he was getting to know her from the outside in. "If they wanted ransom they would send it to her men..the Duchess? Does she know?" God Damn it! Why didn't anyone come get him earlier! "I have no say in the court, and am unwelcome, but you could ask..No matter where she is, I'll find her."

Colban: "Her father died some years ago. She had no siblings. Her mother died shortly after birthing her. It is ... well. It explains much about her feelings toward children. He never remarrit. But ye'd ken tha' already. Her first husband had only one brother." Whose fate was known to the pirate. Colban did not elaborate. It was strange indeed that Perry knew none of this information, but Rosalind had pointed out it wasn't Colban's place to judge. This was her relationship, not his. Still, it was difficult to extract himself from her life. She was such a major part of his, whether she was aware of it or not, for so long. "Myself, I have only one surviving brother, th' former chieftain o' Campbell, Niall. Ye might ken him by his moniker, Black Campbell of Lochawe. But he'd have as much interest in Rosalind as a rock, I'd imagine. The twa ne'er got along well, and Niall has always had other priorities. Now wi' the war finished, he's merely holding his men together in Argyll, and workin' wi' Sir Kendrew to see Lamonts do not start slaughterin' Campbells again and vice versa." As he shot down Peregrine's suggestions, he began to wonder, too. Who would have taken her? He must think they took her, for the alternative was not one he was willing to face. There would be more blood. Rosalind knew how to fight. She could defend herself. "I'll go find th' Lord General. We split for now, aye? Shall I find ye at the Cat's Eye iffin I find annathin' of use?"

Peregrine: "Maahes is a fool, he'll know nothing. You would be wise to leave him out of this." Peregrine seemed to snap from his thoughts then raising his gaze to meet the man who was as well a good bit taller, "I'll not be at the Cat's Eye, waiting on you to bring me answers. It's not my style. You won't find me at all, but if you find anything out then you can pass it to Jean-Claude." There was a fire there burning behind his eyes that had long but burnt out. Was this the rise of that dragon? "I'll burn every port from here to England, and if not there then I'll move on..I would not come looking for me, or tell any that we spoke. In fact, you have no clue who I am." That was easily said by a man who had no ship right? Rosalind had seen only the mast, but behind it was another pair. Three ships under pirate command would rain terror and destruction upon the nation until Rosalind was released. "And you certainly would never trust your son around me." With that he turned his back on the man to start the walk down the path. "Have the healers make ready their morgues, Colban, and keep all of those you love underground." Hell was opening it's gates.

Colban: Well, they had at least that to agree upon. They were not men who were given to inaction in time of dire need. It was unfortunate that it took the absence of someone they both loved to make that point clear. "Aye, she'd verra much consider what insanity ye're about ta commit a verra rational, no, romantic gesture. But ye're right, pirate. I ha' no idea who ye are, and she's right to keep our son from you. If ye bring her back alive, I'll eat those words, no doubt. Whatever you do. Bring her back alive." He shrugged, and not about to turn his back on the pirate, let Perry do the walking away. He had guards to interview, and eventually, must have words with Maahes. He wasn't sure how helpful the General would be, but if anyone knew the city's workings, he had already interviewed one, and now it was time for the other. If Maahes yielded nothing, it was a matter of waiting for Peregrine or a ransom note. "Check with the harbor master, any ships that entered or left last night would be on his roster. If she left the island at all, we'll know for certain which direction she's headed. Godspeed," he offered the retreating back of the pirate, and left to investigate his own leads.

[Peregrine Inveryne-Lamont]

Better never to have met you in my dream than to wake and reach for hands that are not there.
~ Otomo No Yakamochi

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“What did it look like?!” The harsh rasp of a man’s voice on the brink of insanity, sounded like the breath of a beast coming from its cave as it rang out from the porcelain of the mask he wore; A carved blank face that turned with an endless grin, a Cheshire cat without the feline. It was oddly disturbing no matter how harmless it seemed, and caused the man to shake as his shirt collar was pulled inches from the snarl.

“It..it..it had white sails..a mast..”The stuttering dock hand’s heart pounded against his chest as he was then lifted by shirt alone and feet left to dangle. The figure across from him wasn’t tall enough to easily do such a feat, but the man could only wonder what muscle was built under the attire of a sea born phantom.

“You describe every ship in this harbor, child. Do you wish to be responsible for the annihilation of the entire fleet?” The Phantom spoke out, as he watched the boy’s defiance continue but with a raise of his gloved hand cannons sounded in the distance sailing through the black of night and igniting the ghosts of ships whose captains were long from the harbor.

“Alright! Alright! It flew a blue flag! A bright blue flag with the sign of The Sea King, and on its starboard was the name of Atlantis.” The dockhand finally released and would find himself face first into the dark depths of the sea at their side; Tossed like waste from a chamber pot.

“Those fools! They are peaceful merchants, transport tuna..what would they have reason?” Peregrine asked removing his mask, and the hat falling back as well giving birth to the wheat colored curls that could be his trademark if his malice grin was not enough.

A figure from behind the man pulled from the shadows like smoke rising from ember. Jean-Claude never had reason for theatrics to place the fear in the hearts of soldiers. He did well upon his own. His hand rose in a fluid graceful motion to take the hat and mask from his captain, “The war takes its toll on even the soundest business, Peregrine. You would pay a heavy coin for her, just for the challenge. Do not be so quick to judge them. Come..we must move out.” Into the night the pair went, as the heavy smoke started to pool around the harbor that would soon be a swarm with Skye’s finest.

In the distance a dance with the rolling fog the Ghost Ship whose sails were of crimson color, the blood that shed or the petals of a rose returned in an eerie silence to its hidden harbor and would start her wait, the adventure her calling. Not long before she’d have her fill.

[Lady Rosalind Avalle]

"Aye, Sir Colban, we patrol near there. Not frequently -- those working at the docks have their own justice. We intervene when called for."

Colban nodded. It was as he suspected. Shady transactions did not occur under the glaring light of the city guards, but in the darkness of little-patrolled alleyways. But women did not simply disappear without notice. The Lady Inveryne did not simply vanish. Every crime had a trail and he would be damned if he lost hers. He dismissed the guard and walked away from the barracks. There were no more he could interview save the Lord General himself, so he put the word out among the men that he was looking for the big Moor.

He wished, however, that he had not found the man at all. "Have you seen her?" He asked his questions, but the man gave no answers. It was answer enough for Colban. What reason would this guardian of justice have to not answer innocent questions? "When was the last time you saw her?"

At the docks. He felt the blood drain from his face. Colban had fought in so many battles that he did not think himself capable of falling victim to shock. The world wasa violent, unsafe place, and nothing proved that so much as Rosalind's ill luck with husbands. What did he think about the stiletto and the blob of blood-laced spit? Not even Colban dared make the connection. Rosalind must have been abducted after Maahes left. The General knew nothing, of course. Peregrine was right. The man wasa fool for failing to notice evil lurking in the shadows, waiting to steal Inveryne away.

"I hit her," the General said. His voice was so abstracted that it seemed like a perfect non sequitur. Colban, for one, had just settled on the idea that the General was an idiot. Changing it so abruptly from idiot to abject fool forced the blood rapidly back into Colban's face.

"You WHAT?!"

Rosalind had a thick black line distinguishing idle gossip from direct insult. The former she suffered with grace and humor. The latter she took no prisoners. If she could not cut them down with harsh words, well -- Colban had taught her how to use that little triangular dagger. They were very similar in that regard, though Colban, obviously, was better able to right matters of honor and civility. He knew Inveryne's temper to be slow-burning. Whatever Maahes had said, Rosalind had not been able to smile and incline her head in dismissal, turn her back and continue on as she always did. For a woman who now quaked at any show of violence, her hand had gone to the stiletto. She had pressed it to the General's back.

"You are lucky, my lord," Colban concluded at last. "You are lucky we spoke, for Peregrine is not far behind on a diverging trail. He would not be so lenient." Instead of mauling the General, Colban waited for the guards from the barracks to arrive. He explained that the General had just admitted to abusing the Lady Inveryne, and as a member of the court, it was tantamount to an offense against the Lady Griffin herself. "I will discuss this matter with the High Lady. Make ready for your arrest, General. I intend to see you in chains."

He told the men to keep the General company and went to see Sir Kendrew. If the Lady nor her knight did not see eye to eye with Colban, then nothing on heaven nor earth would prevent him from meeting Maahes in a duel to see out his own justice. Rosalind damned well could not defend herself from the brutes of the world, but Colban could see at least one more put in his place. It did not bring him any closer to finding the mother of his child, but it certainly would feel good.

[Lord General Maahes Asad-Aziem]

"I do not call it abuse, when she pulls the knife first, Campbell..Do not take your anger out on me that her soul is to be damned." Maahes spoke rising from his seat to look at the guards, who were quick to bow their heads. "I am surprised Colban that you have let her get this far. He sneaks in through the windows, my guards have seen it; while your son sleeps in the same room." He closed the distance between the man, leaving his maps there upon the table, and rolled up the scroll in his hand that was to be sorted in the direction of the Duke. "Adam and I have just returned from England, I do not wish to be put in the middle of your affairs. I've been fighting this war now for a very long time, and wish to be finished with it. If you wish my assistance, or any of my resources then you have it."

Maahes felt horrible for how he acted, but Rosalind should have known better pulling her blade upon a man who just spent the past 3 years in the depths of war. Every day of his life he had fought for his survival, from growing up in the pits, and growing into war; Maahes was simply not a man you pulled a knife on in a dark alley. If she returned he would send her flowers..a horse..whatever she wished, but he was not about to let anymore of this effect his days, damn it Maahes needed some peace.

[Lady Rosalind Avalle]

Maahes' words sounded like mere excuses to Colban. He gave the General a thousand-yard stare. "I have been fighting since I was thirteen years old. I have known Rosalind since she was fourteen and I seventeen, and we were acquainted less than two months before I marched to Bannockburn with my clan. Between you and I, I would prefer peace over war, but I admit, sometimes violence is called for. She drew a knife on you, General, and for that, she is at fault. But what cause did you give her to draw the blade at all? Even I could disarm her without effort. It was a stiletto, for God's sake -- think you she had force to impale you from her vantage? A big man such as yourself? Did it feel good to drop her to the ground, aye?

"Aye, and on that note, who made it your place to judge the woman's soul? She will stand before God as we all must, and I must believe, if she has offended any of His commandments, she has done so for the betterment of her people, for as long as I have ever known her. That you are a hero of this land does not justify ever hitting a woman, no matter who shares her bed, or have you forgotten that she was hit for far less offenses until your friend met his end at MacRuari Keep? I respect what you have done for Skye, my lord, but do not confuse that with personal respect for you as a man. You made a mistake, and dear God, I do not think you will pay at all. But she will." Aldric would. And all the countless Lamonts who depended on Rosalind's promise -- what would happen to them? This was not Rosalind's fault for loving the wrong man. It was the fault of some nameless coward, motives unknown.

He departed, having nothing further to say. He would never convince Maahes and Maahes would never convince Colban. Their approaches to life were radically different, and Colban was far more progressive toward women than most, but such was the punishment for knowing a woman like Inveryne. He would, however, keep well away from the General, letting the man nurse his pride, and letting the guards release the man only after Colban had returned to the Underdark to leave the information with Jean-Claude at the Cat's Eye. His lead was dead, and he had his son to look after.

[Lady Rosalind Avalle]

"Da. Da. Da. Da!"

"Aye, Aldric, what is it?" His boy was getting big, nearly a little man now. Three was the magical age, or so the women from back home said, seeing the chubby cheeks melt away into a semblance of the adult face, the toddler's short and bowlegged swagger turning into a discernable adult stride. Time was flying by too quickly, Colban thought. In just a few months, the boy would be four. Four!

But the blond-headed child was still little enough that his much larger father could swing him up off the floor and plant him on his lap. "Maman is gone," Aldric said with startling certainty, a pair of dark blues to match his father's wide with his failure to understand why this was so. "Where did maman go?"

Colban fluffed the boy's hair and then held him tight, wrapping solid arms around the small body of his son. "Maman had to go away. I dinna ken where."

"She's coming back."

"Och, she is, laddie. Soon." He placed Aldric back on the floor. "D'ye mind yer Uncle Murtagh?" he asked, and Aldric shook his head. "Wee man, 'bout this high, has a brow down here and hair down to there," Colban described with a grin, letting his index finger hover low over his own brow, causing Aldric to giggle. There was a knock at the door and Colban hid his look of annoyance from the boy, stood up and went to answer it. Standing there was the short clansman, just as Colban had described. He wasn't really Aldric's uncle -- he was of no relation to Colban, and Rosalind had no Scottish blood relatives. But he was the man appointed guardian of Lamont should anything befall Rosalind. It was an arrangement Rosalind had insisted upon, knowing more than most the uncertainties that could befall a single woman with a vulnerable heir.

The two men clasped hands formally. Colban stepped away so Murtagh could have a good look at Aldric. Finally, the shorter man grunted, "Tak' him somewhere safe. No' here."

"And if they think I've kidnapped him?" the larger Scot asked, a single brow arched.

"I seen him m'self. I'll vouch. He's no safe wi'out Inveryne, 's why she appointed me in her stead. Dinna tak' him to Lanark, nor anywhere wi' a Campbell connection." Murtagh listed a few Lamont names that could be trusted, and Colban nodded. "Ye'll here wi' or wi'out m'word when she's returned. Dinna come out before then." Murtagh looked quietly at the lad in question, who stood beside his father, holding onto one of Colban's large fingers. He grunted again, perhaps it was a goodbye, and left without saying much else. Like Rosalind, pure stubbornness would get him through negotiations with the Lamont leaders. Unlike her, he wouldn't rely on eloquence to make his case.

"Bet maman ne'er took ye camping," Colban said to the boy, grinning. "What do ye say?"

Aldric blinked owlishly. Murtagh hadn't even said hello! Everyone said hello to him! "Can Sax come?"

"Sax-who? Oh. The mutt. Aye, Sax can come," Colban said, looking around for the dog. It wasn't in the living area of Rosalind's apartment. He peered in Rosalind's room and sighed. The critter was curled up at the foot of Rosalind's bed. How the woman suffered a flea-ridden creature to live in her apartments was beyond Colban, but not only was the dog present, he was practically inconsolable without his lady. Aldric ran in and tried dragging Sax off the bed. The dog gave his boy a forlorn look, flicked his tail pathetically, and dropped his head back down on his paws. I ken how ye feel, Colban thought, and went digging in his sporran to find some treat that would lure the dog off the bed.

Colban knew the perfect place to take Aldric, and he would hate to disappoint his son, but they were going with or without the mangy animal.

[Lady Rosalind Avalle]

The sound of her son's laughter roused her from sleep. She sat up abruptly. "Aldric? Est cela vous?

"Non. Qui est Aldric?"

"No one." The blood rushed to her head. She felt as if she had downed too much wine the night before. Her head felt full of cotton and there was an odd taste on her mouth. She recognized it immediately and settled back down on the bed. It wasn't going away soon, and she remembered where she was. The floor continued to rock gently beneath her. Through the opium-induced haze, it felt as though she rode upon a cloud, and the voice was God Himself coming from the ceiling.

"We had to give you opium, madame. You would not come down from the deck. It made the sailors nervous." Rosalind threw the covers over her head, hoping the voice would go away. She usually had more courage to face reality. But between the drugs and the ship, she was admittedly not herself. But the voice continued, even through the covers. "You have had opium before."

A firm hand held the covers, pulling them down over her face. She was looking upon the sea-roughened face of a man in his sixties, his hair a fascinating shade of white while his skin was a deep brown. "Oui."

The man just grunted, tossed the covers aside, and pulled out a small bowl. "They paid us to get you here without abuse. This will not do." He twisted her jaw in his hand, prodding at the tender, colorful flesh. "Hold still. This was easier when you were drugged."

"If I had a coin for every time -- ick." The leech dropped onto her jaw, a jelly-like, awful feeling that immediately silenced her retort.

The sailor, whoever he was, stood back then, out of her line of sight. After a few minutes, he coated the leeches with salt and collected them as they rolled off her skin. "We have reached Le Havre. He is waiting for you when we are allowed to disembark. He is a good man, madame. He serves the King."

This appeal did nothing to soothe Rosalind. She wanted her son. She wanted to lie in her own bed, one that did not rock, with the dog curled up at her feet, the castle sleeping peacefully around her. Through the last of the drugs, clarity was close enough that it made tears prick her eyes. She pulled the pillow against her chest and said nothing. The sailor seemed to understand he would not get a reply from the Norman lady, and exited swiftly, letting the door click shut behind him.

[Lady Rosalind Avalle]

Rosalind had determined early on that France was their destination. Now that the English fleet was no longer a threat to the northern shores, they passed unharmed through waters that had once teemed with enemy vessels. They arrived at Le Havre, France's largest port, and gateway to Paris. As a child, she had pursued the lines marking roadways along her father's maps, from Beauquesne to Amiens to Le Havre, south to Paris, and up easterly to Amiens and home. She had never once left Beauquesne; maps always held particular fascination to a girl who viewed the world through her father's occasional anecdote.

With the English barely holding onto their French land, Le Havre bustled with business. She could hear shouts through the walls of the ship. The sounds of gulls were distinctly birdlike now that the last of the opium had abandoned her blood; no more did they remind her of Aldric's giggles. She made herself ready with the items the captain left for her. A fresh dress was in the chest at the foot of the bed, with a silvery-blue bliaut of the most current fashion. She donned both after sponging herself clean from a bucket of lukewarm water left in the corner. There was no looking glass in which to arrange her hair, but she was fortunate the captain had provided an easy solution to this problem. The caul was a rather beautiful thing of fine silk netting to match the bliaut, combs of silver and jet to secure the head covering to her hair quite beautiful in their own right. She put her feet in her slippers and grabbed her cross from where she had left it while washing, slipping its familiar, heavy weight over her neck. The silver of the metal and impossibly black sheen of the beads went well with the clips in her hair. The old, finely-wrought but hefty silver cross was a comfortable weight hanging between her breasts.

There was a knock at the door. She did not answer it immediately, choosing to kneel at the foot of her bed, in absence of her prie dieu. She bowed her head over her hands, but could not recall any of the hundreds of familiar prayers she had committed to memory as a child. She could only think of her son, and the terrible lack of Peregrine's strong arms holding her together. Opium made dreams reality; perhaps it had not all fled, because for the briefest of moments, she felt his chin drop onto her shoulder, and swore she heard him blaspheme about her habit of prayer. She smiled, the corner of her mouth twitching upward. She crossed herself and then used the bed to rise, forcing her leg to straighten though it seemed content to stay bent.

The long sleeves of her bliaut carried with them an oddly masculine scent as her arms moved. She had been dressed in a whore's clothes and items of considerably less sartorial splendor than those she currently wore. Her nose did not even wrinkle in the slightest at the note of bay leaf. "Je suis pret."

The door swung open and Rosalind passed through it. Before her, Honfleur spread out. It was an old port, established nearly three hundred years before, and in two hundred years, would be so dilapidated that Francis I would construct a port city to be the triumph of France. He would also name the city for himself, Franciscopolis, in a grand gesture of egotism that would not be bested until the Russian czar made a city out of marshland and determined it the gem of all Europe. The Seine was high in the spring season, but it was busy with goods coming and going from Rouen to Paris. She assumed she, too, would be like those goods. Imported to the city, sold to the highest bidder -- it seemed her fate in life.

"Welcome to Le Havre de Honfleur," the captain said to her, taking her hand to help her down the plank.

"It is not how I imagined returning to France," she returned, dizzied by the quay's constant activity. She had never imagined returning to France. When her father passed away a few years ago, Rosalind had given no thought to coming back. His body would be long since decayed by the time she was able to traverse the whole of England and the forty miles standing between Beauquesne and the Channel. It was an impossible distance to cross, even had Rosalind not lived as a political prisoner since the fall of Inveryne five years ago, nor even if she no longer considered France her home. When she said goodbye to her father on the northern shore, she said goodbye to that life, and began anew when she set foot in Scotland.

"Careful," the captain said, steadying her. He had not been told she was lame, but it was readily apparent when she walked. He held her still until she made a movement to dismiss him, at which point he stepped courteously aside. He was not in the habit of asking strange ladies how they came about such injuries. Rosalind only ever answered direct questions. It was lucky she had been drugged most of the journey; she and this captain would have spent a considerable portion of it in silence anyway.

Through the moving, churning, shifting crowd, a tall figure appeared. He was dressed in dark clothes, but he was immaculate, hair combed behind him and clubbed at the nape of his neck, dark eyes moving from the ship's flags to the lady standing at the foot of the gangplank. He had thin lips and angular features, a Norman nose, and very little meat on his long bones. He bowed to her. "Rosalind de Beauquesne, it is a pleasure to meet you at last."

Rosalind looked to the captain. The white-haired man nodded, turning to stand between them like the mediator he most certainly was not. "Madame, may I present Ghislain d'Armagnac."

"I knew your father well, my lady," Ghislain added.

"You are too young to have served together," she said, barely modifying the suspicion in her tone. "May I ask how you were acquainted?" Her father was rarely within the fortress of Beauquesne, but to her knowledge, Amaury Avalle had not left the property since he was awarded it for service in Tunis. He was no courtier, but a career soldier, and Ghislain d'Armagnac in his finery looked more the former than the latter. Her father was distinctly distrustful of men whose expenditures on clothing exceeded his on cattle feed. Rosalind did not know her father well, but that did not mean she did not have the occasion to agree with him.

"As well as a man could know Sir Amaury," Ghislain amended carefully, nodding once in acknowledgment of his gaffe. "I have taken great pains to bring you here. Would you indulge an old man?" He held out his arm for Rosalind to take. She refused. The taller man laughed softly and shook his head. "It is not a shark, my dear. Though I should not be offended. It looks as though you were rather resistant to my hospitality." He stepped forward suddenly and took her chin in his hand. He turned to glare at the captain, who held up his hands and backed away in a hurry.

"It was not I! We did as you asked, my lord. Had our rendezvous -- whoever colored that flesh, he was no man of mine."

"Good." D'Armagnac said simply, and twisted her chin to the side to better peer at the slowly fading colors along Rosalind's cheek. "I will find the man who did this to you and have him flogged, my lady. Rest assured, I care not for men who injure women, particularly under my name."

Her jaw still hurt, particularly when clenched. Maahes and Fearghus were men accustomed to fighting for their very lives in uncertain odds. But while she had expected such violence from Fearghus, she had not foreseen the conclusion at the warehouse with Maahes. She blinked and jerked her chin away from Ghislain. Rosalind knew she was not infallible. Marriage to Fearghus had left her with many false ideas, but delusions of immortality as a reward for service was not among them. Which made her merely an honorable but bruised fool. "He was not in your employ."

Ghislain's thin brows arched. "I had heard Scots were inherently barbaric and violent people. Perhaps I do the work of the Lord for bringing you home, my lady. You are back among your own, safe and sound." He smiled quickly and held out his arm. It was impolite to refuse a second time, so she took it, lightly touching her fingers to the fabric of his jerkin.

"He was no Scot," Rosalind murmured, but the clarification was lost in Honfleur's noise and clamor. When she was safely within d'Armagnac's coach, she felt no need to speak further, rested her head against the wall, and stared out the window with the same intensity she had stared at the sea for the past week. The world was changing, and she would see it coming, while others who turned away would never see the danger ahead. But perhaps the woman from Beauquesne had more than a few reasons to be suspicious.

[Lady Rosalind Avalle]

"I hope you found the clothing to your liking. I did not expect you to be so tall." The thin man eased Rosalind down onto the blanket and then knelt down beside her, shifting from legs to blanket in a surprisingly inelegant movement. He was far taller than nearly every man in France. While the average hovered at just a few inches above five feet, he was a few inches above six. He reached into the basket and began pulling out food. It was a long trip by carriage to Beauquesne, and he was glad to be on stable ground after rattling around on old roads. "Eat. It will be a long time before we can do so again."

"It is very nice," Rosalind replied. The dress was one she would have picked out for herself, if she was in the habit of selecting her own clothes, which she was not. She would wear five of the same style in different colors if her maids did not intervene daily. Of all the worries she had in life, what style was in current fashion was not among them. What did it say that Ghislain was aware of what she might like, but seemed ignorant about her physical condition? She picked a roll from the basket and pulled it apart slowly. "That is not what I wish to talk about. Why am I here, d'Armagnac?"

Ghislain smiled slowly. It was a rather beautiful smile with such thin lips. His dark eyes shone in the sunlight. He rolled his shoulders back and chose to stack a few pieces of cured meat between the roll he'd selected. "I know," he said simply, and took a bite. "Does it help you put the pieces together if I tell you I do not intend to marry you?"

"If only the world accepted a woman's political worth does not lie between her legs, I would have had a much more peaceful and productive life."

Ghislain laughed uproariously at the wry remark and swallowed a hearty swig of wine from the skin between them before he was able to even think about talking again. Rosalind's face was, as ever, perfectly placid. She had not been joking. He coughed. Rosalind was no force of nature. She was as much of this earth as he was, too intelligent for comfort, and held the distinct ability to be abruptly honest and casually dismissive without a hint of personal disdain. These were all damnable qualities in any man, but Rosalind was entirely, wholly feminine. He wished they had met years before. They might have ruled France together, if he had not banished her to Beauquesne. "I apologize, my lady."

"No, you do not, or I would not be here. So, who then, intends to marry me?" She popped one of the halves into her mouth and chewed, her hazel eyes like storm clouds, never leaving his face. If his hands so much as twitched, she could be on her feet in an instant, with a fallen stick from the nearby tree in her hand. She would impale him and think nothing of it at this point. What investment did she have in this oddly polite Frenchman?

"You would not be convinced I brought you home to remind you of the beauty of your place of birth?" He rolled his eyes when the joke failed to change her alabaster expression. "No. Well, shall I tell you a story, then, of my past sins? I brought you here for entirely selfish reasons." He wanted her to pay attention to him despite the whimsical tone in his voice. He caught her eyes and nodded once. "I am at a place in my life in which I feel secure in my future. I will have a ducal title before I am fifty, and this from a man who once started as a bastard child and impoverished knight. I will attain this title through your marriage to one of your peers."

Rosalind laughed. "My peers? I am the daughter of a baron, Ghislain. Beauquesne does not generate much wealth, but I assure you, it is none so great that would secure you a ducal title with my dowry."

"You are wrong." Ghislain carved a hunk of cheese from the block between them and held out a piece for her. When she did not accept, he ate both, and washed it down with more wine. "Amaury Avalle is not your father. A good man, Rosalind, but not your father. I thought that would have been obvious to you by now, but judging by the look on your face now, it was not. Sir Amaury did not like women, Rosalind. He thought himself well quit of the world when Philip gave to him Beauquesne. Imagine his surprise, then, after so many years of solitude, that Philip granted one more favor to his favorite knight. The hand of Isabeau of Auvergne, and a dowry the size of a king's ransom -- as it very well might have been, had you been born a man."

Rosalind was quiet for a long time, though not out of reluctance to engage Ghislain in his story. She turned over his words, looking for evidence among her own twenty-eight years on this earth. It would have helped had she known her father better, but Ghislain was correct -- Sir Amaury was a distant man. Perhaps she had read too many fairy tales in her youth. She had always believed his distance came from deep grief. Why else would a man so old marry a woman so young if not for love? Rosalind had her answer now. It was far more cynical than childhood stories, but Rosalind had let the coins marked with Philip the Fair's face run through her fingers before sinking it in a pit 160 feet deep at the behest of Admiral Flynn. She wrapped her arms beneath her chest and bowed her head. "I want more proof."

Ghislain reached toward her. She immediately unfolded her arms and smacked his hand. She was tired of men taking liberties with her person, even on the pretense of examining her bruised jaw. Each time they did, she was reminded of her stupidity in reacting to Maahes with a stiletto, and gullibility in following Carmen to supposed safety. That, and it hurt. "Hey!" Ghislain barked, grabbing her right wrist and snatching the heavy cross she wore with his other hand, glaring sharply at her. "This. This is your proof."

"It was my mother's," Rosalind said defensively, and removed the crucifix from Ghislain's bizarrely well manicured hand. She held it firmly, so that the corners of her Savior's cross buried into her flesh. "It is all I have of her."

"It is the d'Evreux cross," Ghislain corrected. "Commissioned by Philip the Fair, and granted to his half-brother, Louis d'Evreux. Your true father."

"Louis was married to the d'Artois woman," Rosalind countered. She struggled to her feet and left the blanket. He did not give chase, but remained where he was, folding his legs beneath him Lotus-style, watching her move away like the cat that knew he could easily draw her back within his claws. He had not been informed of her lameness, either, but it certainly made her an easier, if not more biddable, captive. Nothing about Rosalind was biddable. Beneath her fine words laced with civility, he caught that feral glint in her eyes. He recognized it for what it was; d'Armagnac was no stranger to the battlefield. "I may have left France as a child, but I am not ignorant to the Royal Family, nor the wars fought to secure Valois on the current throne. That would make d'Evreux your enemy, no? Do they not call you Kingmaker?"

