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Post by Lady Rosalind Avalle on Mar 3, 2010 17:04:10 GMT -6
Heaven was the Occitane fortress whose white corridors Ghislain once roamed.
The winds pushed Philip and his court southward, chasing warmth and food between the eerie hills of Auvergne. Mists settled between the valleys, a perpetual fog that his court cut through with torches lit in the broadness of daylight. Their horses' hooves churned through sod, kicking up clods, and leaving heavy tracks upon the roads. The carts were few, for this was a retreat, billed as a hunt for the noblemen weary of Philip's reclusive ways, with the summer progressus still far off.
His castle emerged in the twilight gloom, the sombre gray of fresh bone yet to be bleached by a harsh sun. Or, he thought with some irritation, should he say her castle? This niece of Ghislain's who swept into France and changed all upon her passage, who claimed the title of Duchess of Auvergne, but had not set foot upon her own extensive properties since fleeing her marriage to Alfonso? A woman to be admired, even respected, she was like all women – not to be trusted.
His wife rode beside him, her chin up in the air, and the white fabric of her wimple fluttering with their speed. There was no wind in Auvergne tonight; even the mistrau was held at bay by the deep and growing fog. He wished to see the green of Auvergne. He wished with all his heart to see some yielding of winter toward life, that misery should pass and love resume. His cough was deep and bronchial, as if he could soothe his heart by clearing the depths of his lungs. It was not to be, even in spring. None were like his lover. None ever would be.
“I do believe you to be cheating, Ghislain.”
“With all my heart, my king, for my patience has since worn thin adjusting to your ever-changing rules.”
“Adelaide, were you not meant to referee this match?”
“I am a mouse governing two lions, my lords. Ghislain, stop cheating.”
The gate's heavy iron clanking roused him from memory. Joan pretended he had not drifted off to his own realm of internal musings amidst a conversation, and perhaps kicked her little roan up to speed into the courtyard. Ah, in the daylight, he would see what Ghislain's niece spurned. All the glory of Auvergne, France's largest autonomous province and her beating heart, ever a few shades greener than her sister provinces, would spread before him in the dawn light as a woman draped upon his bed. The softness of her flesh the gentle hills, the valley of her waist where the rivers and streams flooded in the spring, the beautiful roundness of her breasts the odd mountains that they witnessed rising out of the day's mists like benign giants. She was beautiful, and not only because she had crafted his lover.
“You should eat, Philip,” Ada whispered, delivering a small tray of food collected from the evening meal. He had already turned aside a platter his servant delivered, sending the food, tray, and servant skittering across the floor in his disgust.
“He despises me.”
“He does no such thing, and you know it.” She settled upon his lap, his fingers tentatively touching the fabric of his tunic, remaining above his heart. Her witch's eyes, so easily expressive of emotion, seemed quite content feeling the hammer blows of that organ, though the elfin tilt of her head was proof enough she worried for his temper. She did not flinch, though. Whatever asked of her, his Adelaide never flinched. “He loves you more dearly than life itself. You are his sun, my prince. He lives and breathes by the path you carve across his sky.” She touched his jaw, cupping his chin in her hand, and drawing his lips to her own. She breathed in as he exhaled, and lowered her own mouth ever so slightly, resting her lips upon his chin. “Hate the sun or love it, it matters not. It will rise and set again the next day, and the next, and the next, 'til the end of time. He will return.”
He lifted his chin, tilting away to deny her kiss. Adelaide, as ever, was hardly offended by the gesture, and merely drew her arms around his neck, and held him loosely. This, he preferred more than her seduction, and he drew his own hands around her to clasp at her lower back. He pressed her into him, drawing the breath from her, until she struggled for mercy with a gasp and sputter for air. Her dark curls were cool in his hands. He tangled his fingers in them, pushing upward until he grasped the back of her neck, and held her perfectly still. “I very much doubt it this time. You will hate me, too.”
“You should eat, Philip,” she said as gently as the first time, and pinned her dark eyes upon him until he released her. She remained in his lap, watching ever so carefully the face of her impetuous, moody prince. The line of his lips did not move. His eyes saw anything but the charming street rat before him. Finally, she slid away, collecting the robe she'd absently left on his bed the night previous. He picked up his soup spoon.
“You should eat, Philip,” Joan said, standing tentatively at his bedroom door. A woman of force and determination, he still treated her as a stranger. She had given him children, lain in his bed, laughed at his side upon hunts, but she knew nothing of her husband. And her world was a secret he had no interest in uncovering. She would never walk to the brink of sanity to take his hand, as his Adelaide once had. She would never lie beneath him, and ask him what it might take to finally find what he spent a dissatisfied youth seeking. She knew not the magic Adelaide knew. Had he only had the presence of mind to feel when she, too, had stopped loving him as Ghislain had.
“Pardon?” He twisted his gaze over his shoulder, cold and aristocratic