He could not resist a smile. Ah, if only she knew how much she sounded like himself -- how much she sounded like Louis, and all her royal forebears. "D'Evreux was opposed to all things Capet. He had reason, not all of it related to myself, so no. We are not enemies, though your brother believes us so. Valois will piece this country together again with his own two lily-white hands and without Aragonese aid, Rosalind, and it angers dear Charles that I am standing behind that throne, and not he and his beloved Spaniards. I am a lowly bastard, and he is the grandson of a king. Of course, it angers him."

"And you will become a duke, with my dowry," Rosalind mused. She turned back to face him. "This can only end well."

Ghislain stood slowly. "What do you mean by that?" To Rosalind's credit, her lips did not even part in an answer before they were interrupted by the sound of hooves hitting hard along the road they had just traveled. Ghislain crossed the distance between them in a heartbeat, standing between d'Evreux's offspring and whoever was in pursuit, silently drawing his sword free of its sheath and facing this unknown but not unexpected threat to his quarry. He did not feel Rosalind draw a hopeful breath and hold onto it. He would not have blamed her if she did. His dark eyes found what he was looking for among the horsemen. D'Evreux colors, and in the greeting, a Picardie accent far thicker than Rosalind's. "Those sins I must atone for, my dear, they carry sharp swords and will make France a bloodless husk. You have no reason to trust me and I admit I am no innocent, but I beg of you: Trust me."

"Halt! Au nom du roi! Lower your blade!"

[Lady Rosalind Avalle]

Rosalind let her breath out slowly. Clouds inched across the heavens on this dry, late spring day. Dust blanketed the air and the hillside picnic setting. It tickled her nose and she sneezed violently from behind Ghislain. His words had almost, but not quite, destroyed any ideas she might have had about a rescue, but disappointment was a familiar bitter tang in her dry mouth. As the dust cleared, she was able to see the collection of horses now surrounding, and men dismounting almost in unison with weapons drawn. Steel glinted under the French sun. Ghislain lowered and sheathed his blade, and held his hands out in a supplicating gesture.

"Sir Ghislain, you are accused of theft of the Royal coffers. Return what you stole and I will be lenient in your punishment."

"Dear Charles," Ghislain offered with a broad smile that Rosalind could not see. He shifted his weight subtly to keep his body between the d'Evreux man and Rosalind. "I have stolen nothing from the Crown. Do not let your prejudice against me bring you to take false action. You will embarrass yourself."

Rosalind tried to peer around Ghislain. He nudged her back behind him with a no-nonsense gesture that prevented her from trying to see Charles d'Evreux for herself again. So, this was her half-brother? He was so young! She held firmly onto that crucifix, vaguely hoping they would arrest Ghislain, and allow her to return to Skye and her boys. Colban had work to do at Lanark and did not need to be kept in Skye any longer. Aldric needed his mother and she needed her son. She missed Peregrine with a yawning ache that never seemed appeased, as if she lacked a limb, and had only the ghost to remind her of what had been a constant in her life until recently. A woman who preferred routine but flourished in adversity, she missed the regularity of Skye's court, even if that court would not miss her hand in the daily workings of a well-oiled machine.

Her half-brother did not smile. He showed no mercy as he drew his hand and a half and put its tip under Ghislain's chin. "Surrender, Ghislain. I saw your whore wearing it at Honfleur, and mine eyes do not lie."

"Well, yes, they do. Rosalind, are you a whore?" Ghislain asked calmly, easing his head back in an effort to pull away from the tip of Charles' sword without actually taking a step away from him. The young man was entirely too self-righteous for his own good. Ghislain was also a stubborn son of a bytch who had faced many sights far more frightening than the beardless, youthful face of Charles d'Evreux, Comte of Étampes.

Rosalind felt like laughing, but that would be a very inappropriate response given the current tensions. It could not be in how she dressed, for what she wore had been selected by Ghislain's pretty hand. Perhaps it was something jaunty in her attitude that encouraged accusations of prostitution. The guards around them were all staring at her now. Even d'Evreux took his gaze off Ghislain to peer around the tall man at the woman behind him. She released her grip on the crucifix and heard hissing from the men around her. "No, I certainly am not a whore. This? Is this what you accuse him of stealing? I assure you, it has been mine from birth, monsieur. My mother gave it to me before she died."

Ghislain smiled again. "You see, Charles? Her mother gave it to her. What is it, nearly thirty years ago? Is that how long your famed crucifix has been missing? Boy, did you ever see it with your own eyes in your lifetime?" D'Evreux was not as ready to believe the story as Rosalind was. He pressed the blade a little further into Ghislain's throat. Blood trickled down the blade. Ghislain did not even flinch. The young man jerked his head, indicating for the men to close in and take Ghislain into custody. "Wait! Charles. What she says is true. I can prove it. I would rather not wait in chains while I await verification. Please, listen. Isabeau was her mother, yes. She was also your father's first wife. She was my half-sister through William of Auvergne. She is my niece and your sister."

Charles looked between Ghislain to the woman behind him. "My father had one wife. And only five children. I do not know who you are, madame, but you are no family of mine. You keep unsuitable company, and have distinct need of a chaperon. Put them both in the carriage and turn it back to Paris. We shall let the king decide upon this matter. Though I have a feeling, his opinion will not be the most unbiased." He let his eyes focus on Ghislain. Ghislain's hand had secured the throne for Valois. It was no secret he was the King's favorite. Perhaps he would be willing to overlook theft, but not from his own coffers.

"I have the contract," Ghislain said quietly. The change in voice was apparent even to Charles, who dropped the sword from Ghislain's neck and quirked his head, waiting. Ghislain carefully reached into the pocket of his jerkin and produced the ancient scrap of paper. He held it out to Charles. The man took it and read it carefully, his eyes widening slowly. He looked up to Ghislain, then past him to Rosalind. "It is true. Everything I have said, it is all true. What reason would I have to lie to you, Étampes? It is the ruination of my career to admit this to you. But it is equally important that Rosalind is recognized for her true and legitimate blood. I hid it once. I tried to tear it asunder. I will not do so again."

"Ah, Kingmaker, how true the moniker is. Put him in chains. My lady, I apologize most profusely." He bowed deeply to Rosalind and did not rise until she asked him to, a true act of contrition that nearly broke Rosalind's heart. Charles folded the marriage contract between Louis d'Evreux and Isabeau of Auvergne and placed it within the inner pocket of his jerkin. "There is no reason you should go anywhere but Paris, sister. On behalf of my family, I welcome you to the House of d'Evreux."

She looked between every man surrounding her, from Charles' fervent expression of repentance to Ghislain now held between two well-dressed d'Evreux guards. He seemed to have lost a few inches in height, this uncle of hers. While she had just gained an entire family, and a greatly respected one at that, Ghislain had just lost any possibility of receiving a portion of Rosalind's dowry in arranging her marriage. Not only that, he'd had a hand in securing the downfall of d'Evreux thirty years before to further his own political ambitions at the expense of France's security, charges that would destroy him were they brought before the king. He would never become a duke. D'Evreux now held the ace, but he was not arrogant in the knowledge of this shift in fortunes. He had never had such good fortune as this. She wished she could spare both men the embarrassment of learning her dowry was beyond reach.

Rosalind had nothing pithy to say. In fact, no words would come to her at all. In the span of a few minutes, her world had changed utterly, and though she was not a woman prone to swooning, to her shame, she began falling forward, powerless to stop her descent. Charles, however, was quick to act, and caught his sister before she hit the ground. He looked past his sister to the lean, uncompromising frame of Ghislain d'Armagnac, with a mixture of such loathing and blame that Ghislain actually turned away from the siblings, and went willingly as the guards marched him toward a horse and chained his arms together behind his back.

This was the family he had destroyed and reunited. This was his penance.

[Lady Rosalind Avalle]

Charles: The night had sprung profusely with the lavish black of days long gone. The evening air was cool and crisp, but much warmer then that of the Scottish Isle. They rode in silence, with the horses' hooves matching well the pounding of his heart as he looked across the way at his sister. In the lone hour of their ride he did nothing but think of the lives long gone; siblings married off, his youngest to Charles IV of France. It was a happy childhood, one of much laughter despite the ever watchful eye of the public, what would have happened had she been part? She had all the makings of d'Evreux, but the profile was a dead match. It seemed the only thing they would not share was but a name. Yet, even now how could he deny it. Across from her the man sat back, his thigh high boots of the latest fashion cried out with the little motion of the leather giving, but it was his voice that would finally break the silence. "Tell me what crosses your mind.." Such a face as hers was no doubt admired, but it was the silent strength he was growing to respect. "You have said nothing..do you plot? Think of ways to out do my stretch of good luck?" Was he such a bad man for wanting the best? His fortune had seen better days, but his will was only just beginning.

Rosalind: In her many years as a resident of Scotland, she had never quite adapted to her chillier home, often going through summers with a shawl around her shoulders, much to her husband's amusement. She thought about Domhnall now, of course, as the coach hurried onward toward Paris. She usually turned to him when she was unsure where to step. He had been a stranger in Paris once, long ago, before she was even born. With Balliol and the Scottish lords who traveled to France to ensure they would get the desired troops and supplies for their rebellion against England, they had been met with open French arms, and shown right into the dungeons. French hospitality was a curious thing, and even these many years later, the Scots remembered how their men had been treated abroad. Domhnall had been imprisoned at Beauquesne. Perhaps that had changed his mind -- genuine kinship with Amaury Avalle, fresh Picardie air similar to that of Inveryne, and a sense of home that he had experienced nowhere else in his youth of bouncing from Lamont to Campbell property. Rosalind sat across from her brother Charles, still stunned that she had family beyond Sir Amaury, and wondering whether Domhnall would think this good luck, or merely suspicious. She raised her eyes to meet Charles and smiled lightly. "I do not know what I think. I am dizzied by all of this. I feel like I will lose my balance if I take even the tiniest of steps forward. So," she paused, canting her head slightly before shaking it. "No, I do not plot."

Charles: "You should, you are being stripped of your freedom, but yet you take this as if it has all happened before. It is fate that has brought you here, can you see it?" The horses rode through the night, and the man crossed his arms. "I am dizzied as well..but I can not help but wonder." To wonder was a dangerous motion of lives long lost and freedom to move from subject to subject, right? "Of where do you come from? What life have you had to live?" They were not far from their destination, and the moon lit the city up. "Do you leave much behind?" Yes he was fishing for information, "Or is this why you are so silent? Do you depend on a rescue?" He would match her stoic face with his own, and allow only the corner of his lips to curl.

Rosalind: He was too persistent with his questions. She was not certain if this came from youth, lack of experience, or eagerness, but certainly it could be due to a number of these factors and more. If he was not a favorite in court, it could be desperation, tinged with a genuine desire to get to know this older sibling of his. His sister Jeanne was no more the Queen of France. His was a lonely position in the shadows of greater men. Rosalind was not so callous that she did not wish to get to know Charles. She did, most assuredly, but she was also not naive. Family did not guarantee safety. "It has all happened before, but in a very different way." She eased herself back in her chair but kept her eyes on him. She found herself recounting a slightly modified version of the story she had told any curious minds in Skye. "I was born in Beauquesne, as you know. I was betrothed at four years old, married at fourteen, and have lived in Scotland ever since. My first husband died five years ago. We were not blessed with children." She paused only to sip at her cup of mulled wine. Time and time alone made it possible to tell this tale without flinching, to give it the distance it needed, to remove any detail that was simply too painful to be relevant to any but herself. "It went wrong after that," she added simply, setting the cup down. "For many years, I served the King's sister, on the right of hospitality. My clan's enemies could not attack me and my clan could not intervene in my remarriage unless I left Campbell property. I did, eventually, for Lady Mary was no longer a Campbell but a Fraser, and...." She realized this might sound like Greek to Charles and smiled. "Well. As I said. It went wrong. I was removed from Lady Mary's protection by my own clan and married to my late husband's brother. He passed, in battle, a few months ago." Of rescue, she could think of no politic way of letting him know she did, indeed, hope for escape before fate repeated itself. So she pressed her lips together and did not answer that query.

Charles: "Hmmm, it has been such." He said with a small incline of his head, and the carriage came to a stop. When the driver stepped foot outside the door he would pull it open, and Charles would wait to let his sister pass first. The townhouses were all in a row, of lines very high in the city of love; the latest architecture, but it was the stoned garden walls that gave the place the finest of touch. The reddest of roses even in the pale moon seemed too perfect to be real. Paris had always been a step ahead of the rest in fashion, and design--it kept the world upon their toes. "A seed of bad luck, but that has changed." He turned to extend his hand, "It is not much, perhaps you come from the best..but it is our family's. We grew up here, 5 bedrooms all full..It has become a dark lonely place, but it will do no?"

Rosalind: She was grateful he asked no more questions. Explanations were getting difficult to generalize, and she detested lying, though she did so better than most when required. The carriage came to a halt, so she left her cup where it was and followed him from the carriage, taking his hand. She looked up as she exited. And up. And up. Paris was so much taller than any city she had visited before. It was grander than Aberdeen, more feminine than Turas Lan, though perhaps, impressions formed in the best of Paris' neighborhoods were not entirely accurate. The roses smelled sweet and musky, blooming even this early in the season, as if Paris altered time for beauty's sake. "It is very lovely." She could think of less attractive prisons. "I am sorry ... I wish I had known him, to offer more genuine condolences. I wish I had the opportunity to meet your brother and sisters. Tell me, are they happy where they are? They made good lives for themselves, even if it is not here in Paris or Etampes?"

Charles: "You would be surprised at the life many of them live, and perhaps once they hear of you they will wish to meet you. However, this is the reason I am now in dire hope..I have made myself to be a fool in court, with nothing to show. I have a world spinning around me..and now a chance. Tell me.." He spoke as the doors opened, the shell of a once happy home a bleak and dismal view, and in dire need of a woman's touch. "What room would you like? There are two open with great views..One overlooks the Seine, and the other the city. Both are equal in size, but this.." He spoke as he lead her up the stairs holding the candle as they went, and as he opened the large oak doors the large room gave way with the breath of the evening air blowing in through a large almost storybook window. "Has a window seat." He smiled a little with the memory of his mother reading to them perched upon the plush cushions.

Rosalind: "I think I would like to meet Jeanne. She is nearby. I would not have the others travel so far." The former Queen's story struck a chord with Rosalind. The young woman was not so distant in age that Rosalind could not relate. And in much more tender years, Jeanne had gained and lost a King of France, born two children, and dedicated herself to God rather than face another marriage. She followed Charles inside and noticed how bare the place was, how sparse its decor. Rosalind was patently against marrying anyone against his will, but perhaps Charles could use a wife to keep this big empty house for him. She followed the candlelight down to the large oak doors and saw what he was looking at -- a window seat stacked with cushions, inviting a woman to curl up against the glass with a good book, and children at her feet. "If you could do me one favor, Charles? I would like a prie dieu in my room." It seemed she was decided. "You ... are taking all of this good fortune rather well. It must be even more shocking to you. I hadn't considered it until now." He had not been kidnapped and transported to another country, of course, but finding out his mother was not his father's first wife, and that Rosalind might have had the potential to unite two of France's largest provinces if given the opportunity must have been stunning enough.

Charles: "Of course..you may have anything you wish. I could even send for your belongings if you wanted. It would take some time..but they would be safe." The young man was very ignorant, but he wished not to kidnap her..no, she would want to live here. She would see the reason, for who could leave such a city? Rosalind would dine with civilization, and be experienced in the modern marvels. "I will send you something to eat, perhaps more wine?"

Rosalind: Rosalind had tried escaping capture before to very mixed results. Mostly poor results, she admitted in a moment of complete honesty, but how could she ever forget? She walked with a limp from her first attempt. "I do not think that will be necessary." She hoped, when she returned to Skye, all her belongings would be precisely where she left them. It was good to have hope that this would happen. Seeing them here in Paris would be beyond depressing. It meant there would be no return, and have the same devastating effect the arrival of her dowry had had all those months ago, when she stood on the docks and watched with growing horror as the crates from Fearghus never seemed to end. "Food and drink would be very nice, Charles. If you do not mind, I would like to eat alone. I have much to think about. It has been a long day."

Charles: "A long day indeed, and I will see to it you get what you wish..If you need anything I am only three doors down." With that he gave her a small sweeping bow, but never once did his eyes part from her own. "You will like it here, I will see to it you are happy..We will not simply marry you off to the first suitor of course..let us find a nice one hmm?" With that Charles pulled the door closed letting the silence ring into the halls, and the evening air press against the wood of the doors. Outside the moon was bright, a happy grin as it was simply starting it's first phase, but oh how that cheshire smiled.

[Peregrine Inveryne-Lamont]

The lion and the unicorn were fighting for the crown
The lion beat the unicorn all around the town.
Some gave them white bread, and some gave them brown;
Some gave them plum cake and drummed them out of town.

Days had seemed to come and go too easily, as time stretched into agonizing longing for it only to pass faster. Peregrine hated to wait, he hated to hear back from recourses he was not certain he could trust, but most of all he hated not knowing. Was Rosalind ok? Was she hurt? Did she need him? Why…did he even care? Such a horrible fate she would suffer alone, and all he could do was sit—wait.

The day had come and gone once again and the Gypsy King sat alone by the fires upon the shore. He waited and watched for any sign of a ship, and would remain until it returned. Around him he heard the laughter of his crew as the jezebels filled them with lust, but none compared to the blood lust their captain suffered. He longed to feel the neck break of the man responsible for this. All he needed was a name. He had spent the day in Rosalind’s apartment searching for anything that would give it away, but all he found was an endless longing.

“Have you any word?”

The deep rich voice of the Lord General broke the pirate’s thoughts as he came up the path, but Maahes would only be met with silence. The large Arabic male would take a turn around the man coming across the fire and finding the eyes of the petite figure of a ghost in it’s shell. The fire that burned between them could easily compare to each eternal flame, but it was the liquid ocean eyes that for the first time seemed more dangerous.

“Answer me this, General.” Peregrine’s voice rose like a hiss as he let his hand fall away from his chin, looking at him with a flat line across his lips. “I hear you struck a new low.”

Maahes, simply stood there for a moment and for the first time Peregrine truly saw a man, not a beast. He noticed something different in the man across him, a humble worried giant in clothes of his homelands. The bare skin of the desert born held light in the fire, a burning warmth, but his eyes seemed hallow and empty. It was with the pirate’s comment he saw the complete and endless suffering, Ealora’s husband was twisted with.

“What’s the matter? Ashamed? How are you going to sleep at night,” The pirate hissed rising in the sand to stand across from him, “Knowing that you’re the reason she’s gone!”

“If I could take it back I would!” Maahes snapped and tried to defend himself, but knew well his crime. He felt horrible for the actions he was left with..he wanted only to take it back, and would do anything to see her safely returned. It was a wake up call, and had him spending his evenings with a healer every night in an attempt to return his mind to his body.

A silence fell over the pair, and it was here Maahes would truly notice the pirate’s face. Perhaps it was the light of the fire, but his eyes seemed sunk in—dark black orbs that held no mercy, and meant well to take his life. The pirate’s hands came to touch the hilt of his blade, like the idea of his fight had already been played out, and when the steel sang to life; free from it’s sheath, Maahes simply stood there. Eyes then of the few who stood upon the sand turned to the pair, and the fight that broke out. The dark eyes of the General took in the man across him, and he could only smirk.

“You plan to kill me? With that?” Maahes asked with his grin, and Peregrine would only narrow his eyes.

“You find this funny?” Ha! Now the Beast was playing with fire insulting his pride, and stance with the sword, but it was when Maahes laughed the pirate would launch himself. However, the large hands of the Arab would find the small frame of the man upon his back within seconds.

“You stand too wide..” Maahes breathed atop the man, standing inches from his face, and the pirate would kick out the larger man’s leg. Egypt would stumble, but Africa would never fall. Yet, as the Beast took a step back, Perry found his feet quickly, and the song of the sword flying about started its battle. Maahes was unarmed, but the gauntlets around his wrist blocked well; their hits sounding as the metal under the leather came well with its defense. However, it would the yelp of the smaller man as he rolled his shoulder back, with Maahes’s hit, “You rolled back your shoulder to hit me..you must force it. Now again!” Maahes barked at the man, and the pirate followed through, but the tip would still against the Arab’s skin. His breath was forced between clenched teeth.

Together they bore holes into the other’s eyes, as the pirate could very well take his life. Yet, the sound of the Beast’s words hit him with realization, and with a small motion of his hand another man would hand the General a blade as he dropped his own. Maahes turned the hilt in his hand passing dark eyes over the rest, before returning them to his opponent.

“I do not wish to fight you, Peregrine..” For once.

“Don’t fight me, General. I’m rusty..I’ve spent my life in trees with a bow, remind me.” For he knew well the fight ahead of him was one he would could not lose, “just with force no?”

[Lady Rosalind Avalle]

The court was vibrant in this new reign. Games were played each day it was sunny out in the gardens, military men strategizing over chess boards, boys playing real tennis while women giggled behind the barricades and discussed the finer points of the youthful male body. Ghislain had once been both the sportsman and the chess player, enjoying more than a few games of each with Philip. Now he strode the back ways to the king's private audience chamber, flanked by the king's guards, until he reached the double doors and gained admittance.

No sound erupted from within. It never did, of course. The men had learned discretion at early ages. But the entirety of the laughing, joking, gaming court knew that Ghislain d'Armagnac, the man the people of Paris called Kingmaker in reverent tones, had fallen severely out of favor with His Majesty. Over what matter, it was not made clear, but since when did gossip need reason to flourish? They gave him wide berth, closing around well after his wake finished stirring the otherwise tranquil waters, hushed whispers and knowing looks like froth dragging slow lines across the water.

"Why?" the king asked, raking his hands through his hair. His look was not as despairing as his tone of voice suggested. Dark eyes remained level on Ghislain, waiting for the man to make a move, though clearly he would not. The king was as efficient as a pin holding a collector's moth in place on a board.

"You saw the power d'Evreux seized for himself even without Auvergne. One daughter wed to Navarre, the other to your uncle -- and I do not need to remind you how different things would be had Jeanne born the Dauphin." Ghislain's voice held more bitterness than anger. He met Philip's gaze, his own high brow lowering a fraction at the suspicion on his lover's and sovereign's countenance. "I did what I could to keep him and the Spanish out of this court."

"You did what you could to see your legitimate sister disinherited and ruined."

"And still, I had to work my way from an impoverished knight to a comte!" Ghislain volleyed back, his lip curling. "Though I love you, and I do, Philip -- you are stingy in your rewards, as all of Capet have been in the past. William of Auvergne was my father as much as he was Isabeau's. He groomed me for the title of Auvergne, and what did I receive but rusty armor and a nod to make my fortune in tourneys. It was not enough. I made a mistake, Philip, one for which I will spend the rest of my life atoning for. Let me make this right at last. Let me finish what I started."

Philip smiled, but there was no amusement in the gesture. He dropped his hands from his hair and folded them behind his back, composing himself in the face of Ghislain's bristling rage and hurt. "You have forced my hand, Ghislain. I cannot play favorites in this matter. Charles is the woman's closest living male relative and has every right to be outraged at your meddling in his family's affairs. To God, I wish I did not need to punish you for this. You made my throne. You preceded me to Flanders last year. You have been my constant companion and most intimate confidant. I cannot overlook this." He bowed his head briefly, then looked up again. "You are removed from your title of comte, Ghislain; your lands and income related to your titles are forfeit to the Crown. You retain your knighthood and what you have won in jousts and as reward for military service, but no more are you a peer of this court."

Ghislain felt the breath in his chest vanish in an instant. He gripped the nearby chair for balance. He was much too old now to make his fortune as younger men might on the battlefield, much less in tournaments. There was no more opportunity for advancement. He could not hope to make an advantageous match, even if he cared a whit for women. He was ruined, far more effectively than William of Auvergne had ruined his bastard son. Without a peerage, he was even forbidden from remaining in Philip's presence. Ghislain and none else had known Philip before marriage to Jeanne, before the wars, before ascension to the throne. His years of loyalty and profound love obviously meant so little to the king now. He was no more the kingmaker; Ghislain d'Armagnac was a nobody.

"I cannot make her a duchess. I do not know enough of her past to risk such a position on a woman who has lived most of her life abroad." Ghislain looked up as Philip spoke again, the king's voice measured, but softer. He did care, then. "She will restore this Crown to wealth, my old friend, and I must consider her ties to d'Evreux. She would have consolidated our power earlier; she could have returned to us Brittany, at least. With Aragon, we may yet reclaim the Aquitaine in our lifetime. The Comtesse d'Auvergne is important to us. I will make amends."

"They are mine to make."

Philip glared at the taller man and straightened his shoulders. The words had been no more than a hiss, but in those few syllables, all that remained of Ghislain's tattered pride were in full display. Philip turned away. "No. They are no longer. I leave very little in your hands, Sir Ghislain. I trust you no more with affairs of the State."

Ghislain bowed deeply and exited. Philip. Oh, my sweet king, if I had only known. He walked quickly, but felt as though he walked in water. He saw none of the court as he left. He saw nothing at all but the stone beneath his feet. Philip had broken his heart and ruined his soul, but Ghislain could not bring himself to betray his king, even now. The rage that slowly replaced grief was not for Philip. It was for Charles d'Evreux.

"Send an emissary to Skye. Inform them of Rosalind's whereabouts and that the Comtesse d'Auvergne is now a ward of Philip's court." The emissary would never get so far, Ghislain suspected. Rosalind's presence in France was not a matter of states, after all, but of the misguided sense of duty to a woman long dead. If Ghislain could not profit from Rosalind's marriage to a peer of the realm, he would be damned if Charles would profit from her union with any the Spaniards. Philip naively assumed the Spanish desire for French conquest was less than his desire for French consolidation. "Take Aquitaine, my king, but be lucky if at the end of your lifetime, they still speak French in France."

[Adelaide d'Aquitaine]

Jack was a favorite among the merchants of Turas Lan. He was willing to run any errand for the right coin, and when he volunteered to run, run he did. At full tilt, he went darting through the crowds with messages and products held tightly in his hands. He knew every shortcut and byway, he knew every shop address as if it was burned behind his eyelids, and he had a mouth on him nearly as fast as his feet. When he wasn't running, he was hawking, and the sound of his voice carried on the crisp, clean morning air.

Such a familiar voice made passersby smile. Crankier shoppers grumbled, but it wasn't market day without Jack creating interesting ditties about shoes and soaps.

Jack, naturally, had all the news of Turas Lan. He was friends with all the pretty maids who came down from the castle to visit with family in the city, and liked listening to their stories of finery and drudgery alike. From the girls who dressed their ladies in fantastic baubles and fabrics to the unluckier few who scrubbed the pots and pans, they all had a tale to tell.

Obviously, the story of the month was the disappearance of Lady Rosalind. The castle was in an uproar over her disappearance, and the docks in a riot over the increased number of guards walking the quayside. Lamont men were grumbling at the similar disappearance of Aldric mac Colban and his father. They could tolerate a Campbell, they told young Jack, but not when he was all that stood between the three-year-old heir and total annihilation of Clan Lamont.

It was late evening when, hoarse and tired, he decided to stop by his favorite apothecary to see if he could get a free cup of tea from Ada. The woman always had something interesting happening on that quiet little street adjacent to the Briar Rose. This week, it was the construction of an outdoor set of stairs leading to her private apartments. Last week, the witch had painted her shutters blue to match the pretty flowers hanging in baskets near the front stoop.

Ada poked her head out of those shuttered windows and caught sight of Jack. She waved him over and gave her favorite urchin a concerned look. "I sent Molly after you hours ago. Where have you been?"

"Molly?" Jack asked, canting his head. "She never found me. I never saw her."

"Hard to miss her, hey, Jackie? She dyed her hair again."

"Aye, wi' henna. It's a sight. Sailors certainly wouldn't miss her advertising her wares." At Ada's stern look, Jack shrugged. "I'll go look for her. But I don't wanna look too closely, mind."

"Right. Sailors." Ada waved him off and shut the blue shutters behind her.

Jack dashed off to find the harlot. The harbor water was just in sight when he saw a very strange thing happen out the alley exit of Molly's favorite pub. Two men with somber faces carried between them a figure covered in a sheet, her brilliant fake red hair draped over her face. "Hey!" Jack shouted, thinking these men were up to no good at all!

"Beat it, son. We been told to take care of the body by the guards." One of the men jutted his chin in the direction of the city guards near the front entrance. Jack looked once more at Molly's corpse, shuddered, and ran back to tell the apothecary his sad news.

[Master Jean-Claude d'Aquitaine]

Jane Fitzwilliam:     The sun rose over the Seine with glorious splendor, it's rich bright golds melted away the cool parting colors of morning as the dawn swallowed the sky. The dark shadows of the night were but memory as now the warmth of the sun chased away the feeling of regret, or so could be said about the keep at Maison de d'Evreux., where her wide eyes opened to the day with new light. Today, was her first mission, her first day to spend with her new Lady, and the first time she was old enough to do so on her own. No more then 17 the small petite frame of the woman came with a rush to the kitchen where her tray was waiting by the lone cook. It was Rosalind's breakfast tray, her first hello.. finally she would be able to meet the most talked about subject in the house since the marriage of the oldest daughter. "You do not say.." The small pink lips curled with catching the ear of the latest gossip as it seemed for long last the old abandoned estate that sat almost against the river had be let at last. "I should hope he is handsome..rich.." She smiled again to the serfs who worked so hard at keeping this place a home, but of course knowing she would never pass the eye of any man in court. With tray in hand, and heart beating against her chest the little woman went forth on her journey and wondered to the room where Rosalind slept. With a small knock, she would turn the knob only enough so her rear could open the room. Clumsy little thing she was, and all the rest held their breath as they listened for the tray to fall. "Good morning, M'lady, tis a beautiful one!" She was all smiles as she sat the tray down with a great exhale and moved to open the curtains. (d

Rosalind Avalle:     Rosalind was a lady, though she was antithetical to the title upon close examination.  She was used to the routine of court, of an English court.  And far from England they were, it seemed, as her days lately seemed full of nothing but leisurely strolls and introductions to men she should find fascinating, but were actually quite droll.  Even the king himself was far from fascinating.  He kept the company of men, mostly, and passed through court like a gale force wind, the feathered balls from real tennis knocked off course by the young men thrown equally askew by seeing His Majesty for the first time.  Rosalind did not titter behind the screens separating the court from the breezeways; she did not gossip with the young women; she did not sew and prattle on about wayward daughters with the elder ladies.  Whatever it was she preferred to do, France had yet to discover it, and Rosalind was growing increasingly cranky the longer she was kept waiting -- and the more time she spent away from Aldric.  She sat on the bench at the window and stared out at the river. Already, little boats were darting across the waters and larger ships were progressing in stately procession toward their berths or Honfleur.  Though she hated traveling on such things, she wished she was on one now.  She leaned back at the sudden onslaught of light as the woman pulled open the curtains, but her eyes adjusted quickly enough.  "It is beautiful indeed."  She drew her knees to her chest and held on, the thin fabric of her nightdress just warm enough for the season. *

Jane Fitzwilliam:     "M'lady, have you been awake very long?" Her hand would come to her chest in disappointment to herself..had she kept her waiting too long? "It is a lovely seat is it not? When the room was vacant, which I prefer it not to be I would come clean it just so I could sit." As she passed towards the bench she would bring the small tray of Rosalind's breakfast and place it before her, and her tiny hands came to clutch the frame looking out just behind Rosalind, "Do you see that house there with a deep underbrush growing wild in it's yard?" She pointed the lone house by the bank, it's yard seeming to empty into the river, and the house itself seeming to slip away as well. The windows were covered, the yard was over grown, and the roof sinking in places. Really it could not be missed as it was the only one that didn't look like a perfect dolls house, or fine estate of the richest of men. "The cook told me today it was recently purchased by a distant relative of nobleman somewhere." She waved her hand not remembering the name, as it like many things fell from her mind as quickly as it was placed there. "Perhaps we will venture there, hmm?" She giggled to herself moving then to order Rosalind's attire for the day, and place it out on the bed. (d

Rosalind Avalle:     "No, not long."  Whether it was a lie or falsehood was not revealed on her face, but she did not look particularly tired.  She missed Aldric so much, it made her stomach clench.  She'd aroused from sleep several times the night before reaching for him, thinking he was lying on the other side of the bed, as if he was an infant again.  Finding that side empty, she'd felt the need to rise and go looking for him, but it merely took the action of sitting upright to remind her that she was not in Skye.  She tried to let the girl's enthusiasm and joy spread, but she was simply not in the mood to be joyful. "I had noticed it.  It is an eyesore."  She pressed her hand on the glass.  "I cannot believe no one bothered purchasing it until now.  It has been vacant for years, or so it seems."  With such pretty houses as its neighbors, she wondered what the obstacle to its purchase had been.  But the servant wouldn't have that answer.  Not many would.  It was enough to know the house had a new owner, and perhaps Charles could be persuaded to entertain him here.  It would make the servants happy, and if there was one thing Rosalind had learned of household management, caving in with a dinner party to satisfy the cook's curiosity was not nearly as expensive as a high staff turnover.  Rosalind picked up a piece of thin toast from the tray.  She'd forgotten how much more delicate French food was to the Scottish fare she was used to.  No porridge for breakfast, no thick crusty breads, no meat dripping with fat. No wonder everyone believed the Scots absolutely barbaric.  Rosalind smiled slightly.  She'd once believed it, too.  "I would like to go for a walk.  I haven't been anywhere in the city yet save the occasional house, or the palace...." *

Jane Fitzwilliam:     "Then today is no doubt the best of days." She held up the little blue dress, a light robin eggs color with little silk details, "Do you wish something a little more..vibrant?" Her rosy cheeks only flushed further as it was clear she was not a woman of fashion, no little Jane was often found wondering the gardens in search of frogs--strange girl indeed, but one who did not desire a huge salary. "I have heard he is handsome, and very rich indeed, a son of a Duke..or was it a Viscount?" She pondered a bit more. "He is an author as my father I think was a big follower, but then something happened..not sure..I was very young. Perhaps we will have to convince the Lord to have a welcoming dinner? It has been a long time since this house as seen any guests." (d

Rosalind Avalle:     She smiled more genuinely.  The girl was young, but she seemed to be able to read Rosalind's very thoughts.  "I think a dinner will be an excellent idea.  It is not my home to use for entertainment," even if she was now her half-brother's social peer, "but I will ask my brother if this would be something he might wish to do.  I am curious, too," she confided, picking up a knife and smearing jelly onto her next slice of toast.  "And if he is as handsome as he is rumored to be, even if he is a complete boor, at least we will have something to look at, no?"  Sadly, this was how Rosalind felt about most of the men she'd met thus far.  Pretty to look at, on occasion, but not much else to recommend them.  "The blue will be perfect."  She'd save the red for court.  After all, parading her about was as like pimping Rosalind out to the highest paying john, she felt no need to dress modestly.  The entirety of France knew what Rosalind's elevation to comtesse meant.  She chewed on her toast to keep these thoughts to herself, turning her eyes back to the house.  She finished her breakfast within moments and stood to be dressed.  She looked over the dress Jane pointed to and nodded her approval before sticking her arms up in the air and letting the garment slide down.  After she was dressed, she sat down back on the window seat and let Jane brush out her hair so that it could be dressed properly.  She wasn't in Skye anymore, after all, but at least the wimple was no longer in fashion, as no one in Paris liked to be reminded of the young Queen living the remainder of her days in mourning for her late husband.  France liked to remember beautiful things, happy things.  They did not like dour expressions or Rosalind's adopted sense of practicality. *

Jane Fitzwilliam:     The day was nearly half finished when they would finally make their way out the door, and the Spring day met them with the heat of summer afternoon. However, all weather as this came and went in France, or so it seemed with Spring such a fickle time of year. As they walked down the sidewalk, the modern marvels were amazing as always Paris held it's station in advancement, with carriages of the finest materials, and science submitting a great detail to all walks of life. Jane was quick to stay at her lady's side, the soft little figure worshiped the ground Rosalind walked on and that was made clear with each starry eyed look she gave the newly rising woman of court. Jane wished nothing more then to see Rosalind happily married so she could be hired on and spend her days in the company of such greatness. "I know we should not visit unless he has not, but we can walk by no?" Such a little vixen even at an early age. "His name is Jean-Claude, this much is known but his last name and title is not, but the name was given by his companion last night as they passed." Her hands came to clap together with a little giggle as she loved to put puzzles together. "Perhaps he shall be the one, and think! You can live just beside your brother, and I would not be so far from mama!" Her little skip would have many looking upon the pair with much to say as always Rosalind walk the talk of the town. "Oh what a perfect day this is!" It was very clear that the very presence of Rosalind had brought so much hope to the estate, that now they would have key into court again, and be well kept with the following times. For what was a servants job without anyone to serve? The sidewalk bent and twisted over the road, and around the path until it was met with the iron gates of the estate, and the weeds even here seemed to spill over. As always a cloud would move in to cover the sun even if only for a moment falling upon the already dark color of the home, and making it seem all the more haunted as it had once been thought. The wind whipped through the windows, and made the boards cry out in protest..an eerie sound indeed! As Jane's hands came to hold the bars her eyes were wide, as it was clear she felt herself afraid.."They say it is haunted..and I have not believed it..but who would live in such a place?" A shadow would fall upon her back, even with the blocked sun this man had always been the very essence of the dark, but as his voice rose from his lips it perhaps should have belonged to a ghost and not such a gentleman,

Jean-Claude d'Arc: "It may not be much to look upon now, but with a little faith ma petite it will shine again." The ever gentle voice, like a calm ocean surface settled in the bay, and did well to compliment his elegant features.

Jane Fitzwilliam: Jane gasped at the man quickly turning to only fall in behind her Lady. A flush rose to her cheeks as the man smiled to her, and she felt her stomach flutter with how true all the rumors were.(d

Rosalind Avalle:     She was glad Jane talked enough for both of them.  Rosalind wasn't every very chatty; she was even less so now, though when Jane prompted, she always got a response.  They walked, and when Rosalind asked about this house or that, the girl had plenty to say about each family and whether they were friend or foe, determining this status by how many times they had been invited to dinner, how often Charles went out with their neighbors' sons of a similar age, and other complicated rules to an algorythm that Rosalind trusted enough not to question too thoroughly. "Oh, I do not think I will marry anyone who lives in Paris," Rosalind said with a soft sigh.  "There are many bachelors in this city, Jane, but not many who would meet d'Evreux's exacting standards."  Rosalind had thought this through very carefully, after all.  It would have been easy enough for Charles to find a suitor within days of her arrival.  He was waiting for a better catch.  Socializing was merely a way of appeasing the court.  After all, Auvergne was indebted to none -- it was autonomous, and had different rules than those territories governed ultimately by the king. "But I think I should like to visit as often as I can.  Paris is fascinating."  Many kings of Europe were known to travel back and forth.  Joan of Navarre traveled very frequently, and so did the kings of England -- Rosalind liked to think, as all the French did, that it was out of respect to the French that the kings came to renew vows of fealty for ownership of Aquitaine and Brittany, not that it was to taunt the French kings.  She could adopt a lot of Scotland's culture and psychology, but she was still French at heart.  "Ah, this season is so changeable, even here."  She rubbed briefly at her arms as they rounded down the sidewalk and approached the new neighbor's home.  Jean-Claude was a familiar name, but it could just as easily belong to another.  She set that belief aside when she saw the familiar, tall man.  He'd once frightened her a bit, but he was a welcome face if ever she saw one now!  She wished she could throw her arms around him, but that would not do.  Rosalind smiled as Jane hid behind her.  She'd once wished to do the same.  She curtsied to their new neighbor and waved for Jane to do likewise.  If she wished to serve in the halls of the great, she must learn to act with the same grace as her social betters.  "Monsieur.  I hope you forgive our curiosity.  We heard of a new arrival." *

Jean-Claude d'Arc:   There was such a kindness there behind black eyes that had never been before, and all came from the face before him. Relief set in, and with hers smile his heart would start once more. For a good long moment he was silent, but that broke with the whisper of his voice, "A new arrival indeed to.." bring you home.."return to the city.." Without missing a beat he would extend his hand, fingers turned upward inviting her in as it seemed he longed to embrace her as well, but this would simply have to do. "I am Jean-Claude d'Arc of Viennois, a name that is well known but I fear I must decline any true relation for political sake." He said with a smile, the name a full lie and here is where it would start. "So you live near?" His eyes would travel the length of Rosalind quickly evaluating her like a patient, checking for any sign of stress, and if the ladies would look closely his eyes held deep pools of water from the pure result of finding none. The hit he had known, the stress he could see, but she was not hurt..and very much real. (d

Rosalind Avalle:     "I am new to Paris, too," she offered quietly.  Her accent had not changed much over the years.  It was still pure Picardie, though she had been accused by giggling ladies that perhaps she'd spent too long in Scotland.  She sounded like the northern brutes sometimes, they said. "I am staying with my brother, Charles, Comte d'Etampes."  She squeezed his fingers discreetly.  It would have to do, but it was not enough.  She averted her eyes temporarily to Jane and smiled.  "Which reminds me.  Perhaps you can take recommendations for staff from my lady's maid, here. She knows everyone worth hiring.  And when you are suitably settled in, I hope you will join me for dinner and entertainment soon."  She took the initiative.  She didn't wish to ask Charles for permission.  Maybe it made her a little bold in Jane's eyes, but Rosalind was nothing if not independent-minded, and had been since the day of her arrival.  To his credit, her brother had not reprimanded her for having an opinion, too overjoyed at both finding he had an unknown sister and bewildered at his luck that she was the only legitimate heir to Auvergne.  "The Seine is very high for this time of year, or so I am told. It has rained much this spring, and I heard of a young man who was swept off to his doom just a few weeks ago.  I suppose this makes late night walks along the bank a treacherous endeavor."  She smiled again.  No matter he could not take late night walks to meet her; she could see his home from her window. *

Jane Fitzwilliam:   [/color]  Behind Rosalind Jane did nothing but grin, her eyes fixed upon the tall man and the blush red hot against her cheeks. However, she did not take it as bold of Rosalind, but took it as one of the best signs from God she had ever known , and as she would start to speak again she would chime in with a voice like bells, "You can always hire a boat. I am sure if you wished to walk at night, perhaps even a fine carriage..Do you have many carriages, Sir? Perhaps you could send for us? Or ride one over to our place? It's not far, just there." She would turn a small hand up to point in the direction of the their home, and would quickly turn her lips to whisper against Rosalind's ear, "He is handsome.." In that moment Jane's face went pale, with the sight of another male rounding the corner of the crumbling estate, but it was not from knowing, but from the pure humorous fact he was bare chested for all of Paris to see in broad daylight..upon a busy street.

Peregrine The Pirate: Peregrine came round the house with a sack of mix upon his shoulder, body pulled tight with the strain to lift such a heavy object. Every muscle in his body was well defined in moments like this as the sack could clearly weigh as much as he did. He was filthy, covered in dust, with the lines of his hard work making his body glisten in the now prevailing sunlight. With a heavy belt pulling down upon his breeches much of him was exposed and it was very clear upon Jane's face she had never seen such...where did that faint line of hair end that left where a child once connected with it's mother. Much like the sailor he was, Peregrine held little respect, or worried much of what the world would think. Jean-Claude had been schooling him the entire trip, but it seemed all went in one ear to pass easily out the other. "You know.." He spoke with his back to the trio, "It sure would be nice to have a little help around.." [/i]Once the sack was upon the ground he turned dusting his hands to find Jean standing with two ladies; and his heart stopped. That hand would fall to his chest as he felt the pain  again, this agonizing clench of realization she was there..alive..standing before him, and well. [/color]

Jean-Claude d'Arc: "Before you came, she was giving friendly advise as it seems this young lady knows well how to staff." Jean-Claude motioned to the younger of the two, "And forgive me.I did not ask your name..may I have the honor?" (d

Rosalind Avalle:     Rosalind was, on the whole, more than a little amused by Jane's reaction.  It seemed the girl had found something far more impressive than chasing frogs in the garden or inspecting crickets.  Men seemed lovely creatures, and if only Jane could talk enough, she would eventually hit upon a subject that Jean-Claude could respond to.  She tried not to laugh.  Hypocrisy was a terrible, terrible sin, and she would be reminded of that in a few moments, when from behind Jean-Claude, she noticed ... him.  She could not help but note every muscle that corded on his frame, sunlight gleaming on sweaty skin.  He had been cleaner the last time she saw him.  He had been laughing, too, how she preferred to remember him, actually.  Wild, smelling like the sun and sea -- he would sleep beneath his full moon and arise smelling like the grass, damp with dew, to crawl through her window and wake her up with cold feet. Those muscles she had kissed, each one of them, but not enough.  That sobered look in his eyes was another one she loved, but it was too difficult to acknowledge it now -- in moments of calm, when he stopped moving and was no longer laughing, he was hers, heart and soul.  Their meeting now reminded her too much of their first greetings.  He demanded to know why she would not smile, why she drank so much, where her man was, why she would not dance with him.  He needed to know who gave her the mark on her cheek, and later, who would protect Aldric when she could not.  She casually dismissed him then with icy words intended to keep him at a distance.  And she did so now, curling her fingers behind her back until nails bit her flesh.  "Rosalind, Comtesse d'Auvergne." *

Jean-Claude d'Arc: "Rosalind, what a pleasure for now I shall not feel so foolish stepping foot into a room I know none.." Meaning the dinner, as this was his answer. Jane would giggle a little as eyes did not leave the sight of the smaller blonde one as he moved closer she would grin. Peregrine's eyes were a smoldering fire against the smaller pools of her own, and it was beyond clear how he had earned such a reputation.

Peregrine the Pirate: Closing the distance between himself and the smaller woman he would return her smile with one that would no doubt see the young girl naked by the end of the evening if he kept up. She would look up into him, and he into her until he stepped to turn her away from the lady, "So you can find me help hmm?" He would ask in a low voice that was a tease as if it was the breath across naked skin, and chills chased Jane's spine. "I can.."[i/] All a distraction that worked well as Jane heaved a heavy breath inhaling the very scent of the man, who even with his day's work still smelled of the rich earth and the sea. "The best by tomorrow?" He would ask with his back now to Rosalind, and Jane cornered between himself and the gate; their bodies not touching. It was with nodding face did he know he held her attention, and the little space between he and his love was crossed to offer her an exposed open palm. Those sweet little hands that were going to dig into the other he longed for, but  simply he wanted to reach out to her, let her know it would not be long before she was home. Peregrine would grin that devilish smile he owned so well and let his eyes pass to Jean-Claude, yeah..he still had it.

Jean-Claude d'Arc: Jean-Claude would catch on quickly catching the wrist of his friend and pulling it back as even the slightest touch could be read as false, and the onlookers would get ideas that would be their ruin. "You can work well enough on your own." Such a demanding tone not of Jean-Claude's normal, but this was his roll, "No need, but thank you again." (d[/b]


Rosalind Avalle:     Rosalind was not the sort to ever feel jealousy.  It simply wasn't in her.  But perhaps she felt more than a twinge now that Jane was far closer to Peregrine than she was, that if she just reached out, she could hold his hands.  Then he moved aside from Jane and held out his hand.  Instinct made her fingers twitch, but she did not reach back, closing her eyes as if the sunlight revealed from the passing clouds was suddenly too strong.  "Jane, I think before we return home, I would like to go to church."  She swallowed and opened her eyes again, blinking against the light.  "It won't make us late, will it? I don't mean to keep my brother waiting on dinner for my prayers."  She felt pinned in place by her need to hold Peregrine.  But she fluttered, struggling to get away, to preserve whatever senses remained, before any passersby suspected anything was amiss in this meeting.  They had stayed long enough to be cordial.  Any longer, and there would be gossip.  It would ruin Charles, who was not at fault for removing her from Skye, and whom she believed to be a fine man.  Her family, too -- what remained of it.  No, it was time to be gone, and let Jean-Claude tell Peregrine what he knew of the court gossip, and her invitation to dinner.  "I am pleased to have met you, Jean-Claude.  And I am certain Jane will recommend only the finest.  No slatterns nor thieves nor slothful servants -- you will have moral, dedicated, and hard-working men and women to bring your new home back to its former glory. Am I right, Jane?"  She didn't mean to take such a harsh tone with the girl, but Jane's eyes had gone back down Peregrine's stomach again, and talk about sending her over to confer about staffing choices was not the brightest idea Rosalind had ever had, though it would certainly make Jane even more a fan of Rosalind than she had been before.  She wished she knew a way to tell Peregrine everything she was thinking in a few words, but even Rosalind wasn't capable of that sort of code.  She could only put a candle in the window after the sun finally set that evening, and hope the bright little flame spoke for her. *

Peregrine the Pirate:     He would laugh, a deep rich sound as he turned his back on them all for they were crazy..all of them were crazy if they would think for a moment of such a place every existing where he could be a polished gentleman. Perhaps this was his reason for laughter, but if one were to place their hand upon the smooth surface of his chest they would feel a heart breaking and a soul longing to simply kidnap her. Oh, what a fickle man he had become!! A soft hearted who cared for a nation simply because she loved it. Skye would not need the eyes of the French upon them, nor did Rosalind's family need anymore strife, but she had a life to return to! Rosalind had a son, and a Pirate who longed to have her home.

Jean-Claude d'Arc: "Forgive his rudeness, perhaps it is too much sun..or not enough. It has been a dark..cold..journey." Dark eyes fell into Rosalind's and he would bow his head, knowing she would get his meaning, that his captain was walking on the edge of a cliff, and very close to falling. "Have a good afternoon." (d

[Peregrine Inveryne-Lamont]

Rosalind Avalle:     It was usual for most Europeans to spend time at church at least once a day, and Rosalind was not much exception to the rule.  When she was within the walls of the cathedral, she could leave her thoughts behind and enjoy the peace this sanctuary offered.  She still thought, of course, but things came slower beneath the image of her Savior, they had more order and coherence.  She gained perspective she did not otherwise have, though right now, it was difficult to find that perspective.  She needed advice for the mortal world, not that which was offered by doctrine.  She needed answers, and though she had met many priests, none seemed to have anything tangible to offer -- save that odd Welsh abbot.  His answers had been correct, in a way.  At least Rosalind had discovered what he offered was not what she wanted.  Rosalind genuflected upon entering and went to find a place for herself before the altar, kneeling on the leg that bent easiest and letting the other fall slightly to the side, the break in form unnoticed beneath the folds of her burgundy colored dress.  Candlelight flickered in her periphery, and as always, she lost her sense of time within the thick stone walls.  It could be broad daylight or the very middle of the night; she could not tell deep within the cathedral, with the windows slitted high above, letting in little light when there was any at all. *

Peregrine the Pirate:      The Cathedral was empty save for the very few who whispered their prayers to God in open sobs; sinners who longed for forgiveness, and a baron mother who wanted only a child. Row after row of brilliantly artistic bench lined the  floors well like a shield keeping out those that were unwanted with their hard stiff backs, and welcoming those who needed refuge with the plush cusp of their seat. Would it have surprised Rosalind to know he had been here first? Though..of course the building was not upon fire just yet. The serenity of the candlelight against the cherry wood reminded him of home, a land long lost where only memories of candles across ivory keys remained in the untold portion of his memory. It was a broken line that moved though to reality but when she entered the path had never been more clear. Like a spider in it's web he had waited in the darkest corner, collecting dust as the day came to a close. A valiant swagger now slipped into a slow step as he came up behind her, but when she took to kneel he would not be but a step behind. "Come to confess your sins, Mon cher..or the ones you know I'm about to commit?" Was that confession? Never. Kneeling beside her he closed his hands together and let his head bow to mimic her, but to those who knew him--knew better for this one to pray. (d

Rosalind Avalle:      Rosalind was startled out of her prayers.  Peregrine....  That man was destined for hell!  She crossed herself.  "What are you doing?" she whispered out of the corner of her mouth.  In the muffled silence of the cathedral, her words would never be heard beyond the altar, though any louder, and the acoustics would brilliantly echo them to all those who came to pray.  She took a deep breath -- he had chased what air she breathed out of her lungs!  She picked up the d'Evreux cross with its twin black beads of jet on the fine silver chain and gave it a brief kiss.  She did not know what he was thinking, but she could not focus her mind on prayer with him kneeling beside her.  She could not sit still.  Rosalind wanted to wrap her arms around him, she wanted to be held, she wanted news about her son, the story about how he'd found her here, of all places.  And she wanted to ask him to be kind, and not to kill her brother.  He was not her captor, after all, and she was certain even her uncle Ghislain had a reason for his actions that did not require violence as repayment for her capture.  It was clear from the dark look in her eyes that her mind was at work.  Kneeling beside him did nothing but bring more frustration to already complicated circumstances.  She left the main chamber for the network of hallways generally beyond regular parishioners' access, but certain luxuries were afforded to the wealthy, and there in the shadows she waited. *

Peregrine the Pirate:      "God Damn It, Rosalind what do you think I'm doing." He whispered back, the sound more a hiss then it was a sigh. Yeah. He was going to hell. Her dark look would be well met with his own, vengeance, revenge, a vendetta now upon all of France, but nothing had been blown up yet. Still forward he watched the candles burn one by one and followed the line of the different statues there casting their Holy shadows upon the walls. "Kiss that all you wish, pray for mercy, but there will be none if I find out this is all some trick. You will have to tell me before I draw my own conclusion, for I'll be sent to prison, and you'll have no one to keep you company at night." It would be then his ocean orbs turned shadowing mess to meet her eye; to find her face. His voice grew quieter as a few passed joining them at the edge of the alter. "My sanity is easily broken when the woman I love just up and leaves for Paris, and doesn't tell me." He knew the truth, but wanted to hear it from her own lips before he cast his judgment for he was not a hot headed fool like Lord General, but a knife in the back Gypsy with a thirst for blood. (d

Rosalind Avalle:      Rosalind guided him into one of the alcoves.  Heaven knew what it was for.  Genuflecting.  Privacy.  She did not particularly care, but it served their purposes.  She pulled the tapestry down behind them so that they were walled off from any who happened to be passing by.  "It was a trick, but I do not know its target yet.  It was not me -- I am a pawn in play, Peregrine, and I am not certain if my removal will cause all Europe to fall.  Did Jean-Claude tell you the gossip at court?"   She wished to run a hand through her hair, but forgot it was caught up in a caul and held in place with delicate combs.  The hand floated there for a moment before she brought it back down to the cross at her neck.   "Amaury Avalle was not my father.  My father was Charles d'Evreux, son of King Philip III, and my mother -- Isabeau of Auvergne."  She was brief but thorough explaining the revelations, and that she was now a ward of Philip of Valois.   "I cannot be married without his permission, effectively making any match that occurs a matter of state diplomacy.  Peregrine, I do not want this....  I do not want to be here.  I swear to you, I would rather be a thousand places other than here, but if I leave, they will find me.  I cannot be taken from you again.  Aldric?  Is he safe?" *

Peregrine the Pirate:      Instantly he was reminded of their wondering through the castle in Skye, how he would have followed her anywhere, and should have known then how deeply his feelings went. His hand rose to follow hers, but stilled as it pulled back to his chest as he felt afraid his heart would find it's own path out to her. It beat so fiercely against his ribs that he was sure they were to break as the pain was just the same. "Jean-Claude told me everything he knew, but nothing of this--I'll break his face in when we return for keeping information." His lips tightened closed then as he forced air to fill his lungs and exhaled slowly, "Aldric is with his father, Colban is going to take him into the country..do the..bonding thing." He waved his hand at the matter, pretending to care very little, but indeed cared greatly. "So..tell me then what match would best 'suit' your brother. A noble Lord with a hundred knights?" Peregrine took a step closer to her, seeming taller in his brooding state, but it was simply a trick of the eye in the darkened corner. "I'll fight every one of them." He'd been practicing!

Rosalind Avalle:      She blinked swiftly.  "I do not see a way out of this without ... ruining all of France and Skye in the process.  Perhaps -- perhaps if I knew who was at play, I could make a move, but I know nothing."  But waiting and watching was something only Rosalind was good at.  Peregrine wanted to act and she did not blame him.  She agreed with him, if it meant she could go home, forget all this silliness about inheritance and alliances.  If she could hold her little boy again, and tell him the truth when she said she would never leave him again -- she would make a great deal of rash decisions with that vision in her head.  She watched Perry, the expressions on his face despite the shadows in the alcove, and it was asking too much not to touch him.  She wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face against his neck and shoulder.  "I know you will." *

Peregrine the Pirate:   He was like a stone against her even with her whisper he could not help but want to push her way. He did not want her to see him like this. He didn't want her to know him as he was now, but the truth was there was a great deal of the devil inside him, but when he felt her breath upon his neck all he could do was melt. Slowly his hands came to touch at her hips wrapping then around the small of her back and his nose buried against into her hair, "Rosalind.." he breathed, "I've been so worried.." And it was clear with dark circles under his eyes, the laugh lines replaced by worry, and he looked a little lighter around the hips. "You dig up answers, find out who calls the shots, I've got an arrowhead waiting for his name." He closed his eyes then pressing a kiss to her forehead. (d

Rosalind Avalle:     "I don't want to let you go," she whispered, holding him tighter.  She hoped she wouldn't leave marks on him.  "Be careful who you talk to, will you?  It is not like Scotland.  Loyalties shift, all the time, and I feel....  A little lost."  She was out of her element for the first time since she left France.  Of course she was disoriented.  She breathed in the scent of him and let that focus her thoughts, since it seemed she would not have time to pray on this visit to the church.  She let him go for just a moment, moving her hands from around his neck to smooth the worry lines from his brow, using thumbs to make the lines around his mouth vanish.  Then she placed a kiss there, pulling him in with her, her heart fluttering not due to the location, but at her joy and worry over seeing him in France.  That he came for her -- he'd found her.  "I will invite Jean-Claude to dinner.  It would help, if he made friends with Charles.  I do not care what he has to do, Peregrine.  So help me, I really do not.  But I must know what Charles plans, and Charles needs an ally in the court."    She pulled away from his mouth and gazed quietly at him.  Aldric was safe, Murtagh would pull the clan in line, and Perry was here, in her arms.  It wasn't how she pictured a rescue, but it would have to do. *

Peregrine the Pirate:      Slowly he would start to sway with her, even if she wanted to pull back in this moment she could not. His lips were a gentle brush against the tender shell of her ear and his words a quiet whisper. "I've got an entire fleet waiting in the bay, three ships armed and ready. They wait only for one word, Rosalind and would have all of this city."  What a sight that would be to see a pirate's battleship upon the bank of the river. "All of it for your safe return, never feel you are alone in this.."  Tightening his hold upon her he let her rest against him, "I'll play by your rules for as long as I can, but if things get out of hand; there will be blood."  He felt himself burn with the rage built the anticipation of the following fight a harsh reality. This was his Rosalind, had he not proven that enough? Even the heaviest of slums she was safe with the single raise of his name. Yet here he had no control, however it was a full moon..and even the beautiful city of Paris had to have it's underside. "But after this, when we are sailing home..you'll live with me from now on. By my side..and no where else."  Letting his head fall back to get a better look at her, and this hit he had heard so much about. "Naked."  Such a grin then, starting small but returning some sort of normal feature to the man. (d

Rosalind Avalle:      She sighed and put her head back to his shoulder.  It felt right at home there.  In fact, no matter where they were, and she could hold him, she felt at home.  He'd seen the best and worst of her, and heaven knew why, had accepted it anyway.  He'd followed her into darkness and brought her back out again, a little bruised, but since when had that ever challenged Rosalind?  "I know."   She didn't wish to throw herself into danger on behalf of people she did not know.  She was tired, too, of playing games of state when all she wished was a relatively peaceful life with her pirate and her son.  Let kings be damned, she was content with what she had.  But her route had always been a little more diplomatic than Peregrine's.  Perhaps of anything she'd learned from him, was knowing when diplomacy had ended, and a bit of brute strength was called for.  "After this, I will not argue anymore about where I put my head down to sleep at night.  As long as you are there beside me when I do.  We will see about the naked part."  *

Peregrine the Pirate:      He smiled greatly then, "Even if it is in the grass? In the wild forest? Or the mud?"  He would have her promise, kissing then from the whisper into her ear down the beating pulse of her neck, he followed what was closest to her heart. Already the wheels were turning, with bridges a burning the pirate came up with a plan. This dinner with Charles would add greatly to her escape, and an alley they would create. "Does your brother know about me? Of Aldric? What have you told him?"  He asked even against the warmth fo her flesh, his lips carving hungry lines where they pleased, but would end their mark as he met her eyes once again. "Though..I am sure I could get all the information I needed from your little friend yesterday."  (d

Rosalind Avalle:      "What, do you want me to live with you or not?"  she asked him, arching a brow he couldn't see.  Talk of mud, forests, and grass was a big step for Rosalind, and she had only just made the leap to pet ownership.  She admittedly missed Sax.  He certainly was charming, when he wanted to be, though it was difficult to tell beneath all that fur and wriggling excitement.  She kept telling herself he would grow out of the squirmy, energetic phase.  "No.  He knows I was married twice, and that I had no children in wedlock."   She raised her head and smiled slightly.  "Something to be said for rules of politeness is it is seen as uncouth to ask a lady if she has any bastard children to be accounted for.  He does not know about Aldric, or you, and perhaps it is best if we keep it that way.  Aldric is an impediment to marriage, though not a complete deterrent.  I know Colban can protect him, but I do not wish to use the knowledge until I have no other choice.  Charles is a ... polite man.  But he is ambitious.  He feels he has been out of favor for many years, and I am the first bit of luck he's hand, aside from my brother's marriage to Joan of Navarre a few years ago."   It astounded her that she did not merely have one sibling; she now had five.  One of whom was the former Queen of France, another, the King of Navarre.  "I do not see how he feels slighted.  Our siblings are represented across Western Europe.  He could try for a marriage within the German states, or perhaps Aragon.  I do not think he will waste me on France."  *

Peregrine the Pirate:     "Though the thought has crossed my mind, ruin you before your brother so that way I can take you away. It makes me wonder what would happen if such an event would happen..I ask because if he did, I'd try my hand at it. Give you something to laugh at behind my back, or to my face."  She would. "It has been many years since Jean and I were last here, I have no doubt the following he had are all dead and gone, mostly old book keepers and tinkers. Yet, with the risk of his life, he refuses to leave you. So remain close to him, while I pick the pockets?"  Lord what had he gotten himself into. "Aldric is safe with his father, but we do..you do not want to be away from him for too long. Tomorrow I'll speed this up, send Jean-Claude for dinner, and your Charles will not know what hit him." (d

Rosalind Avalle:     She smiled.  "Leave Jane alone,"  she offered quietly.  "If you are really in need, you saw where I put my candle last night.  It will not be the first time you climbed through my window."   She leaned against the wall of the alcove and took him with her, letting him fall into place against her, legs brushing against his.  "The thought has crossed my mind to sabotage whatever Charles has planned.  It is easy enough to do.  But like I said, let us not make that move just yet, until we know who all the players are.  Charles could be just as devious as any other courtier; if given proper motivation, he might be willing to overlook my ... ah ... storied past.  I am willing to observe for a few days.  I doubt anything will move so quickly that I will be married before then."   She didn't feel it was really appropriate to tell Peregrine she didn't think Charles was the type to notice if the family silver went missing, unless there was a giant sketch of each fork, knife, and candlestick just as there had been for the cross around her neck.  She'd seen the sketch herself, and no wonder Charles had recognized the jewelry from across the dockside. The design was very distinctive.  "If I am wrong, you can burn Paris to the ground in our wake."  *

Peregrine the Pirate:      "How do you know I did not climb in last night? Had you thought the candle had blown itself out? Or that dream you had.."  He grinned his hand raising to cup her cheek, "I wanted to make sure you were real, that I was not being tricked. It was not one of Carmen's spells, you were real."  Peregrine closed his eyes as he took a deep breath, clearly rattled to the very core of how much her being gone made him crazy. He was tired, in dire need of sleep, and frankly needed a good hearty meal. "Call it a story all you want, but I happen to love Fairy Tales. Aldric does too."  Laughter spilled out into the halls and he only pulled her closer, clearly not ready to let her go just yet. "I like the idea of Paris burning, and so would Jean-Claude."  Though he dare not tip that scale just yet. "We'll have fun in our little pretend world, Your Highness, but you have to promise me that you will not fall in the wrong hands again..just mine."  (d

Rosalind Avalle:      "I...."   It was rare when Rosalind blushed.  Mentioning that dream, however, while they were still standing in the church was enough to counter whatever pragmatic attitude she took toward love.  She smiled.  "No.  No trick, no spell.  I am here, and whole."   Maybe she was luckier than she gave herself credit for.  She was still alive and in more or less one piece.  No matter what people said, no matter the malice of near strangers, she was still alive and fighting.  She put her hands to his face again and held him.  He looked like he needed sleep as much as she did.  She hadn't eaten much on the ship, but Charles had a decent cook, and it was hard to turn her nose up at childhood favorites.  Aside from the faintly mottled flesh along her jaw, she was precisely as she'd left him.  "I love you, Peregrine."   She let go of his face, letting her thumb trace over his ear before she rested her arms loosely around his neck.  "There is only one set of hands I intend to fall into.  Others do not compare."  *

Peregrine the Pirate:     He stood silent for a good moment, almost stunned.."That is the first time you've ever told me." He admitted quietly, "Out right..." Leaning into her he pressed her against the wall and hands falling to hold her hipsbut fingers pulling the fabric of her skirts into the balls of his palms. "Say it again.." It had been so long since he had felt like this, as if the world had woke to find him there still sleeping..and she opened his eyes. Rosalind was playing a dangerous game, one that could break him into a thousand pieces as she had little clue as to how rarely he truly loved. Silk had been drawn over his eyes, just like one of their wild nights, and he would love her blindly looking about only in the dark. She would be a very fine Queen to a Gypsy King's heart, but..they had to first make it out of this hall. However, it would be a good while before he would let that happen. No doubt the estate of her brotherwould come searching, but she'd return home--without that limp in her step, and a little more bounce. Sinners. (d

[Peregrine Inveryne-Lamont]

The day had come and gone to only find another in the midst, and before the Pirate knew it; a week had passed. His nights were spent in the hall of books reading up upon the politics of court, and the proper ways a true gentleman should act. However, it was in his days spent upon the rooftop of the townhouse, working away in the sun did he get his best lessons.

Peregrine watched Jean-Claude work his way into the crowds, smiling friendly and working well into the passage of the hearts of their neighbors.¬ It hardly seemed fair, with his back breaking work half naked atop a home that should have been torn down, while his friend flattered the society around them. Yet, as the pirate stood atop the roof, running the back of his arm over his brow to clear the sweat from his eyes was he reminded of why.

The lone figure in the window had become the calling, her beauty well known, but it was her lineage that promised all of Paris to come to court to meet the Lady Rosalind. This was their cover, once this was over this house would be left in ruin, but it kept his mind busy. The work kept idle hands from strangling each male who gave her a second look, though he wasn’t the jealous type really—he simply wanted something to strangle.

[Lady Rosalind Avalle]

Rosalind spent much of her time overseeing her brother's home. Without a woman's touch, whole rooms had gone to waste with dust and cobwebs. Furniture had been put into storage, as Charles had no need to use it in entertaining guests that would not accept his invitations. So the Comtesse oversaw the hiring of new staff and put the household through a deep cleaning that required the Family d'Evreux to make visits around the countryside to free the house for the scouring it desperately needed. When they returned, the walls had all been freshly whitewashed, furniture polished or replaced entirely, guest rooms prepared as if to host royalty, new carpets adoring sparkling floors, and an ostentatious display of wealth that frankly made Rosalind even more nervous than she had been at the prospect of becoming the Comtesse d'Auvergne.

But Charles did not falter in his step. He was utterly confident that this is what must be. He did not hesitate in inviting friends from across Paris to his home, and spared no expense in ordering fine wines from Portugal and Spain. Each delivery reminded Rosalind of how close she was to simply leaving this life behind and sailing back to Honfleur with Peregrine and Jean-Claude, nothing lost save family that only seemed to complicate her life. It was a very real option, if she did not have the niggling sensation that something more was afoot in France than the mere discovery of a lost d'Evreux-Auvergne alliance.

For once, her dreams at night were not nightmares of this past horrific year. They were oddly disconnected images of leaving and sorrow, confusing but vast grief that she wished she understood. In her knowledge, no one had left in her lifetime, with the exception of her mother. At just a few days old, she could not possibly recall her mother. With revelations of her mother's first marriage to a prince, Rosalind wished she could talk to her mother just once, or even remember what she looked like, but nothing remained of Isabeau of Auvergne. Louis d'Evreux, who had so painstakingly created sketches of his most valued treasure, had not had time to spend similar expense on crafting a portrait of his lady wife. It did not particularly surprise Rosalind, not really. The only losses that could trigger such an unwanted and awesome sense of grief was perhaps that of Domhnall.

But she had understood why he left. And she had welcomed his corpse home again before laying it in a grave that soggy Inveryne spring. She had been old enough to understand, to heal, and to finally smile at memories of happiness shared with her husband of over ten years.

This was different. It was a child's grief. A child's lack of understanding, a child's profound sense of abandonment. It was as wide and deep as the ocean, and each wave that lapped ashore seemed to pull her closer to the person who left her. Hardly one to indulge such selfish feelings, Rosalind tried to set the dream aside. No wonder she dreamed of the sea. She hated it so vehemently and distrusted it so completely, yet she had been forced to spend nearly a week on the water, drugged for most of it, since the times she had been allowed on deck had been spent white-knuckling the rail at the bow, determined to never lose sight of the horizon. Her mind was tired and confused, and navigating the deep waters of the French court only added to her stress.

The dream was nothing more than her mind connecting her very real fears to the unreal terrors of a child's imagination. It was difficult to put the dreams aside and carry on with the politicking and revelry of the court, but that was precisely what she must do, and so Rosalind did just that.

"My lady, his lordship wishes you sample tonight's wine before the guests arrive. He does not know if it will flatter the meat," a servant informed her that afternoon. Nodding, Rosalind set the piece of embroidery and it's feather-light hoop on the cushioned window seat and abandoned her thoughts to go see after the house's affairs. "It is from Aragon, madame." The maid's nose wrinkled. Like any true Parisian, the woman knew her wines, and she knew of none from Aragon worth mentioning.

"I hear it is quite beautiful land," Rosalind offered, attempting to find something redeeming of the rocky, unforgiving country. "Austere," she added a moment later, and settled herself at a chair at the kitchen table, placed a piece of bread and a few slices of her favorite cheese beside it, and took the cup the servant offered. Notes of spice and cherry greeted her nose, and a sharpness that made her eyes water. The servant pretended not to notice, and busied herself in the larder while Rosalind tried to discern what meat could possibly suit this abomination to wine, for whatever the cook had prepared for this evening was certainly too delicate to stand up to this potent brew.

[Lady Rosalind Avalle]

The Lamont men were unreasonable, stubborn, suspicious, infuriatingly short-sighted sons of goats. But Murtagh kept his peace, his muscular arms folded across his chest. He was not a large man. Certainly, he did not resemble his cousins Domhnall or Fearghus. But there was a definite glint in his dark eyes, even if they peered out from beneath a prominent Cro magnon brow. He was a canty, shrewd man, and Lamont was about to learn a bit of Murtagh mac Maol Dúin's management style.

"She said no tolls going into Campbell lands, Martainn," Murtagh said at last, eying the man. "She may be gone, but she is not dead. And I, for one, recall the oath I swore to her and yon laddie."

"Aye, and where's the lad?" Martainn responded, causing the others gathered to grumble. "His Campbell da finally step up fer him?" The grumbles turned to derisive laughter.

"His Campbell da is doing what he can." Murtagh's reasonable voice stilled the grumbling and laughter. There was no point in reminding that accusing Aldric of any crime of his mother's was pointless. It would only tear the clan apart. He would not convince these staunchly religious men that what Rosalind had done with Colban Campbell was in any way moral. Murtagh was paid not to have an opinion, but practicality won out over morality. Aldric was the best solution Lamont and Campbell had.

"He afraid we're going to take him?"

"No. But if we do not know who took the Lady Inveryne, it is a good idea to protect our future chieftain, aye? I only ask for moderation and patience. We will have her back, and soon. If I hear any more word of tolls, taxes, or anything we have not voted on in this chamber, signed by her hand, I will make you eat the words of your oaths, gentlemen. I, for one, will not be forsworn to God."

Murtagh stood, and though his height was minimal, his authority was not. The men stood and nodded, grumbling replies eventually showing assent, and they exited past Murtagh out into the hall. But then a very strange thing happened -- the grumbling stopped. Like any assembly, talk usually rose in volume after leaving sight of their leader, but he heard nothing through the open doors. Murtagh quickly exited after them and looked around.

There the men were, gathered in the corridor. "Aye, well, and what is it?" Murtagh asked. The men slowly parted, revealing the sad sight. Two Lamont guards were crumpled against the wall, very much dead, and very much waiting to be found.

"Campbell treachery," one of the men hissed. "I will bet Colban took the brat to Lanark as hostage. Always struck me as an opportunist."

"Still yer tongue," Murtagh grunted. They did not know who the killer was. It was foolish to start speculating now. But with the disappearance of Rosalind, Colban, and Aldric, the murder of two Lamont guards could not go amiss.

[Lady Rosalind Avalle]

Rosalind: The palace was well outside of Paris. The days were warm enough that the city was beginning to reek of the teeming masses, and the nobles had more enjoyable pursuits awaiting their return to the lush countryside. Carriages were adorned after invitations were accepted, the dressmakers and tailors saw a rise in business, and all the glittery, well-shod lords and ladies descended on the royal property. The Queen herself would be present, and more than rumors indicated she ruled France, and not her war-obsessed spouse. Charles and Rosalind would be no different, though there was an undertone to this party that needed no explanation on the printed invitation. Gossip had filled in the blanks on d'Evreux's newest addition to the20household, and the Comtesse d'Auvergne was to have her first official ball among her peers. Unmarried, powerful, and immensely rich in both money and property, she was as much an oddity as a jewel to be gazed at and pondered for personal gain. And a gem she certainly was tonight, dressed in an elaborate gown of deep scarlet, with an overlay of burgundy lace that prevented any from quite catching on to Rosalind's decidedly wry sense of humor. Other than the color, she was perfectly modest, moving through the corridors with the other arrivals toward the ballroom, the murmur of voices the discordant hum of an orchestra tuning before the great performance.

Charles d'Evreux: Rooms so full had always made him nervous, but Charles was a complete stone upon his exterior. Deep inside he worried well of reputation, but upon the out he was as cool as the evening air. His frame was trimmed in the finest of silks, a good offset to that of his gem at his side--the Comtesse d'Auvergne, an answer to the prayers of the last one standing. He had been silent and shy from her, his presence void of anything to do with her, but tonight he stuck right by her, as any brother would. "It is an important night." Spoken from the corner of his mouth, as eyes remained forward. Falling silent again he took his turn with her about the room, but as they fell still in the circle of attendants he would face her then, "And you look wonderful." A small crack in his exterior, but it was a start. Desperation was not too far from his title, and perhaps all would see it this way. However, how could they not stare openly to the duo, and judge silently even though their faces smiled.

Jean-Claude: His name was announced, a happy sound that already had half of the room smiling as Jean-Claude truly was a very pleasant man to be around, and if the rumors were correct--a very rich nobleman. He was the master of a trade not even dreamed of yet, but here he was simply another decorated show horse strutting around with his chest held high. Yet, in all the decor and design there were humble eyes, endless black orbs that carried every star in the sky seemed to find Rosalind very easy. A rush to greet him, every fancy laced peacoke came with their corsets, and fine silk; but it was upon the scarlet dressed phoenix he sought out--as always. "Good Evening, Comtesse.." Spoken with a bow of course, and one as well to her brother, "My Lord, what a pleasure it is to see you again." Charles would be quick to return the gesture, but watching well the man's eyes as they fell upon his sister. Jean-Claude did not see amounts of fortune in her, or fame..he as always was genuinely happy to see her, and the feeling set in warmly.

Charles d'Evreux: "Master, d'Arc a pleasure as always, tell me..did you ever finish the thought you had upon the night before." The two men had sat in private speaking of politics and science, the latest in technology, and the finest stories they had to share.

Jean-Claude: "I am afraid I have had little time, but I will make it a point upon the morrow." They had become first name basis when?

Rosalind: Full rooms did not particularly bother Rosalind. She had entertained those far less civilized in far less civilized places, and excelled at it. For those who stopped to pay their greetings to the Comte of Etampes and his sister, Auvergne, she smiled and offered a few words, proving she was not only aware of their family, but also of any recent good news within their homes. Rosalind had seemingly an infinite capacity for detail, and it was clear why she was so highly valued within the courts she'd served. It would mean nothing, of course, to mention how many treaties and alliances she had brokered, both behind the scenes and as Lady Inveryne, but who needed a woman of knowledge when a warm, approving smile and an elegant nod of her head showed everyone in this court that she knew her manners as well as she knew her gossip. She brushed past one of the young men in her path, her eyes lifting past the short bodies of her countrymen to a head that seemed to bob above all, and in her direction. If only she could express her gratitude at seeing him! "Monsieur d'Arc, always a pleasure to see you. I am glad you came! Charles mentioned you are much more comfortable in more intimate settings." She smiled and looked to her brother. When the men broke apart from their female companions, Rosalind had taken the hint and entertained her lady guests with readings from new books of poetry. One of the women could sing ballads exceptionally well, and her voice had effectively drowned out all conversation from Charles' study. But as the night grew long, her ladies began to disappear with their husbands, until Rosalind was alone, and the house quiet enough that she could still hear the low rumble of masculine voices beneath the closed door of his study. It was a good memory, honestly, especially since it gave her a moment to creep upstairs and talk to Peregrine through the open window.

The Spanish Envoy: The Spaniard was dressed much more severely than anyone else in this room, but he did not particularly stick out. He was happy to greet the young ladies who approached, but had no time for dances -- not yet. He could see a very familiar young comte and his dazzling bauble -- dressed in red? Ah, these French! They had no morals. Anything for fashion! But her shoulders were modestly covered and her hair held in a dark silk caul, every inch the lady Charles had said she was. And more. Alfonso would be very pleased with this one, even if she was ... well, there was no polite way to say it, was there? She was old. Nearly thirty! "Monsieur le Comte, my lady, and monsieur -- ah, I do not believe we are acquainted." He made no effort to meet Jean-Claude's gaze, but instead focused entirely on Rosalind, keeping his eyes pinned on her even as he bowed formally.

Rosalind: Rosalind caught sight of the Spaniard before the others. He powered across the room as if he had a full wind in his sails. It was difficult to miss him. As he approached, Rosalind took the moment to return her brother's compliment. "Thank you. You look very handsome yourself." Maybe he would become involved in his own unmarried state, and stop worrying about hers.

Jean-Claude: Age was but a number, and Rosalind's beauty came with her age. It was the darling smile and the growing lines that first attracted Jean to her, even with such an innocent friendship, it was a comfort to know how deep her years had gone. As Charles would introduce Jean-Claude, the fine Frenchmen lost contact with his hearing--he could no longer listen to their conversation, but watch the Spaniard across from him with good intent. It was a shame, a man could be so dumb as to never meet the eyes of another, especially a lethal trained killer who hid well under his fashion. Charles would take the man into conversation, asking small little questions of travel and design..has this man seen as much as he let on? As the room's voices all dulled to a murmur Jean-Claude would turn to Rosalind, a fluid sweep that made his hair seem like wisps of smoke more so then the silken strands. Jean-Claude would angle his body enough to block with one shoulder the Spaniard's view of the lady, and sucked in a deep breath that made a small hissing sound. "Stay close to me. ." He whispered in his voice, reaching out to open his body enough to let her in, but of course never once would they touch..wouldn't be proper!

Charles d'Evreux: Charles would introduce himself, Jean-Claude, but when his hand fell to motion to Rosalind he pulled it back, "My Sister, Rosalind, of rumors I am sure you have heard. They have become a very fun subject in our home, have they not dear sister." He would smile to Rosalind, a fake forced grin of good manners and morals, one that could sicken the soul and chill the spine. It was a devious and selfish smile. However, everything had such a plan did it not, and a gentle touch from Jean-Claude's hand would be hidden by her back, but the warm palm could not be missed, even if it only remained for a short while.

Rosalind: Rosalind studied the Spaniard. She had only met one from the lands, but had no idea where Captain de la Costa called home, nor did she speak the language well enough to distinguish any sort of defining accent. But that was not to say she did not have her suspicions about his land of origin. She shifted subtly so that Jean-Claude maintained his protective stance, the action just fluid enough it could be mistaken for an untimely shift in weight, rather than the snub it was. "Oui, they are very amusing, but I am afraid, mostly correct. It has been an interesting journey arriving here in the country of my birth. Will you excuse me...?" The Spaniard was so busy ogling her, he hadn't given her a name, and she was not nearly so flattered by his attention to ask for it. "Monsieur d'Arc promised me a dance the last we spoke, and I believe the musicians are getting ready to play. I would like to ask what songs they plan on performing -- I do love music," she added for the Spaniard's benefit, following with a warm smile that stopped dead at the eyes. True, she was nearly thirty, but she had one of those ageless faces, and would always fool observers right into her dotage. Though she could never be confused for a teenager, it was difficult to place her age beyond twenty. As they excused themselves from Charles and the foreigner, Rosalind slightly inclined her head toward Jean-Claude. "My brother has a sudden fondness for Aragonese wine." He was French. She did not need to explain how utterly bizarre that fact was. He would, like any true Gaul, understand the slight heresy (or utterly transparent alliances with Aragon) of importing this wine for entertaining other Parisians.

Jean-Claude: There was more then protection he felt for her, and as she was quick to act she would never know how grateful he would be. Like a fine ivory statue his face had been carved, and the same would follow for the rest. Where her face was ageless his seemed too perfect to be real, a mask that was worn well, but very few could ever see beyond it. "A very potent wine, I fear we will be picking him up from the floor..Charles, does not hold his well." His back was stiff, and every hair upon him stood in pure sickness at the thought of that man's eyes upon her. Even as they made their way to the musicians many would notice the sour look within his eyes, and it would be only when they were upon the floor would he start to release a feeling he wished he could drown, "Forgive me.." He spoke as if in prayer, their dance a simple one that would keep them close, and the lines were not very long. "It is hard to see any look at you with eyes that mean your devour, or with his desire so displayed...You matter far too much to be treated with such little respect." His face would soften with a small smile, and he would bend his neck enough to better meet her eyes. "A cherished precious part of our little family." He would whisper then, before releasing her so she could make her round only to return.

Rosalind: Dancing was one of the few times Rosalind was able to compensate for her limp, and appear to the world perfectly whole. While she had accepted the injury to her leg, she knew how it made her stick out, and she was a little self-conscious about it, particularly when the weather was bitterly cold and she had to use a cane for balance. But sheer power of will made it possible to correct the odd gait, and court dances were something she had always found enjoyable for their complex patterns and artistry. This one was simpler, slower, preparing those gathered for the faster and more ornate dances to come. The lines moved in perfect harmony together, and Rosalind turned with her neighbor, then around again, until she was once again moving with Jean-Claude. "It also tastes particularly foul. He does not buy it for the taste." She smiled wryly. "Jean-Claude, I have not had the chance to tell you. But I am so happy -- " she blinked and would have missed a step had she not looked down at her feet at that moment. "I am glad you are here." Of course, it bothered her when men looked at her in a certain way, but there was something cunning in the Spaniard's gaze. She didn't think it was sexual at all. It reminded her of being at a horse market, and she was the prized mare.

The Spanish Envoy: "My dear Etampes," the Spaniard offered cordially to the comte, smiling. "You did not tell me she was lame." Of course he noticed. He was not certain if Alfonso was willing to overlook this defect. She was old and lame -- but Alfonso did not need another heir. And Rosalind merely needed to look beautiful to wear her crown.

Charles d'Evreux: "To each their own, my friend. But let it be known that is all..Rosalind, moves about as if she were a Queen, yet is humble and admired well. In simply one week, she has turned my home into a castle in it's own right. I have no worries at all she would not serve him well."

Jean-Claude: They moved so perfectly together, the dance to symbol two souls joining as one. However, there was a vacant smile upon his lips, a gentle curl that could promise well of another. "You have with all reason to be admired, but I would hope you to trust me with keeping away your suitors, and not that one hmm?" A small little cant of his head would lead her gaze towards the second floor where her Romeo waited.

Peregrine Rogue: Over the railing of the balcony he watched the dancers below, leaning against the fine dark wood of the latest in interior design, and with his hands folded in reason to keep away his anger. Like a falcon in it's tree, the bird of prey watched as his little flight of fancy danced her laughter free, and oceanic eyes were brooding mildly. What a surprise she would be to see the attire fit for a nobleman but upon the body of a thief--scoundrel--rogue. All black, the fine fabrics, fitted like an Italian crime boss, as that was no doubt where they had first belonged. Even the tunic under the overcoat was the color of the night sky, and it was here any could notice the Pirate/Frenchmen team switched places. Jean-Claude had done well to prepare him for the night, trimming away the ends of his hair to make them seem well kept and tended to, but even the strongest of will couldn't keep them in place. Brushed back at least it seemed there was an attempt.

Jean-Claude: Jean-Claude would let his gaze fall from the pirate to the Lady, and he would lean just a little closer, "It kills him not to be here with you. He talks of it in his sleep." The crowd had started to gather again, as the night had hit it's second wind, but none could get in upon the conversation between the two men, or the dances upon the floor.

Charles d'Evreux: "My one concern, Monsieur, is that she has taken to this all too easily. Not once has she protested, or fought me. She seems willing and eager..looking forward perhaps to her life, but what I do not understand is how she can simply leave everything behind..I have been keeping close eye upon her, but something..sits very ill with me." Perhaps if Charles would only look up.

The Spanish Envoy: "Sits ill?" Why was this man admitting this much to him? He wished to marry off his sister, no? The Spaniard could make that happen, sooner rather than later. Alfonso needed a queen, and he needed financing for his invasion of Genoa. His empire was growing larger by the day, with estates from Catalan to Valencia, and Rosalind's rumored dowry was an exciting prospect. It would secure Aragon in Italy for years to come. "She is a woman, Etampes. She will do as she is told. If she is as good and biddable as you suggest, this is not a problem for me, or His Majesty." How elegantly he phrased this. He had started his life as a military man; pretty words did not come naturally to him. His initial thoughts about the woman's biddable nature, however, made him smile slowly. Alfonso was showing favor to his brother's virgin wife, but only discontent would follow such a union. Rosalind could be a spitfire, ugly, and deaf, but as long as she came with that dowry, none of it mattered. "I will make the offer to my king, but you must petition yours to release her on behalf of France. I have ears, too, Etampes, and I know that she is Valois' ward."

Rosalind: Rosalind wished she could hold Jean-Claude's hand, at least give the gloved hand a squeeze, but they were not allowed such liberties with so many eyes surrounding, no matter how the Frenchman and the Pirate gracefully maneuvered. "I miss him, you know. Enough that it hurts to swallow thinking about him." She hadn't voiced it before. Though her expression remained in its usual alabaster mask, there was a slight warmth to her words, and he would notice once she caught sight of Peregrine on the stairs, they did not leave until he was standing before her, and stepping into the dance. "They cut your hair," she whispered, almost mournfully. "And he made you bathe." But speaking of losing her breath, that is precisely what the cleaned up Peregrine's effect was. They made informal introductions, as they were still in the middle of the lines, and she stepped with the downbeat into the pattern. "What I mean to say is," she added as they came near again, "you look stunning."

Peregrine Rogue: There was a trade in all parts of the room, as looks were traded, words were traded, but more importantly dance partners were traded. Jean-Claude would take his step back, folding away as always, giving into the desires of his captain. Whispers spread across lips of the blond stranger who seemed a different man, and Jean-Claude would be swarmed with the buzz of bees; their honey--knowledge. The suit did wonders for a small frame, his not-so-tall frame seemed to bulge in the fitting of the jacket, and the length of the pants worked all the well to add 'height'. When their hands touched, he curled his fingers of warmth around her own squeezing to acknowledge their affections. Though this dance was one where the partners were of the same, he would take the lead breaking their "studied" dance into their own. "You wear your mask, ma petite, I'll keep capturing your breath." This was a different man across from her, a well defined man whose darker edge wasn't so much a mystery anymore, but a way of life. It would not take a fool to figure where his money came from, nor would any here dare to question. Paris would have no clue what was about to hit them, or who shared secrets with this man in the long dark hours of the night..A hint: She is watching through the window peeking in with the rest of the servants. Ocean eyes carried over the slim little body of the woman before him, and he would be very sly in returning his comment, "The better to suit you with my dear," His play off a little red riding hood. For a moment he fell silent, continuing their dance until he could hold back the words no more! "I'll take this picture of you tonight and cherish it always..even when we are apart." He spoke with a small little smirk and a wink as you could take the boy out of the rogue, but never take the rogue out of the man.

Charles d'Evreux: "I will get right on that, will be the first matter I see to in the morning." Charles would start, as his heart raced with excitement . To think! Rosalind a Queen!

The Spanish Envoy: "You are a luckier man than you give yourself credit for. She is not the first of your sisters to rule a country. May she reign longer than your dear Jeanne." With that, the Spaniard inclined his head and drifted back into the crowd. His socializing was finished, his career made, and he had no more desire to swim in the heady perfume of hundreds of ladies.

Rosalind: "If I showed this room what I was truly feeling, it would stop the music, and I am afraid, I would not be invited to anyone's parties in the future." She smiled, and the dance took her away from him. He was surprisingly elegant, but everything about him was surprising tonight, and judging by the look in her eyes, she was truly pleased by those surprises. She wished they could have a few moments to themselves, but Rosalind did not need the reminder of what had happened the last time they had a moment of privacy in a public place. She was still thumbing her penances on the beads of her rosary, having confessed in the most roundabout way imaginable to the priest, and taken extra Hail Marys for the sin of lying. "I will have to imagine you like this always. I do not think I will see this you again for a long time." She began to empathize with how much he liked it when she wore her hair down. However, it wasn't quite right with his hair the way it was. She wanted to ruffle it to set it right, though it was doing a fine job of attempting to revert to its usual wayward self all on its own.

[Lady Rosalind Avalle]

Peregrine: Elegance matched well with his dance, but it was the underlying passion that carried him through. Total strangers could notice the electricity between them, the pull of gravity and the way he looked at her. Yet, tonight the spell was cast not of the moon, but the look in his eyes could very well be confused for the witching hour. The pirate was stripped of his rags, the gypsy was void of any magic, but the heart that beat under fine silk was still the same. Mischief mixed with mayhem in pools of the deepest blue and those ocean eyes were settled deep inside her own. The dance would bring him close to her, and where so many forced figures moved along side them; he put them all to shame. When he moved close to her, his eyes would close and a draw of her essence was inhaled as a whisper was against the tender shell of her ear, "Let them stop the music.." he teased, "I've never needed it to dance." He would smile then that devil's grin he carried, but this was a bit more deadly then the open face he was known for. "If that man looks at you one more time like that, I'll remove his eyes." A deep promise delivered from the depths of his chest, as his voice rose from him like rolling thunder.

Rosalind: When music did not play, Rosalind was formal, elegant, and in her own way, a perfect blend of regal and humble. She never spoke too loudly. Never spoke out of turn. She always had something proper and decent to say when she did speak, or held her peace. When Rosalind spoke, everyone listened. She was known for her cool diplomacy, and the practicality that these French countrymen of hers seemed to lack. It would please her father to know Rosalind never spent more on a dress or a piece of jewelry than a man spent on feed in a year. But when the music played, Rosalind was as seductive and charming as the most flattering, glittering girl of twenty, and perhaps what made her even more alluring was the fact that she was completely oblivious to the dark sensuality of every step, every lowering of her eyelashes, every sway of the hip beneath modestly cut skirts of deep scarlet overlaid in sheer, dark material. When Rosalind did not meet the eyes of other dance partners, it was not seen as shunning their attempts. She was simply modest, following the cues of the music, but always -- always, she came back to Peregrine, caught in his pull, unable and unwilling to resist their eventual meeting. "No, of course not, but others in this room are not so blessed with natural rhythm. Not that you care for them." She smiled, almost laughed, but not during this stately tune. "That man does not look at me the way you look at me." It was true. He looked at Rosalind as if approximating how many foals his king could sire on this brood mare, and at nearly thirty, it was a forgone conclusion that the answer would be not many. If any at all. But a kingdom only needed one prince, and since Rosalind had done her quiet inquiries of Aragon, the rival for her spot in Aragon was the elder brother's put-aside virgin wife, abandoned when her husband elected not to rule Aragon, and entered the monastery instead of consummating his marriage.

Peregrine: "I'll never look at you like that." He felt his entire back go rigid with the hatred he shared for this entire thing, but kept his voice a cool collection of passionate words, "Like you are some prize cow he can sell at market. One he has sampled himself.." Dark eyes settled to the man before they traveled to Jean-Claude who was working his way around the room, no doubt picking up on conversations searching for any information. "I bet he sleeps with animals, pigs no less." Yeah he just called her a cow, but of course never meant it. "I'm not going to stand too much more of this Rosalind. I can't do it, God Damn-It I'm not willing to take chance again, I'll not lose you too." Such open words on such a crowded dance floor, but when their dance came to an end, the applause could drown out the race of his heart as he stood there looking at her--so close, but felt a million miles away.

Rosalind: "I know." It was a brief sentence in a sea of music, until suddenly, there were no more notes and applause showered down upon them all. Voices raised a little higher as dancers chatted amiably between sets, each a little louder than their neighbor's, and the acoustics of the great room muddling all sounds into an ambient rain. She stepped momentarily closer to him. "You will not lose me. I have a plan, and I have a certain and clear way out if this goes too far. I did not choose to be here, Peregrine, and I am not certain about those who surround me, but.... It is my home. It is my past. And for the moment, it seems to be my present. I will choose if it will be my future, but it will be no future without you." These last words were said with a forcefulness that reminded her strikingly of Aldric. Perhaps the boy did not inherit everything from his father. Perhaps he had learned a thing or two from his mother in the few months of their acquaintance. She took a deep breath, but it never seemed enough, with so many bodies crowding in and not all of them smelling so pleasant after the dance. "But perhaps I lose focus. Perhaps I should ... just go home now, and abandon my brother and France to the wolves."

Peregrine: In truth he missed Aldric too, though of course he would never admit it. Ever since their first encounter when a Pirate broke into her apartments and found the star-crossed little child there watching him. He was supposed to be asleep, just as the woman who tended him. For a good long moment the little boy looked at him, and he looked silently back until just like in the stories, Peter Pan lead the boy from his window and out into the world. "No.." He broke form his thoughts, "That would make you too much like me." A quick little smirk was given before his eyes turned over her shoulder to her brother advancing forward, the very look of a brother as well darted from the man's eyes--daggers.

Charles d'Evreux: "What a fine grace you have, Sir. Swept my sister off her feet." The man forced a smile to his lips, and a lightness to his voice. It was too well matched by the very fake grin now passing over the pirate's lips, "Rosalind, you looked very lovely, so much so I have had a request of your hand in the next..but that is if you have not promised it to.." He let his words trail off as it dawned upon him then, he knew not this man. This..short..blond..man child?

Peregrine: "Peregrine.." The pirate spoke up, extending his hand a dark look of hatred still swollen in his orbs, but it was glazed then with his own falsehood. "Dal'keith, of Mestipen." Such a strange name, would have little meaning, but the one little ear listening in the room it had an entire different world opening. It wasn't much of a title, but it fit him well; they Romany name of Fortune meaning, but Fortuna if you asked the right person.

Charles d'Evreux: "Mmm, I have never heard if it.." There for it mattered very little, "But if you'll excuse us, It's rude to keep another waiting no?" Such refined dignity held even for the man across from him, who..was a good bit shorter, but could still take him; that's what commoners did wasn't it? Fight for fun.

Rosalind: "I do not mean to be difficult," she offered, her tone too neutral to be termed wry, but he knew her better than to take the words at face value. She did not mean to do anything. If we are products of our actions, Rosalind was caught in reacting to others' actions, and had, with a few glaring exceptions, been gracefully moving along to the dance, allowing others to lead, compensating for their inadequacies. Until Aldric. Until Peregrine. She saw his eyes dart and found where they landed. Charles approached. Any man over 5'8 was of uncommon height in France. Both she and her brother were giantesque for the era, and even Rosalind could peer over most of the heads in the ballroom, or at least, those without elaborate plumes of dyed feathers sticking out of headdresses. Jean-Claude, though handsome, and a very good friend, was freakishly tall. Her brother was just short of that uncommon height, but far too young in the face to be anywhere near as intimidating as he thought he was. Twenty-four was a difficult age for men, no? Boy in the face, man in the shoulders, old enough to shave, but not quite with the experience to know when to use the blade otherwise. She inclined her head politely to Charles. "The gentleman is an excellent dancer, dear brother. I could not help myself. He has been very polite. No, I did not promise any other dances tonight, but suppose I may take Mestipen on his offer, and have some refreshment before the next set?" She did not wish to push her luck, but she did not know Charles to be vindictive. Ambitious, yes, but hopefully not at the expense of Rosalind's ability to get a glass of wine to cool herself off after the exertion.

Charles d'Evreux: "I would see no foul in that, Monsieur Dal'Keith, I trust you will not leave before we have a chance to get better acquainted?" In very few words he would check into this man, and keep his eye upon them. "I will see you shortly." He would leave them, letting his own steps carry him back to where he was before, and wondered very easily how next to play his cards.

Peregrine: Peregrine would offer her his arm, a cool calm against his skin now as he settled into the part, keeping his head held high and his eyes forward he pretended well not to have any interest in her other then the basic. Once they moved to the refreshments, the table was already being occupied by a very tall Frenchmen who perhaps had read their minds.

Jean-Claude: A gaggle of girls who had become Jean's following, stood just out of his line of sight, but close enough he could still smell the scented oils of their perfume. Really he had no time for this, but the attention was a bit comical. With his glass tilted back, the flush on his face was proof enough alone of how the night has been going, and hell he even removed his jacket. When the pair came close to him he would set down his own flute and offer them one of their own, "I look forward to the day we return, I even miss the Underdark." Out of character for Jean-Claude, but with a bounty of five different women he was growing very tired of being chased.

Rosalind: Charles' horn for retreat sounded so loudly that even Rosalind was temporarily stunned. It was a moment too long before Rosalind accepted his arm, realizing others were watching them, and wondering why she was not accepting. It fit their charade, at least, and she gingerly held his arm as they made their way toward the table. She accepted the glass Jean-Claude offered her with a grateful smile. Normally, on social occasions, she had mulled wine, or at least, watered the contents. It reduced redness in the face, and made her seem less like the old, bulbous-nosed cantankerous Scots with broken capillaries and missing teeth that were more frequent party guests than their lady wives. It also kept her on her feet longer than most of the ladies that did show. But now, she took the wine and had a hearty swallow, not particularly caring one way or the other tonight, as long as she got through it in one piece. She felt, just a little, like Jean-Claude looked. "I may not emerge from the Underdark for ages. Bess will be concerned, but she will live," Rosalind teased darkly, finding Charles through the crowd and studying him. He was talking with others, but his eyes were never far from Rosalind. He should be worried about making a match for himself, now that he has made mine, Rosalind thought dourly.

Peregrine: Peregrine would match his the look of his counterpart quickly coming to move in just a little closer, and their fake expressions went well with 'just meeting' but their conversation had a much darker meaning, "They said they would do it for 50, but I still feel I can handle it on my own." The Pirate spoke in a low voice, "Jane knows much of the castle, and can get in and out as she pleases. One more night and I'll have her showing me the way." He smirked over the rim of the flute, as he let his attention fall back to Rosalind. "She won't mind, it's all in fair trade.." Right?

Jean-Claude: "Mmm, then you are out of practice, Mon Ami." His own attention fell back to Rosalind, as she had not been clued in upon their little plan, but that dowry had to come from somewhere didn't it? Was faster this way. "Do not worry, it will all be over soon. Your brother wastes not time with finding you a match. We have little to spare as well." So spoke the mastermind, whose thoughts were broken by the giggles at his backside; oh if only they knew the truth they would not be so eager to follow this man. Try waking up to a dead body have cut open and guts hanging out being examined! No doubt to be the very reason Jean would never marry.

Rosalind: "What, what are you talking about? I am confused." She looked between the two men. "I wish to upset my brother's plans, of course, but not at the expense of his pride. He is young and foolish, wishes to make a name for himself, but he would not do me ill." Alfonso, despite his horrible choice in name, was rumored to be an extremely handsome man. Who else but he would require a diplomat as his marriage broker, and tempt Charles' hand by shipments of bad wine? She had to refill her cup of wine, but took it slower this time. "There is no dowry," she murmured. "Whatever marriage he arranges, will inevitably run into this wall. The money is gone." That much money did not disappear and it did not just go unaccounted for. It was enough to buy a country, to secure a throne, to ensure Rosalind was well cared for outside the borders of France. And now it was at the bottom of a 160-foot well. She felt like swatting the girls giggling behind Jean-Claude. They were pesky, and they reminded her of Jane. Not that Rosalind was a jealous woman by nature -- no, she could care less whom Perry used in his ... transactions.

Peregrine: "So then what happens when they realize the money is gone? What will come of your brother then?" Peregrine's eyes rose to the very man he spoke to who in turn watched him, and frankly he got a sick thrill out of it. "Tell me then what it is you wish me to do, because I'm about to commit a very large crime, one that will rival our little meetings." Around the room eyes would fall upon the trio, but Jean did well to stand just off the shoulder a bit of the making it appear he was simply enjoying the refreshments. Whispers would start between the serfs, and fall back into the ears of her brother until a little songbird sang just the right tune. Charles would move across the floor then to collect his sister.

Charles d'Evreux: "I am sorry, we've done enough charity work for one night, monsieur. Rosalind, you have had enough." He took the wine from her hands, and took hold of her arm--gently. His sudden change in demeanor could be a baffling if his eyes didn't boil first.

Rosalind: Rosalind smiled slowly. "We find Charles a wife that makes up in all the ways his newfound sister will fail him." The wine was beginning to make her feel rosy and content. She wanted nothing more than to curl up with Peregrine, perhaps play with his hair before drifting off to wine-happy sleep. But the music was beginning again, and the restless noise of the dancers began to shift into the excited flurry of partners pairing up, ladies looking for their lords, chaperons ushering shy girls onto a floor that terrified them. She had to hurry. She could see Charles approaching. She kept her expression lazy, almost indolent, but her words were hurried. "We find him a match. She cannot be as rich as I am rumored to be, but that is a loss he will have to take. If she is important enough, perhaps he will forget political schemes, and start plotting marriages for daughters that have not been born yet. As for Valois. What will sate a king's desire for strength among the surly Estates and alliances with Spain? More wine." No, she was not asking for a third cup in less than ten minutes. She was quite serious. "Open up the wine trades, make it a valuable commodity, as rare as gold and prized as ... well. Me." She shrugged lightly, an entirely Gallic gesture she was unaware of affecting. "I have plans; do not be rash in your actions. I do more than sit at my window, sew, and entertain the occasional suitor."

Charles took the cup from her hand just seconds after she finished her words. She gave him a look that was clearly not amused. "I am the Comtesse d'Auvergne and your elder sister. Presenting me as a fool before our peers is not the most appropriate strategy in finding me a kingdom to rule. Now. Who have you given my hand to for this dance?" She could be arrogant, and so practiced -- so casually dismissive yet perfectly elegant, a warm smile with an unintentionally cruel shadow. Peregrine would be familiar with that tone, and grateful she turned it on Charles for the occasion. He was her dear brother, make no mistake, but she was not an addle-pated Jezebel he could whore out for his political benefit. Or had he truly missed the irony in her color choice for the evening? She gently removed her arm from his, and rested her fingers near his elbow. It was more appropriate.

Charles d'Evreux: "I am sorry, dear sister, but he has been waiting all night." He gave her the tone in which would apply this to be important, a piece to the puzzle--her suitor. or in this case her suitor's matchmaker. From the many faces the Spaniard came forth extending his hand with eagerness to Rosalind, and the man's thick full lips swelled with his desire to quench himself upon the Comtesse, even if it was just in dance. "May I present to you. Emilio, representing The Good King Alfonso. De Barbastro and the eager part of his country." A good jest was always pleasing, but it was the large eager hand of the Spaniard that would barely give Rosalind time to think before he was leading her to the dance floor.

Peregrine: She had been ripped from him, always with hands that reached for her; she didn't reach back! His heart came to the very edge of his chest as his anger grew wildly. The very depths of his eyes turned coal black, a threatening glare then burning into her brother's back, that would even have Jean-Claude a bit worried. "Pity, I didn't get to say good night." He spoke in a cool calm tone that would have Charles turning upon his heel to face the pirate.

Charles d'Evreux: "I will relay the message, but It will matter very little." He closed the distance between them, "You see, we're from a fine vintage a blood line traced back many generations. A sweet wine that does not mix with cheaper fruit. M'lord, I have to inform you she is soon to be engaged, and that you will be wasting your time with high dreams. For I have heard of you, your name is whispered around my household of the little cargo merchant who could. At first I thought I was mistaken, but what other snake has such light hair? And only a man who is forced to work outside gets color like that." He would scoff then at the idea, and one hand would move to close up the links of his sleeves. "I'm not even sure how you got in here, but if I catch you chasing after the hem of my sister's skirts, or bewitching her as you have my staff, I'll have you burned for craft. For what woman in her right mind would fall for a man stinks like the sea..salty dead fish."

Peregrine: Oh no he didn't!

Jean-Claude: Somewhere between the space and time Charles gave his heroic speech of brotherly love and protection, of fine wines and fruit, Jean-Claude had melted into the shadows only to emerge again with his jacket done up, and his hair falling forward to shadow his face. As always the room would darken, seem to chill as only he could tear at the fears inside the back of ones mind and bring them forth, "Gentlemen of such class do not speak to a good hired hand." His voice spoke darkly but calm, the voice of reason who had entered into that mind of Charles. Over the last few weeks he had been the very eager help to the fallen court member returning his manners, and updating his attire to see him blend better in society, and Charles had welcomed him. "Master Peregrine is a master to his trade, and helps me rebuild my Château. I saw no reason why a man who has broke his back to restore dignity to this neighborhood should not be invited, and he finished my dance with your darling sister when I felt poorly." He lied through his teeth, but it was a good sort one that promised of things to come. "He knows his worth is very little, but to stand before a crowd as this and point that out shows very little dignity." Charles would be quick to close his hands behind his back and bow his head slightly to the taller frame of Jean-Claude, but he was not so eager to give up.

Charles d'Evreux: "A friend of yours is one of my own, but he will stay away from my sister..you of all people know how important this is."

Jean-Claude: "I do indeed, and it shall be done." He clasped a gloved hand upon Peregrine's shoulder to calm him, to put the ease back into his soul as no doubt he was firing daggers with his eyes.

Rosalind: Rosalind's hand briefly touched the almond-colored hand of the Spaniard. His hand was warm, and he smelled ... well, he smelled a bit like Rosalind expected a Spaniard to smell like. Spicy, warm. He was comfortable in his elaborate clothes and moved with as much grace as she, not slowing much to allow for her limp, but he seemed eager to join the dance, to take her away from the table, from her brother and the two men, and lure her into thoughts of Aragon.

The Spanish Envoy: "I am Emilio de Barbastro, a knight of His Majesty's kingdom, and what prevents me from pursuing my king's desires to conquer Sicily and Genoa is my greater desire to see His Majesty happy in his own home. You are a very handsome woman, Comtesse. A very lovely woman." He was eager to dance. It gave him leave to watch her without the usual social constraints to keep his eyes level. He was Spanish; he could appreciate the feminine form.

Rosalind: Rosalind was appreciated enough. She lifted her eyes heavenward for guidance, but stepped into the dance with him. Luck, as ever, was not on her side. It was a fast-paced court dance that brought her in constant contact with Emilio. Worse, there was a sensuous downbeat that required a flick of the hips. She clapped her hands in unison with the ladies and stepped lithely around him, pinning him with her eyes. Dare he look anywhere else and she would have the absolute right to stomp on his foot and make her swift departure. But he behaved, and she had no good reason to misbehave either, and tolerated the dance. There was considerably more heat between the Aragon envoy and Rosalind than the other couples, and soon eyes were upon the pair of them, most mistaking Rosalind's rage for interest in the envoy, and if she had not had so much wine, she would agree that losing her temper was a mistake. Like all things, the dance came to an end, and Rosalind took a deep breath in to steady her heart.

The Spanish Envoy: The ambassador bowed deeply, a courtly gesture that seemed hard on his back, lips brushing against Rosalind's hand. He rose slowly. "Comtesse, you have captured my heart, and I am certain you will capture all of Aragon's. The riches of our growing empire shall see you never spend a day without a luxurious carpet beneath your foot, gems in your hair, or spices coloring your food. Should a babe grow in your womb, it would make all our empire laugh with your joy as Sarah laughed, for he would be born to the most handsome man in Europe, and his most beautiful, most honored lady, Queen of Aragon, Valencia, Sardinia, Corsica, and by the grace of God Almighty, Genoa."

Rosalind: Rosalind blinked owlishly. She could not afford to look for Peregrine or Jean-Claude. Any deviation from this scene, of which she now found herself at the very center, all the courtiers of France gathered around in captive audience, would be seen as a gross insult to both Aragon, France, and her brother. "Then let us hope, monsieur, fortune favors the bold, and France sees no impediment to such a union. I defer, of course, to the generosity and hospitality of His Grace, but I am ... flattered." She was nothing of the sort, but Rosalind had experience in telling lies. She was quite good at it.

Peregrine: Charles had turned around to watch the going ons, and so too did his attention fall. Had this been the announcement? Mr. Spaniard spoke some might fine words, and those lies Rosalind was very good at hit home no matter how much he knew better--the seed of doubt had been planted.

[Peregrine Inveryne-Lamont]

Rosalind:     They returned home late after the ball had finished.  Of course, the option to stay as guests of the royal couple was taken, along with a leisurely day strolling the gardens, hunting, or playing real tennis.  Rosalind spent most of it, most unfortunately, in the company of the Spanish ambassador, wishing to be anywhere but at his side.  However, he gave an accurate portrait of Alfonso, telling Rosalind a few stories about the King of Aragon that were not the most flattering, with just enough humility that Rosalind did not once feel as though she was being lied to.  It was difficult to distrust a person who treated another honestly.  When the envoy mentioned he must leave to begin his journey home, Charles agreed, and the siblings left the palace shortly after the Spaniard, riding mostly in silence on the way into Paris.  Rosalind wasn't necessarily displeased with Charles.  She was tired, and she wished to contemplate what she'd learned at this latest gathering in peace.  She was not used to being questioned about her every thought, and any time he thought to peer into her mind with such an inane question, she gave him an irritated glance before returning her gaze back out the window.  Her maids prepared a bath for Rosalind, and the water was still steaming when she sat beside the basin, draping her fingers across the surface.  Milk, honey, and rose of damask scented the air on the rising vapor, and through the slightly ajar window, she could smell the river and garden below. *

Peregrine:     The night had fallen ill to the land around him, as the Pirate could not longer see straight. The world was spinning, and for once he wished he could blame the wine. Tonight had been a slap in the face, the harsh reality that Rosalind could be a Queen. She would have her own castle, her glory, and riches. Aldric would be a prince, now no longer of his imagination, and the Pirate could return to his life. What a selfish thing to feel with all the rush of the dance, and the Spaniard to want to bolt. Had she not admitted her love the day prior he perhaps would have and never looked back. Yet, there was still a very big part of him that questioned not only himself, but her own happiness. She hated to sail..he loved the ocean, she was afraid of bugs, he slept in the grass; Rosalind lived in a castle--he lived in a tree. She was a Princess, and he a Gypsy King. How would it be such fates could remain? A small little half lit smile peeled back the darkened figures lips, as tonight he still carried that sophisticated crime boss attire, an Italian made suit that was no doubt peeled from the man's body himself. His hair was brushed back, exposing a well set jaw as he traveled deep in thought over cobblestone roads that clicked under his heel. For a good moment he sat bellow her tree, the one that brought him to her window knowing how much Jean-Claude would refuse the very idea of him climbing in his new clothes. So help me God, Pere if you get this dirty..The man's thoughts came and went; in one ear and out the other. A little harder it was to surface at her window in pants that fit.. and a jacket that was heavy. "Hard day, Your Highness?" He sighed coming to prop himself against the frame and dark eyes moving over the sight before him--beautiful. "Isn't that the only reason for a bath?" You can change his clothes, brush his hair, but he will always be a scoundrel. (d

Rosalind:     She set down the hairbrush on her vanity.  Even when she wore her hair down, she scooped the front back, away from her face, and secured it with a clip.  Now, it all hung loose, down past her hips, dark in the candlelight behind her, though in sunlight, a few pieces nearly glowed as brightly as her son's head of wheat-colored hair.  She heard his tone of voice, and silently folded her arms across her chest.  The layered, gauzy gown she wore was meant for warm wather, not modesty.  Choosing to wait a moment before acknowledging him, she went to the doors leading into her room and made certain they were bolted.  Thank heavens she had told her maids she wished to buck convention and bathe in privacy tonight.  She turned back to the window and approached slowly.  He really did look ... he looked wonderful.  Even if it was all due to Jean-Claude, the result was breathtaking.  But Peregrine usually had that effect on her, whether or not he was paying attention to that slight movement, the only change that ever seemed to betray her, since her face was as immovable as alabaster.  She took a seat on the cushioned ledge and gazed up at him.  "I could not turn him down in public.  I did the next best thing.  I deferred to Valois."  She could not, nor would she, embarrass her brother.  Even if he had put himself in this damning situation, he was her family, and deserved better than abject humiliation.  She, however, was willing to debase herself for no money at all.  But Charles was young; he had not lived the life she had lived.  She doubted he could take all the mockery Rosalind had incurred since the fall of Inveryne. *

Peregrine:     Turning to face her he would gently touch a strand of her hair and replace it behind her ear, with his fingers trailing the smooth line of her jaw as he spoke, "I did not ask you about today, I asked you about the bath." His words were gentle, soft--something different for him as well. His jaw tightened in her words and the lines outlined his mouth were smoothed into his frustration. "You are free to do as you please, Rosalind. You don't have to turn him down at all. Think of the life you would be given, and the heritage you could return to Aldric. Rosalind, you should think about this." He spoke quietly never once removing his hand from her face as he caressed her cheek with the back of his thumb, "I'm not going anywhere, I can do my business all over the world. Though..the market in Aragon is a tough one, I could make do. Jean-Claude needs some sun anyway." He smiled lightly, a fake smile that was not his own. (d

Rosalind:     She inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly.  The fragrances from the warm water weren't so comforting suddenly.  She felt as if there was something inherently offensive in his suggestion, but she couldn't decide what.  She would have cuckolded Fearghus.  Maybe not at first, but had their marriage lasted any longer, had Peregrine insisted on dancing under full moons, she would have.  It wasn't the same with the King of Aragon.  Queens could not have lovers -- not the queen she wished to be.  Isabella had her Roger Mortimer, but for every Isabella there were handfuls of women who had been discovered having affairs, or had knowledge of those that did.  Woman imprisoned for love, burned at the stake, put under house arrest -- no, she would not be that woman.  That was not the fate she wished.  "I don't want him.  I want you.  I don't want to be a queen.  I want you.  Do you think they will make Aldric a prince, Peregrine? I know what they will do to him, and I do not think they will make him a prince.  You can dress him up as the future chieftain of Lamont, but he is still a bastard.  And what of Lamont, when Aldric goes missing?"  She dipped her head down and closed her eyes.  "I have thought about it.  And my answer is no.  I will have to convince Valois that this marriage will be unsuitable for France.  That is all."  She clenched the gauzy fabric of her nightdress in her fists. *

Peregrine:     "No one would burn you, Mon Cher..I would not let them." He would tilt her chin with his finger up to meet his lips that pressed a kiss into her own, a sweet passionate little kiss that would speak for him--if words were ever stolen from him. No he had not read her thoughts, but the worry across her could speak more then words. "Non' would ever know I was there, and who is to say your King could not come down with an illness hmm?" Blue eyes that could tell no lies even if his lips could, spoke the truth of the entire matter--he was hurt! "Think about it Rosalind, Aldric is far too much of a heart snatcher to not win the heart of your King? What kind of life could I offer you that would ever fit your lifestyle? Think of it..I can give you all the gold in the world, dirty blood money, but I have nothing in society. It's not in my blood..Jean-Claude's..but never mine. I don't even know who my parents are." Not that he really cares, "I've got one mother, and a hundred brothers and sisters. All of them dark black hair, and rags. You think of the life, Rosalind, before you let your heart get in the way." His fingers followed the length of her jaw again to trail again down her neck and over the hem of her robe until he found the object in question, and it's wild beats beneath his fingers. "But  then again..it is what I treasure most, and I would hate for you to lie now, after we just found it no?" (d

Rosalind:     "I could never -- how could you think of anything like that?  Becoming an adulteress before I have even married him?  Plotting the demise of my marriage before a single contract has been signed?"  She touched his cheek with delicate fingertips, holding him still, her eyes locked on his.  "You offer me something more highly prized than gold.  And you know it.  I love you, Peregrine.  I do not say these words because it sounded right at the time.  Or because I  owe you anything.  I said it because that is how I feel, and there can be no other man in my life.  I do not care if he is the King of Aragon.  He is not you."  She covered the hand on her heart with both of hers.  "Since the first day we met, you have been telling me what is good for me.  What I should think, or what I should feel, or even what I should do.  You did not leave room for options.  You gave me one choice.  Dance.  Leave my husband.  Go with you  to the fires.  I admit, more than a few times you were absolutely right, but I wish you would stop telling me what is best for me."  *

Peregrine:     "I have never told you how to run your life, Rosalind. I have simply offered my hand, It is important to me you learn to stand on your own. I would only love a woman who is right in her own mind, you know me..I can't be depended on. "He teased lightly, "But if you wish..I'll let you fix this on your own." He smiled then leaning in to kiss her once again, as a few strands of his blonde could not help but fall free from their hold. "What is it you wish me to do? You know I have a hard time keeping still for too long." (d

Rosalind:     "Yes, you can."  She was as serious as he was joking.  She loosed the tie holding his hair back and let the rest of it follow the first few strands.  There, that was better.  She smoothed down a few wayward pieces.  "It is not broken yet.  I can do this, but only if I have you.  Only if I am sure you ... trust me.  That you know I would not simply abandon you because some king comes along."  Here, she did offer a slight joke, following it with a light kiss to his lips.  "You stayed by my side all these months, and I do not know why.  Can I ask for a few more weeks?"  She wished he didn't feel as if he were beneath her.  He wasn't.  While all of her peers had looked away and pretended not to notice what plagued Rosalind this past winter, he had stared it directly in the face.  He'd held her hand and taken her away when she needed it most.  And what had these nobles who were supposed to be better than him doing?  Nothing.  They had seen what they wished to see, justified what could not be justified.  Perry never had the patience to do either.  He saw her as she truly was.  And now he was letting her into his world, one she found fascinating and intriguing, and she would be there right now, if she was not here in France.  "I need to think of a way to convince the King that this match will not work.  And to find an alternative so that Aragon will not be offended.  I think wine -- the King of Aragon has prime land that produces very good wines, just not in Aragon itself."  Mild revulsion at the memory of that wine, but she hid it.  Mostly.  "These two things, I think, should make it possible for me to leave soon." *

Peregrine:     He chuckled lightly, the lines of his face deepening around his eyes as he laughed sometimes too much. "What are two more weeks to the better part of what? 4 months?" He pressed from the window leaving her there while he swept theroom with his eyes searching for anything that was out of place, as he always worried. Hands came to rest upon his hips, the sleeves of the jacket pulling forward over his hands. "Fine. I'll give all the time you wish on one condition. When we return, and I burn this place to the ground, you think about giving it one more shot. This mar.." He let his voice fall silent, as a sound entered his finely tuned ears that came to the smallest of points, "Your brother is coming." Boots that had clicked heavily over the stone road now moved in perfect silence as he swept over the room to pull her into one final kiss. The kind of kiss that begged for more, but left satisfaction that his desire for her could only promise. "I love you, too." He whispered against her lips before he was up and out the window once again. (d

[Peregrine Inveryne-Lamont]

Falling heavily the night’s darkest hour, and climbing swiftly—silently down her tree, the pirate moved. The taste of her sweet lips still against his own, the very taste of her to drive him wild, and with her he left his heart. She loved him, how many times had he heard that? She loved him not; he could not even imagine. He saw it in her eyes, the way she looked at him across the room, and how she spoke her name on the edge of her tongue in desperation of wanting more. She wanted more, and strangely enough so did he.

“I have seen your kind before..” A voice spoke from behind, a light hiss of words hot against his teeth, and Peregrine found himself at the bottom of the tree. The figure was tall and dark, much like Jean-Claude, but less ideal for his rank. This man was a brute, thick arms, and thick neck—stood a good foot taller then the others who now flanked the Pirate.

Peregrine’s whole body tensed, but it was his face that remained cool and relaxed; that grin of his curling.

“You must have me mistaken, I don’t do your kind.”

The men around him sneered at the insult, suggesting their captain was a fruit could cost him more then his life. However, the tall Frenchmen would only circle the smaller framed man before him, stalking him with his eyes and sizing him up.

“You don’t carry a weapon, boy, why?” He growled against Peregrine’s cheek then hissing hot air against his face.

"I have nothing to compensate for, M’lord” He turned green at the smell of the man’s breath, having sword he allowed the flesh he ate from his last victim rot between his teeth, but when he gathered himself he turned to face the man a daring spark burning in his eyes. “Is that why you carry so many?”

A quick swift motion of the hilt of the brute’s sword shot stars across the pirate’s eyes upon impact. The crack carried over his body, the black of night rushing quickly, and as he fell to the ground the only warmth he could remember was the feel of his own blood rush down his face.

“Rosalind..”


"You made this hard on yourself, now you'll rot in hell while she is made Queen. Be gone with him, take him under." The man spoke with a wave of his hand and turned towards the window where Charles watched from above.

[Lady Rosalind Avalle]

Emilio de Barbastro: She smelled like roses. Like honey and roses. Nothing of appearances in ladies of a certain age could be believed. Dresses were purchased for the sole purpose of winning a husband. Beauty products were used to enhance the angularity of eyes, the darkness of lashes, the fullness of lips. Dyes could be procured to chase away gray. Shoes and boning and proper undergarments could improve and flatter a figure that began submitting to gravity's pull. Yet there was the sensation, the odd intuitive knowledge, that Rosalind was not one of those women who indulged in such vanities. She was a humble woman, yes, but not to the point of shyness. She was unlike any the Spaniard had ever met -- a true rose in a garden of colorful but fleeting blooms. He stood immediately upon her entrance and bowed crisply. "Madame."

Rosalind: They could dress her in any number of fine garments. Pull the strings on the bodice tightly and she would dance like the finest marionette. Ply her feet into angular, tight shoes and she would step the line as any courtier. She was one of them and yet, she was entirely different. But not so different, no -- they lived in a time in which the lives of men were precarious, almost as flimsy as the women who birthed children and faced death in delivering life. A splinter or a broken nail could infect and kill. A broken leg could bleed without end. Any manner of sicknesses and ailments took more without a single symptom. They were all frail, yes. With the exception of Rosalind, who endured. She had endured two dead husbands. Though of the same blood, they could not have been more different than the sun or the moon. She had endured tragedy both political and personal, bore the scars of accidents physical and mental, and though youthful innocence had never truly been a trait in her personality, she did not look as old as her experience in life made her feel. It was different lately. Peregrine reminded her that life was worth loving, for every up and down, that it was not merely to be survived, but thoroughly enjoyed. When she looked in the mirror lately, she saw a face she had not seen in a very long time. The clothes did not change who she was, though when she entered the drawing room and discovered the Spaniard, the glow temporarily faded. "Emilio."

Emilio de Barbastro: His visit could only mean one thing and one thing alone. Though the official announcement would not come until the contracts had been agreed to and signed by the royal hands of France and Aragon, he could deliver Aragon's proposal, and sincerest desire to see Rosalind delivered to Alfonso's bed. Yet his eyes lingered on Rosalind a bit longer than they should. He lightly ran his tongue along the sharp edge of his front teeth in thought. He wished he did not have to visit her for official reasons alone. She was intriguing, to say the least. A comtesse who appeared out of nowhere, with a rumored fortune to call upon, one that would win Genoa for Aragon, and secure Sicily. She was beautiful, literate, eloquent, and graceful. Her defects were few. Age could be overlooked, as Alfonso already had male heirs. The lameness was not hereditary, but due to accident. The unfortunate pair of husbands was bad luck; Scotland was a barbarous country and war often left women in Rosalind's oft-widowed position. He deluded himself, gazing at her temporarily clouded radiance, into believing they might become friends. She would, after all, be a queen worthy of serving -- one with the onerous task of having little obligation to Alfonso beyond announcing her "I do" before the Pope. "I have come -- "

Rosalind: Rosalind smiled and held up a hand to still him. It was an elegant but effective gesture, and quieted the Spaniard in the same way one silenced a bell. "I know why you have come, Sir Emilio." She was not in the most pleasant of moods. Peregrine had disappeared. She had not yet had the opportunity to speak with Jean-Claude, but waking to the sensation that something was dreadfully wrong was a feeling she had learned to trust in her years. She had also noticed the quiet but steady rate at which household belongings, which she had purchased and placed to decorate Charles' empty home, were being crated and prepared for a journey elsewhere. He had no need to keep her in Paris, particularly as summer approached with its heat and humidity, when he could now take advantage of both Etampes and Auvergne. Her Occitane home would be a perfectly reasonable alternative as they waited for confirmation of the royal marriage. Nestled among the volcanic mountains and verdant valleys, it was also removed from Paris' other, less wealthy suitors than the King of Aragon. Suitors like men who wished to make their legacies marrying a woman like Rosalind, hardly realizing her rounds in Paris had been mere formality, a show to satisfy the peerage that they, too, had equal and ample opportunity to make a match with the Comtesse d'Auvergne, and lost to Aragon. Men, as far as her brother was concerned, precisely like Jean-Claude, like Peregrine, who threatened a very real possibility of a resurrected career. "But little has changed since your announcement at Her Majesty's dance. I would rather enjoy the fresh air in the gardens."

Emilio de Barbastro: The Spaniard bowed formally once again and straightened, smiling. "Of course, madame. Please, call me by my Christian name. If it is at your pleasure, I will be in your service for many years to come." His accent was rich, lingering over consonants that his language merely glanced over, and elongating vowels for the sheer pleasure of saying them. Once they left the house, he offered his arm to her. He was not as brisk as he had been the night of the dance. Then, it had been his point to push her to the edge, to fully investigate what Alfonso was purchasing. Now he could take his time and immerse himself in what Rosalind would bring to Aragon. "A little bird tells me that you are not in favor of Aragonese wine. Oh, do not make such a face, madame. Would it surprise you to learn Alfonso does not care for it either? It is a secret, yes -- a heavily guarded one. Alfonso has such vast tracts of land in Catalonia. They are for making of the wine. Better wine than we have in Aragon." He was quiet for a long time, matching his steps to hers, letting her choose their path. Even here, near the Seine, he could smell the honey and roses. "Have you ever had Coriscan honey, my Lady Rosalind? It is the best in all of God's kingdom. I will make sure His Majesty makes a gift of it to you, along with figs and chestnuts."

Rosalind: This man was no different from any other courtier, but she found him exhausting. He was too eager to please, especially given Rosalind's distinct lack of interest in his marriage proposal. she had no use for honey, chestnuts, or figs. She did not care about Catalonian wine. She wanted nothing more than to find her missing Peregrine, collect Jean-Claude, and return to her life in Skye. It was becoming ever more difficult to continue making excuses for leaving Charles' life in the same condition she had discovered it, when his good-intentioned bumbling was only wreaking havoc on hers. She was silent while the man from Aragon continued chatting, feigning interest in the flowers, though her eyes occasionally lifted toward her neighbor's property. Was there any sign from Jean-Claude yet? Had Peregrine truly gone missing, or would she see his bright head pop up from the roof as he went back to making repairs where he had left off?

Ghislain: Nothing was so offensive as good weather when one was in a foul mood. The sky was a perfect dizzying blue, as eyes shot to the horizon looking for its end, and finding none in sight, ached at the sheer enormity of that glorious color. The temperature was mild, the breeze lightly scented of roses and earth. This part of Paris seemed excluded from the filth that overwhelmed the rest of the city. It was quite pretty. He swung down from his horse but waved off Etampes' stable lad. He did not mean to stay long, and came on royal business. Just as he had thought, his king could not utterly dismiss his most loyal servant. Ghislain's role in court had changed drastically from just a few short weeks ago, but all was not lost. His king needed him. When he inquired with a servant within, he discovered Etampes was gone for the day. So, he did have some luck! The Lady Rosalind was in the gardens with the diplomat. This saved him an extra journey, but it did not improve his mood. He approached the pair and bowed deeply. No matter his personal preferences, he remained polite, particularly toward Emilio. "My niece, it is a pleasure to inform you particularly that an agreement has been reached, and favorable terms agreed upon just hours ago with Sir Emilio's counterpart in the Aragonese envoy. In two weeks, you are to be wed to His Majesty, Alfons el Benigne, in the royal cathedral of Avignon by His Holiness, Pope John XXII, and crowned upon the same day Queen of Aragon, Valencia, Sardinia, and Corsica."

Rosalind: Rosalind watched her uncle approached. Charles must truly be well away from his home to allow Ghislain to be present. The animosity between the two men was near palpable. With Ghislain's near annihilation in court, there had not been many opportunities to speak with the man who was responsible for bringing her to France. In fact, there had been none, save their picnic shortly after her arrival in Honfleur. He remained a curiosity for Rosalind, but not particularly high on her list of priorities. Why was he chosen to deliver this news, she wondered? But any thoughts were blown clear from her mind as Ghislain completed his rote memorization of the treaty's results. She folded her hands behind her back so that the gentlemen before her would not see her knuckles turn white. "His Holiness and I are ... not acquainted. But how fortunate are we that our union shall be overseen by Rome. No man can hope to put it asunder."

If they only knew the irony lacing her words! She would no doubt have earned their undying hatred, of course, but the urge to laugh nearly overpowered her. Life was full of such painful ironies! It was a sin not to laugh at them! She felt her sanity momentarily drift away, but caught at the frayed edges and gathered herself upright with a cool smile. Already, an idea was forming, and it was time to set Charles loose. "Emilio, if you will excuse me, I must have words with Sir Ghislain." She gave the ambassador no chance to refuse her as she took Ghislain's arm and steered him away from Emilio.

Emilio de Barbastro: "My lady! I do not understand! What is the meaning of this?"

Ghislain: "He is right. What is the meaning of this?" He gently freed himself of her grip and turned to face her. She truly would have excelled in this court with a face like that. Or at least, she would have excelled in gambling in the hall with the noblemen. "Rosalind?"

Rosalind: "There is no dowry," Rosalind said softly. She would not dance around this subject. She had promised Peregrine she would maintain control over the situation, but now that control was gone. He was missing, and she was going to be a queen. She watched as Ghislain's expression went from amused to surprised to outraged, and then slowly faded to contemplation. When he was ready, she smiled mirthlessly and nodded once. "It is true. I do not know its origins beyond what you have told me. But I assume it was paid to my first husband. He did not have the time to spend it, or he could not determine a proper use for it. Either way, it went unspent, and when I was forced into marriage to my second husband, it went to him." Rosalind told Ghislain, in the swiftest terms possible, how Fearghus had spent the money restoring her clan, paying off the same pope she would now meet beside Alfonso in a legitimate ceremony, and befriending Skye as a way of securing Lamont victory over Argyll. "But as much as he spent, it was nothing to what remains."

She told him about finding the dowry, and how in her horror, she sank it 160 feet below ground. "It cannot be recovered. It is foolish to attempt it. That money has only brought death and destruction to me and those I love."

Ghislain: France had just sold her soul to Aragon, for the price of his niece's nonexistant dowry. He laughed, hard. He shot a look at the Aragon ambassador, sobering almost instantly, then turned back to Rosalind. "All this time, what did you hope to achieve here?"

Rosalind: Rosalind chuckled. "It was not my choice to return, uncle, and now you know my reason. I bring absolutely nothing of value to the table save my pretty face. If this contract is not dissolved, it will bring only shame on France, and Charles, when the truth of my dowry is discovered. I know it might appeal to you to see my brother as utterly shamed as you were, but I know where your loyalty lies. You love France. You would not destroy this nation for the sake of vengeance, would you?"

Ghislain: Ghislain shook his head slowly. "No, I would not. And it must be said, my niece, I have as little desire for this marriage as yourself. Perhaps even less." He saw the hard look in her eyes and smiled. No, he was incorrect. Rosalind did not wish this marriage for many reasons, not all of which had been expressed. She mentioned loved ones. Ghislain loved his country, but he would never refer to friends in court as loved ones. Rosalind, just like Ghislain, had a hidden life far from here, with different rules and obligations than that promised as the Queen of Aragon. Who was she protecting? Ghislain studied her face very carefully, but saw nothing in carefully neutral hazel eyes. It was nothing less than he expected, having seen the same look in the mirror more than once in his long years. "For France, then, yes?"

Rosalind: "For something," Rosalind offered with a hint of humor. "I have another favor to ask of you, uncle."

Ghislain: "For an ally such as you, niece, merely name the task."

[Lady Rosalind Avalle]

Turas Lan

The weather was abysmally hot for this part of the world. Though the sky was a perfect summer blue, humidity sank upon Turas Lan like an unwanted blanket. Everything wilted. The castle began to empty out of nobility and clansmen alike. Heat made the usual smells of human habitation unbearable, and it was time for the servants to begin cleaning out abandoned rooms and scouring vacant privy chambers and their connecting routes. It was unpleasant work, and Annabella was infinitely grateful she was a bonified lady's maid.

It could be much worse.

She had served Rosalind well since the day the woman hired her. She admired Rosalind's strength and courage, even if she had not understood any of it. The woman's reasons were so far beyond Annabella's ken that the maid stopped trying to understand. To her shame, she had been sympathetic to Fearghus, the wronged husband, and had spent every day in chapel attempting to atone for sticking her nose in her lady's business. Rosalind had been right. Annabella was no mother, but she knew what she would have done in Rosalind's circumstances. She would have done anything for that blue-eyed, chubby-cheeked little boy. She would have sold her body. She would have sold her soul. The bargains she would have made put all of Rosalind's actions in perspective.

She was emerging from church that day, under the unbelievably beautiful, heavy blue sky. Sunlight struck her face and made her smile. Turas Lan was a beautiful city. She had so many reasons to be grateful. To be repentant. If God would deliver Rosalind back to Turas Lan, Annabella would confess what she did to her lady. She would tell Rosalind everything. I told him. I told him about Peregrine. About Gwen. She was your lady's maid, but we never saw her. Fearghus put it together. He said you were protecting something. But what did you have left to protect, Rosalind, that was not by God's law his? But if I had known. If I had only known.

She took a step out into the street. Something caught her eye in the alley. Lately, she had noticed shadows surrounding her, even in the castle. When she went home to her family in Turas Lan, the shadows went with her. They made the streets go quiet while she walked, and she had changed direction a few times to avoid them -- the sensation of being watched followed. She kept to crowded streets and that seemed to make it better. But today, under this oppressive heat and humidity, the street was empty.

Anger filled her. She went into the alley to confront the shadow. Stop following me. Don't you know we're in mourning? My lady is gone. But the words would not come from her mouth. She did not have the time to form them. Luckily for Annabella, her death was more merciful than she deserved, and she neither felt it, nor saw it coming.

[Adelaide d'Aquitaine]

Turas Lan

Jean-Claude: Follow well the new moon into the night, as with the darkened sky a welcome of Cancer will never been seen by the human eye, but it was the beating drums of the Gypsy flames that would let it rise. The sounds were a welcome feeling of rebirth and return, as he felt a wave of realization hit him that all was according to plan once again. If Peregrine were dead the beating hands of his brethren would still, their dances would know as the old sage whose eyes saw no light, could see many things a naked eye could not. He lives..underground, below the streets. The only words he needed to hear, and suddenly the journey did not seem such a waste. He had been forced, needing to free himself from France once again, or again he would watch it burn. The very talk of the fires made his skin crawl, but it was not felt as the feeling had gone numb a very long time ago. The cool crisp air of the evening was welcome as well, something the Celtic Isle was known for was now the very breath of life this tangled web needed.


Ada: Summer, not spring, not even fall -- summer was the season for change. For those who knew its scent, it was as powerful a force as lightning, as the urge to mate, the inexplicable need for even the most die hard denizen of the city leave in search of green. It even made Ada, the most anchored of women, feel the need to walk the long, humid nights filled with new stars in search of something to sate the insatiable. At least she was not alone. Fire held the strange power of both attracting and repelling the herbalist, and when there was a man capable of breathing the flames themselves, she had to stop and watch. Her lesson, with her growing number of students, could wait a few moments for this carnival trick of alcohol and a spark. But then her feet were in motion again. She had a dance class to teach where there was no rhythm and students were encouraged not to follow any known pattern. This was a place filled with strange shadows, and though in passing some looked familiar, they ended up perfect strangers, giving Ada strange looks as she glided past. Until she was certain she recognized one, and fit her arm alongside Jean-Claude's, her fingers lightly touching his elbow. He seemed like a man who liked his space, and it was too hot to be any closer than a companionable distance. ”Good evening, my friend. It has been too long.[/i]”

Jean-Claude: Ada was not a woman who was seen, nor heard, but felt. Long before she came to his side he could breath in the scent of her profession. The herbs and spices of her potions lingered upon her skin, and winded around the darkened strands of her hair like a dance, it was no wonder she enchanted so many, and captured the heart of a brute. Had he not known of Ren, perhaps she could have held his own. Against her touch, the folds of her fingers upon his silk sleeve, he would still. Would she pull away so quickly feeling the deep chill of his flesh below it. The circulation cast aside from fire, leaving behind a frozen kiss of tangled crossed skin that did not match well to his flawless almost porcelain face. There was a stillness that none would ever match, endless dark eyes that held the entire night sky turned into her own, but even with the motion he seemed to not move once. Nothing, but the sweep of the wind through well kept, jet black strands of straight hair that fell over his shoulders and well down his back. ”Too long, indeed.[/i]” Was it such a strange thing to see a man as his in the midst's of Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves? In France he was looked upon as alarming, overwhelming, and strange..here he was simply who he was, a man who kept to himself, but was always there with open gloved hands to any. ”Are you to celebrate the waxing moon tonight?[/i]” And then he would fall silent, giving her a turn, as that was conversations should be no?

Ada: Ada enjoyed the company of most, but it was true -- she was most at home among men. Very little of what she did was particularly feminine anyway. She did not cook, sew, or stars for bid, clean. She waged a constant war of cobwebs that any woman with any domestic experience would have won ages ago. And none of this seemed to bother her one bit. She liked the world of men. She liked the way they moved and talked, how they smelled, or rode a horse. And Ad could admire a man with the same crassness that they admired her, an honesty most found charming, topped with a sense of humor that cured most foul moods. Though she understood women well enough, there was much to her own gender she simply did not have the time to stop and investigate. If Jean-Claude moved his arm to escape her touch, she would yield. But if it was a mere shiver, she would keep her light touch where it was, as long as she was not causing him pain. The truth was, she empathized so much with Jean-Claude, she would have hugged him, Ren or no Ren. ”In a way, I suppose. But my feet, they do not wish stillness. They wish to move and I cannot still them, even if I tried.[/i]” She smiled up at him. ”So it is good I am teaching a dance class. And your feet? They wish to roam, enough that you leave the Underdark?[/i]” My, would Ada be surprised to learn that he had not only left his solitary room, but he had left Skye itself!

Jean-Claude: ”You teach it tonight?[/i]” He gave a little quirk of his brow, one of the only expressions that made him human in many eyes, his constant desire to learn of another. In a single fluid motion his face turned to the horizon, to gracefully fall back into the frame of her gaze, and for a good moment he simply gave her a study; memorizing her face and committing it to memory in this moonless night. ”I have just returned, and have yet to see my pet..I trust the Underdark still exists, seeing this part of town reminds me it always will...[/i]”Was that a hint of a smile upon his thin pale lips? As the laughter from the path before them grew darker his point was to be proven, the screams of playful banter between tribes could never be missed where ale ran like blood down the veins of the streets. He would not pull away from her touch. Never. However, it would not be like him to encourage it, no matter how much he desired even her just her company. That would forever be the gentleman in him.

Ada: She understood, and would never be offended. Jean-Claude was a rarity, and she smiled at the unbidden thought of them twenty or thirty years from now, old friends, walking just like this. Ada, at least, could recognize a kindred spirit when one was found. And not all such spirits were destined for anything more than a brief passing. Some were meant for friendships. Some for more, but it took many more lifetimes than Ada had lived to place her finger on any such person she might have encountered before. ”Oh, it does, and it thrives, but such a place as that -- it rarely stagnates. Even with its leader gone.[/i]” Ada's shop took in a few of the Underdark's denizens. Not many, but enough that she had an inkling of disappearances and strange happenings. ”Mm. Tonight. Though we never keep a regular schedule. More as the whim strikes, and I collect more students, no matter how I try to make myself unavailable. I like to keep my methods unorthodox.[/i]” She laughed. ”Have you been here long enough to notice anything ... unusual? The atmosphere has changed in the market. And I cannot tell just how that is so. A new spice? Some shift in the wind? It is difficult to tell, buried indoors, amid my own spices.[/i]”

Jean-Claude: In her words she would pull the spider from it's web, as he felt the warmth of the very sun radiate from her, and no matter how he tried to hide from it always did the Soleil find it's way forward. ”It would not be my place to say, of what is unusual, Mon Ami, but do not let me stop you there..Of what do you feel?[/i]” In that very question he asked not of her heart, but what her mind told her body, what was it that started this little inkling of an idea.Something had changed, but was it the air? He smelled of the sea, mixed with the musky sweet scent of the darkest soil, rich and vibrant in life. Perhaps this was his secret of giving a meaning to 'rebirth'. All came to die in the earth, but how many could say they brought life to it? She could. He could. Who else? ”M'lord has gone to Paris to return his heart to Skye, I have been with him, returning only for answers..perhaps you can shed light upon us both..what has changed?[/i]” Dark eyes surrounded her own, refusing to release their hold. ”Have there been many new faces?[/i]”

Ada: ”The Moors have visited Skye. They have set up stalls here and there, selling their spices. But there is something new. Something I have not been able to place. Saffron I have smelled before, but there is a combination -- flor de sal, cinnamon, and cloves. Something smoky, too, that I cannot name. And Spanish voices, or I think they are from Espana, but I have never been, so how would I know them from a Dutchman?[/i]” She smiled, but she was also fairly confident in her nose. It was a keen instrument. ”But I do not think they are here to sell. They come into my shop looking for clean santolina to wrap blistered hands, salves, and other basics. And a man from Evreux came to offer lavender in trade for clary sage oil.[/i]” A bit puzzled, she shrugged. ”They do not stay in Turas Lan. I wish I knew their business, but it is a port city, after all. Filled with comings and goings, but I have never seen so many from France or Spain! And from a few, I sense ... ambition. Only a rare few.[/i]” She met his gaze, seriousness darkening her usually dark eyes further. ”And France?[/i]” She wasn't sure how to ask the question. She hoped he would elaborate. Was it a frightening place for him? It was for her. Was he homesick, like she was, no matter how ironic it was?

Jean-Claude: ”It is just how you left it..[/i]” Clearly he had been hurt upon the matter, deeply though it was not a hurt of pain, but one of regret. He hurt him to know such a wondrous country would never change. ”Clary Sage oil is best used to to burn, soothes nervous tension, but Ma Cher it is used to hide the body odor, of both the living and the dead..One could only wonder where a man of the sea would find a bit of lavender..Perhaps it did not cover the smell..[/i]” He thought more to himself, as he knew well Ada knew what the oil was best used for..of all people, but it was very strange indeed. ”Of Evruex..[/i]” He gasped in a cool breath of air, an inhale of lines crossed and the realization of the matter..His entire form stilled to a form a statue could relate, everything about him was always so poised and proper but now that was held in time as the lines of the guard stepped into the lane. It would be now his turn to stand bit more bold and reach out for her hand, ”Will you come with me?[/i]” An urgency under the gentle sound of his voice, as he was clearly not wanting to be seen. Down further into the lane they would go, where darkness met night, and even the depths of hell could not be matched. No law stood here, as no guard dare go, their bones made up the streets, and their blood food for the vegetation as even here the roses bloomed brighter--crimson in color. Outside each door peered yellow eyes, glowing in the darkness from a sickness not of the body but of the mind, a cure he raced to find, but too little too late. Laughter mixed with hysterics and the further they went the harder it became to tell the difference. Looming figures in windows seemed to stare out like a peeping tom would stare in, eating the very clothes from the woman's body with their dry lips, but at his side she would be safe. ”How many have been killed since our departure?[/i]” Through the alleyways, and winding streets he would lead her, keeping her as close to him as he could as he dare not risk another's grasp.

Ada: Ada was surprised, but she shouldn't have been. How had he connected those dots? Perhaps it was easier to see, as she pointed out, to someone who was not buried in a shop all day. She followed Jean-Claude where he indicated, watching their surroundings, but she was not concerned about her safety. She never was, and he would not be the first to be annoyed at her apparent lack of a survival instinct. ”Three, that I know of, but there is no connection. A whore. Two Lamont guards. I know the Lady Lamont is missing. It is a popular rumor. So the murder of her guards was troubling. But a whore? If there was not such a lack of crime in general in Turas Lan, I do not think any of these murders would be significant.[/i]” Oh, color! Seeing what generated that crimson, though, Ada's eyes traveled onward. There was no way to replicate that gardening technique and keep the neighbors out of her hair.

Jean-Claude: She was one to surprise him, always had been, even in the stories of Peregrine's first encounter with her, he had been fascinated by her, and now they grew closer as good friends should. Why was it he wished moments like this could last forever, as he did enjoy a good mystery but loved to watch another learn it's secrets first. ”She was missing, but has been found..my reasons for being in Skye. M'lord, has slipped through my fingers and I have yet to locate but I must continue with the plan. The gypsy mother told me of her idea, and I believe she is right, if my heart tells me correctly he is fine..simply held down. Rosalind, is well, but this troubles me of her guards..and the..putain [/i]” Of course he would dare not say the word, as it was not a secret the affair that was between he and the redheaded vixen of the Gilded Lily..words like that were implied too much, but in French it somehow softened the blow. ”I wish to speak in private of this manner, only because I fear deeply that if another heard of our conversation you would be next, and with being in France I am powerless to stop it.[/i]” Would he fight for her? Damn right he would.Jean-Claude did not show it often, or even know of her last name, but she had reached out her hand when a stranger needed it the most. ”And think me not to challenge your Ren..but here you are slipping into the Underdark with a man of madness..or so I am known. Even his strength could not find you here.[/]” Dark endless night eyes turned skyward were the bones of many men and women were strung on wires across the streets. Decorated in flowers, or other various objects. One alley would come to a halt, a stone wall encasing a gate of iron that breathed the sound of air..or something like it as if the matter on the other end was furiously panting--a haunted sigh. His gloved hand would reach out to take hold the handle and swing back the heavy doorway, that lead into nothing but solid empty dark..Beyond. Was that the sound of a ghost, or was the very earth below breathing? The haunted moan of in and out would be enough to drive even the bravest of men away, from bones to malice laughter, it was no wonder Jean-Claude held such a reputation..stepping in and out of such a place everyday. ”I can take you back if you wish not to go..[/i]” Into a place that was rumored many never returned from.

Ada: ”I am glad she has been found.[/i]” It made no difference to Ada whether the woman lived or died. Nobles were strange creatures to Ada, though the two she had loved had been men like any others. There were stranger paradoxes in her world. Still, Jean-Claude cared enough to brave France again, and from rumor alone, the lady seemed like a good one to know. She had a collection of names that she would like to have tea with, sooner rather than later, and the more fascinating, the better. ”You are kind to the woman. She really was a whore, though. She worked at the docks.[/i]” She wasn't really like Jean-Claude in a lot of ways. She'd come of age in the streets of Paris, and spoke like a true gutter rat sometimes, finding creative curse words that English lacked decent translations for, using a patois that did not exist outside certain streets, for good reason. Gentle folk did not use the words Ada used with such affection. Ada was not one to romanticize the world's oldest profession, even if she inadvertently criticized the Lilies. But, as it was often pointed out, the ladies were courtesans, not harlots. Ada frankly saw no distinction, but was wise enough to keep the opinion to herself. ”Her name was Molly,[/i]” she added a little more quietly. ”Jean-Claude, the things Ren does not know about me would fill the sea and splash on the shores. He does not ask, so I do not tell. I come and go as I please and he does the same.[/i]” But she never woke up alone. They preferred it this way, even if it was unorthodox. ”We have come this far. Let's go.[/i]” She smiled. Ren's permission was not required, but she knew what she was about to do would earn her a raised eyebrow. And possibly a few raised voices. But that was her concern.

Jean-Claude: ”You..are not afraid?[/i]” He stood there as the breath of the breeze that swept the tunnels, brushed his hair from his shoulders, and he would turn to face her. ”You know nothing of me, but wish to walk into my hell. Without second thought or wonder as to what is on the other side?[/i]” He was testing her in ways, but his questions were of truth, he wished to know the answers. Only Peregrine knew of his lair, and perhaps Rosalind..Shaden was far too gone to realize where she was, and she was returned to the Lily without ever knowing she was gone. ”This bravery is very becoming on you, so many are so afraid.[/i]” His voice would trail then growing lower and lower as he bled into the darkness blending as if he were stepping into a dark pool of water. She would stand there alone, the mouth of the opening a perfect iron opening with puffs of cold air rising from the surface. Behind her the laughter, a broken glass shattered, and heartfelt cry of madness. The wind would shift directions pressing against the door very clearly wanting it closed as if the earth knew of the danger outside, and wanted her in. Move on..move on.. on the wind seemed to carry even if they were not heard. When the door was closed pitch total darkness surrounded her, as nothing could be seen, and the world was shut behind her. Not even the sound of his steps could direct her. Ada stood alone.

Ada: ”I am afraid, but I trust you.[/i]” She did not throw that word around lightly. She honestly did trust him. He could lay his life down and all his secrets in her hands and she would keep them all safe. For a woman who knew nothing of domesticity and had never been a mother, she could be remarkably comforting. Perhaps she was not certain if she would do the same, trusting his hands, but it seemed now she would have to make the same leap he had. ”It bothers me, too, that every time you enter or leave, you must do this alone. I do not have to be alone.[/i]” She shrugged lightly, took one last look as their surroundings, and followed him in, urged on by the whispers. As if she needed any more motivation, the heavy clunk of suspended bones was an eerie enough windchime that she did not wish to linger long anyway. She let the darkness close in around her. She was not afraid of darkness and never had been. In the dark was the aspect of the Goddess. It was primordial. It was the womb. Still, who knew what came flying out of the abyss? What dangers lurked out of sight as her eyes struggled to adapt to the light-less surrounds? Even her sense of balance seemed confused by the utter lack of light, and she closed her eyes to focus. This was what Master Benoit saw, alone in a thieves' hole, as he and all his colleagues awaited their most gruesome death. Darkness, like fire, had its duality.

Jean-Claude: Jean-Claude had become lost in the darkness like never before, and perhaps it was here he had learned to blend so easily, and as well it was here he learned to overcome his greatest fear. He no longer feared the fire, and shut away here he could no hear the sounds of their voices calling for him to come out. No doom waited behind this darkness, not for any mortal soul. All the bodies that passed through those gates were dead already, or close. This had become his haven, as well his hell for it shut him out from the rest. ”Then you will understand why I must ask you that you never come here on your own.[/i]” Out of no where the light started, but first a voice as flames lined the walls traveling down a rope quickly as one by one lanterns were lit and the fire died at the end--an early invention of his. The path was beautiful as the limestone glittered in the darkness under the light of the lamp, and the path was easily made out as he stepped to her once again. The natural tunnel still held a small little river of the sea, and if she thought about it this was what made the breathing sounds; the swell of the sea. A shallow vein of the water lined the wall and the fallings of the lanterns would sizzle against the black ocean water. ”We will not be long..[/i]” He would not wait for her, but give her his back to lead down the hall of natural carved stone. ”Never speak of this.[/i]” His tone had darkened a little seeming less then friendly and a bit dry, as a very real realization set in, that he trusted her too, and over his shoulder he looked back at her sincerity deep within those navy eyes, ”Or it will happen all over again.[/i]” Ada would know of what he spoke, as she had been there, perhaps seen just as she, but had she watched her entire life's work go up in flames and ache for it, not of his own body being burned? Jean-Claude had not cried out at all that horrible night in Paris, not like the rest, but it was this action that had captured Peregrine's attention. Dark eyes were fixed upon the University watching as the pages from books were being torn and burned--that still hurt.

Ada: It was surprisingly pretty. Ada's eyes searched the walls and ran along the trail of lanterns ahead, to the water and the sizzling as bits of flame dropped down. This was the moaning and the sighing -- the tide. ”I will not.[/i]” Ada had watched Paris burn from the comfortable distance of the royal hunting grounds, where the then-prince kept all his prized possessions. She had seen the glow and heard the screams. In the dawning horror of the next day, she had seen the wrecked shops and the missing familiar faces of those who dared to compete with the Church for knowledge of man and the natural order of the world. Paris had been on the brink of greatness, and she had seen the city eat its knowledge and burp great plumes of smoke and ash that smelled of burning flesh and invaluable papers. It had snowed that day as the remnants of great minds and what they might have taught to their disciples settled down upon Paris. What remained of Benoit's works, what he and few others had the foresight to protect, now had a home in Ada's shop. She would learn, from square one, what they had spent generations studying. She followed Jean-Claude almost wordlessly, but of course, she was deep in thought. Paris was her heartbeat, and that organ ached with memory. With her role in the scars, a particular naivete that doomed them all. She wrapped her arms across her stomach, chilled, and stepped toward the light.

Jean-Claude: ”What happened in Paris haunts my every night, but from it I have learned.[/i]” His voice carried down the stone halls like a whisper as he waited in his place for her to join him at his side. The subject of the matter an important lesson learned, and a now well guarded secret. The path was just big enough for the two of them, and with the lantern swinging from his gloved hand the light would stretch before them like a blanket of warmth over a normally void space.

Her chill caught his breath, and with a gentle pull of air into his lungs he would protest, ”You are cold, Mon Cher..here.[/i]” The lantern would be hung open an open hook, placed their by his own hands as marking points along the way, directions perhaps. For even the brightest minds could be lost in this labyrinth-underground. His overcoat, of summer material would be shed away with ease, the light fabric a deep rich black, but lined with the softest shade of blue silk. It would hug her just as it was tailored to fit well the smaller portion of his body, all of his clothes fit perfectly as he seemed to be a rather thin man, but perhaps it was just the color as it would be around her shoulders. Something must have been under all that fine linen and rich silks. Adorned heavily with silver ornaments, and buttons that lined the front; the coat would mark as one more reminder of how different this man truly was.: A French nobleman in the heart of blood-thirsty pirates. The concept intrigued many, and many times he even found himself wondering if another's company would ever stimulate him enough to enjoy it. Ada was a wonderland all on her own, and as he gave her a side-glance as they continued suddenly he was very thankful to have ever met her.

”Have you been on this Isle long?[/i]” He replied hearing her mention of missing France, and realized now where they stood. He was about to return, and she to stay..yet he wished to stay, she wished to return. ”Do you ever wish to return?[/i]” Knowing the truth, but still wanting to hear it from her himself. She was a brave woman, a marvel indeed, but something inside made him wonder if her strength was merely a façade.

[Peregrine Inveryne-Lamont]

Paris

There was only darkness, as it was all he could feel, save for the pain ripping through his left arm. The pain broke spots of light behind his eyes, and as they opened he wished himself to wake from a dream. He wanted to be warm and happy beside Rosalind, not hanging in the rat infested prison the Pirate now found himself. His arm was broke, his face was numb, and he could taste the metallic irony taste of blood against his lips. Where was he, and how did he get there? The last sensation of falling came with the rush of the door opening, and a figure emerging from the dark.

"So you wake, Pirate." A man's voice boomed from the stone, and the smirk on his face seemed to enter first long before his body. The man would close the distance between them his body decorated in a uniform, Peregrine could recognize easily. "You've made a name for yourself, in such a short time." The man would come to steady Peregrine's face between his hand lifting it so he could see into his eyes.

"Been a long time, James. Figured you would have seen yourself killed by now."

"Is that what you think?"

"Let me out of this chains and we'll talk."

James would laugh then raising his hand from Peregrine's face to touch his shoulder right where the break started, and the cry that left the Pirate's lips could chill any spine.

"Hurts, doesn't it?" The man would smirk pulling back Peregrine's shirt to show the arrow splitting his shoulder, and he would realize it was more then just a break. "Remind you of something?" James would spit pulling back his own shirt to show the scar across his shoulder.

"What do you want?" Peregrine would hiss, trying his hardest to adjust in the chains that bound his hands above him.

"Jean-Claude."

"Rot in hell."

"Is that your answer?" James would finger a small baton between his fingers, running it before the Pirate's eyes.

"You still got a small d*ck?"[/i][/color]

James would pull back his hand crashing the hilt of the club down across the pirate's cheek, and the whipping sound came with an instant hiss.

"You would be wise to think of a trade, my friend. For if something goes sour with the marriage your sweetheart has been caught in..it would be a shame." James watched the eyes of the pirate close his heavy breath forcing his chest to rise and fall; and it would be then he knew him to be out once again.

[Adelaide d'Aquitaine]

Turas Lan

Ada: "No, not cold," she replied, though she probably was. Ada was rather notorious for wearing clothes that left little to the imagination. It was simply what she preferred, and unlike most of her gender, she did so without thought. There was no planning in what Ada did now. Plans had gone out the window when she fled France. She hadn't made any since then, and this was fine with her. She liked living day to day. Many things could be taken from a person, Ada had learned, but now was entirely hers. Which made her every bit as hedonistic as rumors painted her, and paradoxically, as guileless as a blue summer sky. She pulled the sleeves of his coat over her shoulders all the same. Did he know it was the most expensive garment she had ever worn? Certainly, the best tailored. It would not have closed around her chest even if she tried, so she did not, following alongside Jean-Claude but not speaking much. Until he talked about Paris, that ghost that waltzed around them -- one she had given up on exorcising from her life. It was less painful giving it a nod once in a while, acknowledging its presence, but not indulging it. She glanced over to the much taller man beside her. "I think expats have a very strange view of their homeland. We love it and mourn it. Hate it, sometimes, but mostly love it. But it is a love for something that is gone, and this makes us all a little foolish. That is what I think." She sighed gently, but then smiled. "You know, Jean-Claude. You remind me of everything I loved about France, everything it never really was. I think it is fitting we met on foreign soil. Maybe we were not meant to remain. It is not in the stars."

Jean-Claude: He was stripped before her, as bare as any upon the Isle had ever seen save for the few who had once been cold in his presence. The shirt from his back would be next if she dare to shed a tear, even to expose a jungle of brutal scars, lashes of flames like fiery whips across porcelain skin. He was not so ashamed of them, but so spared her the sight of the horrid reminder. His jacket had seemed to hold in the ruffles and lace of his summer attire. A long white ivory shirt of a swordsman, but far too delicately decorated for the act. The cuffs accented well the long fingers that were tucked away inside the contrasting gloves, and now would be covered by the lace. As they walked the breathe of the ocean pressed the cool evening air, and as well opened further the lacing around his neck, exposing a seemingly flawless, hairless chest. The shirt would seem a thousand times too big had he not been so tall. Falling just at his hip the ends, would meet the black leather of his breeches that were tucked well into the knee high boots meant for traveling of course. "Ah, but is not France inside me that you admire, but the very idea you along with many others wished it to be. Upon the mark of greatness, and fooled all the same." Perhaps would be the most admirable thing he would ever have to say about the country, and out of his character. "I would not be surprised if we had not met before." He spoke then coming to meet her eye, and dipping his head only enough to save himself a good hit by the low ceiling. Closer just a little to her ear, he would lower his voice so not to sound so loud, "Here is where we met yes, but I have known your heart for a very long time." It was one like his own, for that much he could tell just from that sweet little smile of hers. Once the rock rose again he would straighten, and laugh lightly a complete and absolute masterpiece as it was very rare, "Though I have not seen any who worry so much over their appearance as I do..the looks I get are priceless. These men of this nation..do not even try." Brutes they were, overbearing and callous. "Perhaps that is as well the part of France you see in me." Of course not many held such manners, or spoke so gently, Jean-Claude would talk his way out of fight long before any fist would ever be thrown. A sudden shift in his face would have him sober again, looking ahead like drifting into the future when in fact he was sailing back to the past, "It is a shame..but through us they will live on, no?"

Ada: Ada's fingers rippled lightly along the edges of Jean-Claude's lovely coat. Impatience, perhaps. Inability to articulate why she was impatient definitely factored in. But since Ada was a creature of duality, it could just as easily have been a moment of innocence, relishing the feel of rich fabric under the tips of her peasant fingers. She was never, and had never been, exposed to anyone. It was Ada's art that she could count on one hand those who had seen through honest words that nevertheless led toward a lie, avoiding questions with a smile, a glitter in dark eyes, the absent movement or distraction toward the carnal, or guiding with words to a direction she was comfortable traversing. Jean-Claude, she felt, was much the same, but matched her word for word. Glancing over what was not open to discussion yet, grasping what straws she offered, and somehow, they made sense of one another. She was not certain if he meant they had met in a past life or in France. To Ada, it was sometimes the same in this one life. She was not clinical about the workings of her own mind, as she was with others. She was reflected, abstract, taking a philosophical view to something that was better left at a distance. "I could care less about my appearance. When I first arrived -- what was it, February? -- I scared a young man at the market. He thought me an escapee from some asylum. I had cobwebs in my hair. And, as it turned out, a spider. No, there is much about France that lacks your elegance, Jean-Claude. We do not all dress with such sartorial splendor. I think it is the dream. And maybe I romanticize something that, apparently, only a few of us ever dared to dream." She let out a Gallic noise and he would have seen her shrug if he looked, that motion that was purely French in origin, expressing in the gesture what language could only hint at. "By the stars, Jean," she added a moment later, in a burst of furious breath, "what we lost!" She wished she could slam her fist into something. But that resulted in nothing but scraped skin that must be mended, so she kept her fingers carefully wrapped along the edge of his coat. "I know it can be found again, but how long will it be, how many must suffer, before that happens? We are brilliant, you and I, of that I have no doubt."

Jean-Claude: "To suffer is such a word only saved for those who burnt my work, you and I will never suffer." A gloved hand came to brush the strands of her dark hair back, and even as they walked he would gently brush her cheek. "Non, Mon Chérie, we wait." For those of them who had a lifetime to live just as they wished, it would be here he would remain, locked away in the heart of the city; in a labyrinth of streets--this oubliette of a home. Around the corner the space would open to a working of caves, the ceiling as high as the cathedral, and little bouts of the laughter spilled in from the streets above. Clear cold water opened up from rain water collected, and the stream ran into the small pool. A single board made up the walk, room enough for only one, but thankfully he had on just the right shoe. Down into the water he would step as it came up just below his knee, and Jean-Claude would extend his hand to help her balance. "We are not far." Just in the distance the patter of paws could be heard, a happy pant, and the swish of a wagging tail. She had not been kept here alone, this Winter Wolf of Skye, cured of her madness, and tamed by a gentle hand. However, her nights were always spent waiting for her master.

Ada: She glanced at him when he touched her. It was such a kind thing to do, but there was something in her liquid eyes -- something unexpected. Guilt fed the flames of anger, and made a wound that would not heal. Not betrayal. Betrayal eventually faded. One moved on. Life progressed. Guilt, however, had the nasty habit of growing heavier by the day. She blinked and it was gone. She lightly touched his hand and gave it a squeeze. "Do you enjoy living down here?" Ada asked, her tone truly neutral with the inquiry. She could see why he might. While it was not quiet, it was isolated. It had a certain charm to it, even a particular beauty, and always the running water and flicker of fire. It was radically different from her own home and shop. Earth, represented in sturdy walls of stone and wood, and wind in the fragrances of the herbs she sold -- her elements were lighter, safer. They needed sunlight and weather. In darkness, they would shrivel and die. Ada, who had spent her entire life under the sun tending plants and healing wounds, felt much the same, though a journey below ground for a few hours was a learning experience. She followed him into the high-vaulted caves and onto the plank, holding his hand to steady herself. She usually had very good balance, but it would take a few more meetings before she was comfortable enough to hike up her skirts, tuck them into her belt, and plunge ahead. She owed a little modesty, at least, to loyalty to Ren. "Do I hear someone happy that you are home?"

Jean-Claude: The yin to every yang, this man could not survive without the night, and the very darkness that held his secrets. "I would have no other way.." Though his time upon Peregrine's ship had done him in, as it was hard to conduct any kind of experiment with the constant swaying of the sea. In her look of guilt he would question himself, the words that left his lips had they pained her? Never would he dare the subject or mind the fault that brought them together. With the lantern in hand, the darkened shadow that would give birth the wolf would as well betray it's position. Her eyes glowed like fire as she stood still watching the pair press forward. Wild like the moon they lit up, and the deep throaty sound of the growl would escape her. It billowed into the cave, filling up the space with it's echo. The silver hair upon the wolf's back came to rise as she stood still in her tracks, and Jean-Claude would break from Ada, letting the lantern rest against the ground where he left her. "Shhh.." Undoing the black pearl button of his glove, a free hand breathed in the cool air of the cave, but soon came to smooth the wolf's back as he knelt before her, "Soyez calme, Mon Ami..Elle est une amie.." He whispered in a calm and gentle voice as the wolf gave in licking at his face, as a mother would it's cub. Hidden from Ada a hand that marked greatness with an elegant script, painted faces of perfect likeness, and constructed that very jacket she thought to be so expensive, was a battered mess of a tangled web of scars. Raised skin that had been burnt seemed to be the only thing separating the outside from the bone beneath, as the skin was pulled tight over his knuckles. Jean-Claude would do his best to keep them from her, to hide away the sight as he knew it to be upsetting, even as he had come to accept it. "So tell me..of your Mother. Were you very close?" A strange question indeed, but as he turned his face to look at her his eyes held that very same look as she gave him. The wolf would part from his side to check out the newcomer, a scent no doubt intoxicating. A quick shift in the subject as before, a change in the plan it seemed, but as they neared their destination he grew nervous.

Ada: "Good. I worry about you," she said with blunt honesty, though the corners of her lips curled in a smile. When they did speak of Jean-Claude, they did so in a mixture of emotions that would take a master weaver to untangle. But one of those threads was pity, and Ada did not want to pity one who took pride in what he was and where he lived. "I think, as a healer, I am used to viewing others in their most raw states of being. I see them stripped of everything." It was, as Jean-Claude would understand, those who had time to form scars that she found to be the most fascinating. They survived. The body healed. These were not layers to be pulled away, but marks to be accepted like badges of honor. Which was, she wished she could point out, precisely how she felt about his scars. Perhaps they had met in a past life. In this life, she was not yet able to unbutton the glove on his hand and kiss the twisted, webbed flesh and let him know it did not frighten or disturb her. She inhaled deeply and let it out. She had too many thoughts rattling in her mind these days and no proper outlet. Gardening was only zen-like until one waved the white flag against morning glory and rogue herbs. "Ah, my dear, you must smell so many strange scents on me. I will not get any closer, in case it turns out you like cat." She laughed softly, and just like she said, kept her distance. "My mother?" Interesting choice he chose the past tense. "Yes, we were very close. She taught me who I am." And her mother was every bit as flawed as every other human Ada had encountered. There was no disappointment in her voice, just love. "Were you close to yours?"

Jean-Claude: He would smile then, as a scientist he took on a new meaning of the word raw, when it came to bodies, and for that very reason he would answer the next question with a fond memory of his own mother. "She once beat me for opening the body of our pet pig when he choked and died. I was sent to church to pray even then for my madness." They would come then with wolf at their side to the large iron door that made up his chamber. His now returned glove would have his hand point in the direction of another path, "There is an entrance there that opens up to the sea, only when the tide is away can it be used." The door would swing open a heavy sound that could not be silenced by any oil, for the latch rusted with the salty sea air far too easy. It was still dark, and a little musty from the closer, but the fresh green fields just over the bank lofted in with the swell. That would be the entrance the Wolf would take, one even he knew very little about. Once the lantern was returned to it's post, he would take out a candle from a rich cherry wood desk to start lighting the room. Only she could recognize the decor, of any university in Paris it had been the same. Large blank spaces for his work, glass blown tubes to separate, and little glass vials to deliver. However, the fire that soon came to life in it's place would dry the air quickly leaving shadows like ghosts upon the floor. The wolf would pad over quickly to take her place upon the four post bed, one that was perhaps just decoration as it appeared to have never once been slept in, and the dark circles under Jean's eyes proof he was in dire need of it. "Please..make yourself at home." He would extend his hand then, going to undo the vest that had been over his shirt, and letting it fall over the backs of one of the chairs. Jean-Claude had a very broad back, yet not nearly as massive as the rest, but with it he carried the weight of lives lost, and their memories to be lived. Though he had given her his back to do up the lace of his tunic, he would turn a look over his shoulder; dark raven hair spilling as he went. "I am afraid I do not entertain often, and have thrown out all perishables, but I can offer you tea. If you would wish it a glass of wine?"

Ada: This is what heaven looked like. With a number of qualifications, the least of which including the fact that she did not believe in heaven. But if there was a heaven, it would look like this. But if he expected admiration on her face, he was in for a good deal of surprise. Instead of immediately going over to admire the equipment on the shelves, she started giggling. Not a schoolgirl giggle, but a sound of such abrupt amusement that she lost her grip on Jean-Claude's coat and it slid from her shoulders. She curled over to hide her grin from him and tried covering her mouth with her hand, but the laughter escaped. Then she sobered instantly and held out a hand, shaking her head. "Stars, no, it is not you! It is... oh my. Oh dear." She laughed again and immediately ate it. "I think I'll have that cup of tea." Ada didn't drink. And while she recovered from her giggle fit, she went to inspect his work. She had most spectacularly lost her moment of being able to comb through each of the items and ask its purpose, and that she regretted deeply, but as soon as she caught her breath again, she would explain. In the most polite terms possible. If he did not throw her out. She hiccuped and immediately planted her hand over her mouth again. "Your room is ... how do I explain without making myself sound utterly crass?" When she had the cup of tea in hand, it gave her a moment to re-think her choice of words. "D'Armagnac had one just like it, private quarters at the university. Those monks used those rooms for prayer, but that is not how d'Armagnac and I spent our time." Her cheeks flamed suddenly and she turned away, back to his work, hovering over her cup of tea and hoping the laughter had passed. She cleared her throat. "In case I was not clear. I think it is wonderful."

Jean-Claude: Jean-Claude would take a seat at the large oak table, where he would extend his hand. "So you were not only partners then." He would smile lightly opening to her, talking now with her on a subject he needed no filter, or manner. If she did not wish him to ask, then she would not have brought it up. They would not stay long, one cup of tea, he would pack and they would return. Yet for now all he could wish was just a little more conversation, then return her to those who loved her dearly. "It amazes me, men of our type are not often found attractive, or wanted. We dig far into our work and forget the world. I have many times lost the interest of a lover. It is hard..for them. I would have you here every day working along my side, but if Ren is anything like his sister then I wish him not upon my bad side, so it is with that I must ask you not to speak of our meetings here. I dare not ask you to keep anything from your husband, but if it is not brought up.." Jean-Claude would wave his hand, seeming the most human when he acted just as this; like any other man setting at a table having tea with a beautiful woman. Going silent for a moment he wrap his hand around the cup, clenching his teeth behind pale lips as he felt his heart tighten in his chest. A stolen glance then to the painting upon the wall of the flaming red hair of the Courtesan, and memory sharp in his mind of how she did not wait. His thoughts grew deep as his eyes spaced within his mind, stretching out of reality only to be brought back from thought with his next question, "Is there anything you wish me to bring you back from, Paris?"

Ada: "Mm," she confirmed with a nod. The man she would not speak of specifically. Their relationship, however, could be discussed, even in necessarily limited terms. "Ghislain is an intelligent man. A careful, shrewd, graceful, ambitious, and brutal man. But an intelligent one. There is much to admire in a person like him. And much to despise." She lightly rolled her shoulders. It seemed Ada did not know the feeling regret. She knew to take her lessons and learn from them. She felt guilt for all her past crimes, believed in sin or karma or whatever name must be put to one's consequences, but never would she worry about a past relationship, be it brief liaison, intense affair, or even a roll in the hay. She smiled suddenly, immediately chasing off Ghislain, watching Jean-Claude instead. "I collect fascinating men," she teased. "Now. As for what is between myself and Ren, I swear to you I will not tell him of our meetings here, if that is what you require. But Ren -- he knows what I do, and what I hope to accomplish. He knows enough to see me burned many times over, and I know while I have placed my life in his hands, it is a lot to ask of you. So, if this is what you wish, I swear it." He thought the look to the painting was brief, but Ada caught it. She saw most details, though chose to acknowledge few of them, minion of Pan that she was. She followed his eyes to the painting and studied it carefully, and without word, returned her dark eyes to Jean-Claude. "If she is right for you, she will have patience, my friend. It is a joke with great irony to say we are married to our work, but I think this is true. A balance to all things, they say, to work and to play." She took a sip of her tea. "But there is so much work to be done, no?" Ada gazed quietly at Jean-Claude, then turned back to his materials and tools. "I think I should leave what is in Paris, in Paris. My life is here among the barbarians of Scotland." She laughed quietly, no bitterness in her words, just her usual dark humor. "But thank you. Your offer is very kind."

Jean-Claude: At the end of his table he rest in an oversized arm chair of red velvet, and trimmed in the finest of gold. Like a king at his throne, he sat with one arm leaning against it's rest and the other coming to touch what seemed to be a small white bowl, or vase missing the top, and dead roses sprouting out the lid. "I am a collector of many things, Mon Amie, perhaps it is a collection we both share."[/b][/i] His thin hands under the glove came to turn the vase so she could see it was in fact a very human skull--Morbid. "I am very happy you have come to trust your, lover." The very tone in his voice shifted, of madness and pent up rage that could not be left. Though of course not directed at her, it was a very real threat. "But let it be known here if he follows you down that street in a fit of jealousy, and enters our side of town. He will not return." He did not mean for that to come off as such a threat, but dark eyes of midnight blue backed the tone of his voice. No doubt Ren could win when it came to hand to hand, but inside the Underdark he would be a lost cause. All of those bones that had hung at the entrance, were killed by the hands of the many who swore to protect Jean-Claude, as he returned the favor with addiction--keeping them just as he needed; pawns. Would it startle her to know this of him? That perhaps it was not his Pirate Captain the city would need to worry of, but the underground army at their feet. "You must understand, Ada, the pain that keeps me awake, and refuses to let me sleep. From the fires, they were the cause, and it is with those fires I left all reason. She picked the right man." Dark malice eyes met her then, with the making of a villain, Ada very well could hold his heart in her hand, if she could find it. Vixen.

Ada: Ada sat down at his feet, leaning against the chair, rather than him. She was not overconfident in herself if she said the gesture of actually leaning her head on his lap might lead to other things. It probably would, but in no direction she was comfortable going. She pulled her knees to her chest and balanced the teacup on the left one. "And he will deserve it, for if there is one trait I despise in a man, it is jealousy. My word should be enough." Her voice carried with it a finality that defied Ada's usually abstract conversational style. She was quite literal now, angling her head to meet his dark eyes, the corners narrowing slightly. It was a staring contest of the damned, she thought absurdly, but let her gaze linger just long enough that when she eventually smiled, it was not a sign of weakness, but that feline sense of immunity she cultivated like her foxglove, rosemary, and cinquefoil. She relaxed against his chair, letting her fingers toy with the handle of her tea cup. "Then she was not the right woman. Convincing yourself otherwise will make you angry, Jean-Claude. And you should never be angry in love. Never bitter. Never mean." Her voice was softer than her words. Her eyes had lost that edge. She'd left him in pain. She'd left him for another man. She looked briefly at the portrait hanging on the wall. Maybe she had her reasons, but Ada was unpleasantly surprised at her lack of empathy for this woman she'd never met.

Jean-Claude: He was a little surprised she had sat at his feet, like a pet, but perhaps this was how she had rest so many nights once before with her other. His hand would come to smooth her dark curls off her neck, and affectionately brush them back with an idle mind. His own head fell back as he came down back out of that rage, the fires that had once consumed him died as well inside his heart, and he would return. "You are right, Ma Chatte, it would be out of my character." For a good long while he would simply pet her, affectionately until the fire died to ghostly embers burning like coals. "I should take you back, The ship leaves at dawn." He would sigh, feeling this moment surreal as if any moment it all would fade. Ada's word was enough, strangely it was all he would need. He would never give Ren reason to be jealous, always keep her safe and guarded. However, just the realization of feeling another even through the silk of his glove, made him realize how lonely he truly was. It was an ache in his chest, that wanted to actually touch her hair..her skin..feel her heart through fingertips, not fabric. She was remarkably beautiful both on the inside and out, any with open eyes would see that, and this was torture! Standing then he would be careful not to move the chair and have her tumble, but make his way to the open space; starting to pack a bag all over again. "Your family..they are alive?" There he went again, switching the subject.

Ada: It truly was a perfect moment. Another of those instants where, if she lost focus in her vision, she also lost all sense of time. Years wavered in and out of her sight. Another lifetime ran across her eyes in the span of her heartbeat. Recognizing it for what it was, she closed her eyes in inward amusement. She knew Jean-Claude. Maybe from this life. Maybe from another. It did not matter. Knowing him felt a bit like having her mother put a warm blanket around her during a cold Alpine winter, or having her first sip of spiced cider, or that first whiff of perry brandy when the passes opened again and trade resumed in the spring. Timeless and wonderful and comforting; she supposed she would find him again and again, no matter which year it was, or which continent they stood upon. She blinked. Had she fallen asleep? No, but he was no longer sitting beside her, no longer stroking her hair. She felt empty in her chest, watching him turn away, and then change the subject. But it didn't show on her placid face. No, she even took a sip of the tea in her cup, and then set the empty dish aside, wrapping both arms around her knees now. "No, they are all dead. I am all that remains." As far as she knew, this was true. Extended family, she supposed, still populated the little village of Embrun, all of them with dark eyes and dark hair and Roman noses. But her mother was dead. Her father had left, and no longer mattered. "What about your family? Your mother, you mentioned your mother."

Jean-Claude: Jean-Claude would give her his back again as he returned the vest to his person, doing up the buttons with ease, but it would be when he opened the armoire to remove what seemed to be nothing but leather straps, but with a closer look holsters that went on just the same as the vest. "I've got you..is that not enough?" He turned to face her with a forced smile, one that meant he was happy with the settlement, happy to be part of her life, as he as well felt himself drawn to her. Turning then he continued to tuck his shirt in, making sure the vest covered it well, before pulling out a very fine set of knives, the master craft of German and Spanish descent. A short handle, long blade both thin at the top and wide around the hilt. Perhaps a more advanced version of Rosalind's stiletto. They were silent as they went in, tucked away and strapped to the slender back of the man. All the frill would be replaced with death, and when he pulled on the long coat; a trench of sorts it seemed only to add to the effect. Crossing the distance between them he would come to stand before her turning to touch her face with the backside of his hand. "Come let me return you to the surface, where it is you belong." He whispered, before his fingers trailed down the line of her cheek and touched lightly her chin; lifting it so that he could press a gentle kiss to her forehead. Turning then that gloved hand upward to help her to her feet.

Ada: The holsters and blades were fascinating. He was preparing for battle, and with an odd, horrible sense of premonition, she saw Ghislain standing there rather than Jean-Claude. They did look alike -- around the mouth, she supposed. Ghislain was older, of course. She stopped that line of thinking. "If you see Ghislain, and you must kill him, he probably deserves it," she offered, now propping her chin on her hand, elbow on her knee. Perhaps she was not so much a minion, but a muse, even an unorthodox one. "He has his hand in everything, Jean-Claude. This I do not doubt." She spoke from experience, but would never speak of that experience. Whatever warmth she felt inside dissipated too quickly with that sense of foreboding. Had she not woken up weeks ago with those damned dreams plaguing her all day long? Ada was no prophet, but she knew the men who ruled France. Every bit of news made her want to bury her face in her hands. Why could she not put her faith in the hands of a vengeful god? She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Too many thoughts in her mind, and no place to release them safely. "I suppose you'll have to make do with me as your family. Maybe it is enough. We shall see, when you come back." She smiled when he placed the kiss to her forehead and rose slowly. Her left foot had fallen asleep. She tried discreetly shaking it under the folds of her skirts. She briefly returned a part of the gesture, letting her hand rest along his jaw. He was pale, but he was warm. She could counter at least some of those rumors in the market, she thought with a grin. "All right, if we must."

Jean-Claude: "If you wish it I will bring him back for you, to kill if that would please you." He was surprised a little by her touch, certainly he had longed for it--any feel of another, but happy if she were to give it. However, he was confused for a moment, as they turned for the door, but would keep quiet..let her tell him first, that was what made this man so different. He did not want to pull the information, but let it rise freely from those delicate lips.

Ada: Jean-Claude sounded absurdly like Ren. What was it about Skye that attracted noble men? What was it about France that repelled them? She lightly chucked Jean-Claude's chin. Not as a rebuke, but because humor was the only way she knew how to dispel the odd sense of intimacy in touching his face. Ada, who was never at a loss for how to act, felt directionless around Jean-Claude. She wanted to be lost. "He has done nothing to me, but ... thank you for the sentiment?" A dark brow arched skyward. She supposed that was polite. "But if he has, if you suspect him of doing anything amiss, trust your instincts." She paused. Perhaps she was on the brink of telling him why she gave him the advice. But that wasn't a story she ever wanted to tell. She would let Ghislain keep his secrets. Possibly his life. But the consequences of his secrets lived and breathed here in this room. Maybe Jean-Claude had found his balance, but Ada was still reeling. "I think I should go home now," she concluded abruptly.

Jean-Claude: "One more moment, mon chatte, and I shall be ready."[/b] He spoke with a gentle smile, dark eyes moving to catch her own, and worry crossed the line of his thin well kept brow. "Are you not feeling well? Or has this been too much..it is overwhelming at times. Spirits as free as your own, they can not thrive underground." He would close the bag, crossing the strap over his chest and pulling his long strands of jet black out from it's hold. His entire form felt warm and weak from the contact alone. However, he would turn it over to the enchantress before him. He was a noble man, never one to fall for another's heart who would never return it, but he did desire to be close to her. Was that such a crime? "You are welcome down here, any time. Even if I am not here. It would bring great comfort to me if you kept an eye upon my pet." His thin hand would come to raise to gesture in the direction of one table in particular that held even now a hopeless amount of papers, vials, and different objects all closed away from the world in this secret hold. "All but that if you do not mind. It is not finished." Jean-Claude would move just a little closer to the door, and stand with his hands folded before him to wait, "There is another entrance, you will be safe to travel. I would not dare you come the way we did alone, but fear them not. I will give them your name, and all you will have to do is speak mine."

Ada: "Perhaps that is it," she offered lightly. "I was never meant to stay anywhere long." Dark curls glistened as she canted her head in thought. She attempted to be noble, too, but there was something feral in Ada that perhaps would never know or give much regard to boundaries. It made her a good healer. "And I never have, you know." She turned to look at the wolf. "I think she can take care of herself. She is a proud and noble creature. And I smell like her dinner." Dear Morpheus was about as scrappy as Ada, but they were both rather insignificant, in the great picture of the world. "But if she will deign to allow my presence, I think I would like to visit." She laughed a bit. They really were very different in some fundamental ways. Her work was never, ever out of place. Even as she uncrated all of Benoit's books and tools, nothing had ever seemed scattered. She did not have the space Jean-Claude had. The little glorified broom closet she called her study was enough for studying, but all the work was spread out along the floor, and she walked from project to project as if involved in some highly complicated dance, with chalk lines drawn on her hardwood floors for Marcelline to scrub at the next morning, muttering in French and Scots, her red hair sparking in the dawn glow. When Jean-Claude held open the door, Ada stepped past him, the cool damp refreshing on her skin.

Jean-Claude: For a good long moment he walked in silence, dreading every step that brought them closer to the sea. Like those waves that washed upon the shore he wanted to reach out to her, beg her to stay. Jean-Claude wished upon every first star that these moments would not end. He did not want to return to Turas Lan, or to France. However, the sick feeling inside his chest let him know the faster he returned to Paris, the better the end result would be. It was very hard for him to hold conversations of his true self, as so many would never understand. Even with Peregrine he found his Captain's attention elsewhere when he would take the time to explain..but Pere' was easily distracted. So you take this part and put it here, and add this and..oh look a butterfly...she's fine. I'm hungry, are you hungry? Jean-Claude would simply shake his head. "She is not so much independent as you would think, I worry I have put an indent too far into her life, the cure has her far too reliant upon me. She will not return to her pack, and refuses to have anything to do with the offspring she had been pregnant with. They however, show remarkable abilities, an advancement in their hunting, it is amazing, but it as well worries me..a two sided coin." The caves would open up the sea, the moonless night making it hard to navigate. However, he would not let her fall and kept very close to ease her along the way. "Your Ren, he is a hunter yes? A skilled tradesmen at that. Has he mentioned my wolves at all? Perhaps seen them about?" Polite conversation, to pass the time, but his heart broke as the city lights were just in the distance over the sandy beach.

Ada: The tone of his voice had changed since he stood up and walked away from where they were seated together. Who could blame him? They were not deaf, nor dumb, nor blind. There was a connection between them, a visceral reaction, and had been since their first words. Since she first patted a small bundle of herbs into Jean-Claude's coat, to ward against evil spirits, to give him a moment of happiness. Walking seemed to help. She stayed at his side during the journey, taking his help where it was offered, listening to his observation of the wolves. "Then I will take care of her. Do not worry about her." She wondered what made her so reliant on Jean-Claude? What made an animal so dependent on another, to ignore instinct to mother or hunt? If the wolf was human, Ada would be no more enlightened. Things others regarded as basic instincts, Ada had seen displaced for any number of reasons, the worst of which being the least important. She stopped him when their feet reached the sand, resting a hand on his upper arm. "Ren has not seen them. If he does, should he hunt them? Do you not want to study them?"

Jean-Claude: "Non, mon chatte." A nickname now he had given her, as to who else deserved such a title? "Do not tell him any different. If he wishes to hunt them, they are fair game, but I have a good feeling he will have no luck." Not that he did not have any less faith in Ren and his art of the hunt. Jean-Claude simply had faith in the wild and their natural ability to adapt. Ada truly was trying to kill him, have him open his heart further with these meaningless touches, but perhaps it was simply his fate. "Please only if you have the time, she will be fine upon her own I am certain of this, but she craves the company..and I would not have her feel alone." There was going to be a battle in France and he secretly worried upon his own life, but found comfort that another of like mind had fallen into his life. Ada would find a way for his work to live on, just as he had with the few that followed before him. However, many things about this man were unknown. Jean-Claude lost himself in a battle, as if his mind switched over to another side, a darker side, and over the past few years he had perfected his style with a band of cutthroats one really had to. In that moment, here in the dark he could easily get lost in her beauty especially as the wind caught hold the tangles of her curls, and the sweep of her skirts. It was a magical sight, of forgotten lore, and fairy tales--things even he had trouble believing. Pale thin lips flattened then to only part in a breath, words forming in his mind of a confession, perhaps to tell her what he though in this moment, but always was his mind faster then his heart; and lips would turn into a warm..forced smile. "I will walk you home, mon cher, if you do not mind to share with me where it is you rest at night."[/b] Always the master of subject change, even if the topic was unspoken.

Ada: "May I tell you a story?" she asked suddenly, changing the subject herself, because it was about time she put a voice to it all. This nonsense. Jean-Claude was an intriguing man, one she could imagine becoming a great friend over the years, until they were prattling on about potions and unguents hunched over walking sticks and muttering about how much the world had changed in their long lifetimes. But she loved Ren. This was a given, just as directions were always true, the sun always rose, and what went up must always come down. Laws existed, even in the wilderness. Any hunter knew this. "In the beginning was the universal soul. What you might know as the anima mundi. The soul of the world. The body grows old and dies. And when it dies, where does the soul go? I believe,"[/b][/i] Ada said, her eyes resuming their usual humorous glitter, "they divide. Just as Adam and Eve divided from one and became two. The soul is a manifestation of God. Of Love. Of the Divine, no matter what by what Name we call it. When the soul divides, it takes on a purpose. To reunite. The essence of creation is One." She fluffed a hand in her hair. It was not a nervous gesture, nothing telling. "We must return again and again, to a time in which we can accept our One. That we may learn and grow, that we may be ready to return to the Love. To spurn Love entirely is to make for ourselves the worst torture humankind has invented for itself in all its long and bloody history. Loneliness." Nothing was ever done without meaning. Words were rarely wasted. Ada wrapped her arms beneath her chest, but at least, she no longer touched him. She smiled faintly. She was out of words, and so when she turned, had no solid conclusion to her thesis. Merely ideas without practicality.

Jean-Claude: Jean-Claude was a good foot perhaps almost two taller then the petite Ada, but stood with all the good graces a proper gentleman stood. His stance was not a brash action to ward her off, but a comfortable posture to listen. His head was canted slightly down to listen, as over the waves her voice was like a soothing sigh. His hip was bent with on leg out, and a hand holding one arm as he listened. This was a man who when he was asked of an ear, gave her his entire being. For any who would ever ask of this man, they would get just as they wished, Jean-Claude lived to serve another. Though his eyes were upon the sand he never once let them flicker away, keeping close to the words from her heart as they were precious to him. When she was finished he would close his eyes with a nod of his head, and open them again to find her own. His eyes were so black they seemed to not have an iris, as even now in the night they had no outline, but she would know they were searching well into her own. The ache then started as her story came to it's close of the truth, and this little small part of hell he put himself through. "Return to a time where Love can grow on an open field, with a harvest of fine fruits--spawned from the first apple plucked from Eden. Not closed away from the sun, fruit does not grow." Did that make any sense? It did for him, as she spoke a wonderful tale, of friendship and fate--he would remind her that this was all he truly was, or had to offer. "It is a lonely place, I have secluded myself to. While my other has a warm happy bed, I find only a longing for a fire again against my skin for that was the last time my heart felt anything." There was the truth. "In my years I have been so numb, not once feeling hatred for those who ruined our work, or the fools who cast their judgmental eyes. I think back in tears yes, but they are open meaningless cries. I am not unhappy, nor am I pleased, but content. It is a good medium." His gloved hand came once again to brush back a curl from her face, as the wind seemed only to protest. Jean would smile then laughing lightly, "I may be strange, but I am still a man." He let his eyes follow his hand, conducting everything about this moment to memory how the stars seemed to only double in her eyes, and the rich color of her hair seemed to blend well into the night. "What temptation there is..you surely have it, and I don't even know your last name." His eyes found hers again as he returned his hand to his other, clasping his wrist with the other before him. "But what a wonder you are.."

Ada: The wind pushed her away and toward him. The tides, too. Away. Toward. Ada was in service of no one. She was his opposite. Living above ground, a student of living things, one who dove into risk and challenges rather than waited for them to be faced. She loved each soul she encountered, from those she held clinic for at the docks each week to the pompous merchants and their wives looking for quick solutions to extra flab on their arms and bellies. Her empathy knew no lines, only an infinite shore. She held in her hands the power of life, and held in her arms the strength men lacked. She took their pain away. She made them better for it. "It is not choice," she argued. "It is fear. It is selfishness. It is cowardice." The wind tugged at her skirts. She should leave. She never knew when to leave until it was too late. She should have left the night Gauthier brought a warning in the gardens. When he pinned her to the earth so she could only see the manicured grass lawn, and the broken fragments of her flute, glittering in the moonlight. Tasting earth. And listening to his voice. They were not the same, but they could have been, if he was not so full of hate and spite. She should have left her home in Embrun much sooner, but she waited, each season passing her by, until she rose one morning and saw in the placid water of her basin, not the usual face staring back at her, but the thousands of days just like yesterday, spent in a town she had dreamed about leaving since her first steps. "Content is a lie you swallow, to ward off despair." It was time to leave. She smiled, briefly. "Loneliness is hell, Jean. Please walk me home. Ren will be worried."

Jean-Claude: Jean-Claude stood still, and had it not been for the wind bringing life to the long strands of his hair, perhaps he could have been confused as stone. Her words stung in truths marked by years of study, and here was proof that no matter how much he learned of the human body, always it was the heart that surprised him the most. He could take it apart a hundred times, stretch the tissue, and make it bleed; but never could he understand where this feeling started. It was not a deep passionate love, that she shared with her lover, and it was not as he would feel as her brother, but it was there. Ada knew well the truth of ages, that he lived in a lie to not only himself but to those around him. Perhaps he had not given it much chance, closing off all strings of the heart that pulled him. They would get in the way, but now as she spoke of leaving confirming the reality she must return he longed to beg her to stay. He would not sleep, he never did, and would have been content just listening to her breathe if she could no longer hold a conversation. He wanted to be close to her, and hell wouldn't even care if Ren was there. He had no problem with that man, and adored his entire family. However, as always Jean-Claude put away all selfish desires and would smile sweetly, extending his arm, "As you wish." Spoken quietly, but heartfelt. "Lead the way, mon ami, and I will see that you get there safely."[/b][/i] He would scrub the floors, do the dishes, whatever she wished of him. Ada just had that effect on men, huh?

Ada: What Ada thought, she had to keep to herself. She usually did just that. Did he notice she never talked about herself? Save in irrelevant fragments, non sequiturs, and useless half-truths? She did not do so intentionally. She did not think it was intentional, anyway. But Ada had never met a single soul on this earth who was capable of knowing all that flowed through her mind, with the singular exception of Master Benoit. She did not talk about him, either. Perhaps she condemned herself to a particularly interesting hell. What sort of relationship was it, when Ada took comfort in no one but herself, and accepted the world's pain as her own? She blinked, slowly. She was not even sure if Jean-Claude would like her if he knew everything. Sure, he could say no sin was too great. He could accept they both came from troubled times. He showed concern for the look of guilt earlier. But he knew nothing. Screaming or sighing or wrapping her arms around him in a hug -- these were her usual recourse. And they always led to something neutral. Something safe. But they never blasted clean her past, never reached the root of the problem, and she chose differently tonight. She lightly placed her hand on his elbow, where it had been earlier that evening, and started to lead the way home to her shop.

Jean-Claude: She would have met the right men, just then. The one who would care deeply about who she was, and leave out his own scars. Ren was a kind man, a good man. One who bare all for her, and give her the room to grow as she pleased. Jean-Claude could not say the same for himself. However, once they reached the city even the underside whore would turn their heads in wonder. He was such a rare sight, with men here of fair hair, and thick bodies, or the other..Dark hair, and dark bodies. This man scared even the guards. Down the row of housing, the rush of the night crew came with full bits of laughter silenced only by the presence of one of the General's men standing waiting at the Inn, Jean-Claude had reservations. The man stood eye level with the Frenchman, "Merde..Il m'attend..." He would pull away from her falling back in his steps to appear to 'follow' her less then be walking at her side, and was relieved when the guard did not spot him. "Of all days.,.Ada, it has been a pleasure, Please do not be a stranger." Spoken out of context even for him, a light airy sound in his voice. The guard would catch the sight of the man as he spoke to the healer, and would ready himself to wait. Lord, he didn't want to leave her.

Ada: She wondered, briefly, why he had to go at all. But she had tried that once, and it didn't work out very well. Standing outside the front door of her shop, the distinctive blue shutters closed, but candlelight glowing from upstairs, she felt a little strange. She was always indoors by this time, too tired by her work day to do much else but crawl up the narrow stairway. Why did Jean-Claude move behind her when he spotted the guard? And why did this guard now wait, having seen Jean-Claude? Ada's eyes curiously went from her escort to the guard, but she opened her door anyway. Jean-Claude's light tone was also strange, but he did not seem nervous. If he showed a moment of concern, she would have invited him inside. There was, after all, a bed in the still room that was comfortable enough that Ada had spent a few nights on it herself. "I will not be. And I will be waiting for you, when you return. You let me know." The thought of his absence made her stomach flip strangely. It wasn't an unpleasant sensation, but it wasn't anything she would desire to feel again. She arched a brow, and if there was nothing more, smiled and stepped back into the darkness of her shop, and found her way by memory to the door enclosing the stairs up to her apartment.

Jean-Claude: "Mmm, I will, I will find you the moment I step foot from the ship." What a glorious day that would be, to be home! With a gentle nod of his head he would back away then, and the long fingers upon his hand would curl around the hilt of his blade as shadow became shadow, and he slipped into the night..the guard not far behind, but never to return. A dangerous world outside that door Ada, was she sure she wanted to be part?

[Men of Skye]

James duChere - Paris

By the time he had reached Paris, James now sported some facial hair. The mustache and neatly trimmed beard surrounded his face, highlighting the corners of his mouth and along his jaw. His clothes were fashionable of the King’s Court and quarters were arranged for him at Castle Vincennes during his time at Court.

Imagine that... should anyone truly know James duChere, a French merchant and member of King Philip's Court, was actually James Maubrey... English Knight...son of Lord William Maubrey... half-brother to Skye's Mo'r Triath, Adam Aberdeen. Imagine the implications !!!

As a knight, James had ridden with the French-paid mercenaries in Flanders in 1327 and 1328… for the Maubrey… That, was one of Lord William’s balancing acts between the French and the English. James just sneered at the thought. Now he was a French merchant… or as such everyone of concern in Paris knew him…

Now, riding into Paris proper, in the ornate carriage of the King’s court, he sat uncomfortable with the situation he found himself. He was to render testimony to the Chambre des Comptes. As a court, Chambre des Comptes handled all litigation upon the King’s accounts and in these matters, the Chambre des Comptes was the court of final appeal, and only the King could overturn its decisions.

James’ arrival was heralded to the head judge of the Chambre des Comptes…; for he had been summoned by the on matters of financial interest of the King. He, and he alone, would have to verify and justify actions taken against cargo lost at sea... carog considered very valuable by the King.

One thing he had learned from his Father… and his time at Court as a Frenchman, was although aristocrats were always eager to keep the nobility an exclusive club, Philip VI saw power to create new aristocrats as a highly effective tool for maintaining the loyalty of his nobles, and putting more able commoners into positions of power.

But, James knew there can be only one man at the top. While it was difficult to depose a king, and grab the crown for oneself, it was possible for a mere noble to become a great noble, a magnate. There were two ways to do this… one, by taking from the king or your fellow nobles, or two, by becoming an invaluable servant of your king.

He knew fighting other nobles, and especially the King, was usually a losing proposition. But a grateful monarch would usually reward his faithful, and able, nobles with more land and titles. There was plenty of work to do, for many nobles took the other road, making war or scheming to take from the king and other nobles. As powerful as the king was, he could never do it himself. He needed allies, to deal with those who would not be allies. James was now one of those allies with King Philip and a close confident to several members of nobility at Court.

James had his notes of what happened… whether totally true or not, mattered nay. The Chambre des Comptes would get a reliable report from one the King’s nobles. Waiting outside the Chambre, he thought of the red head girl from Turas Lan.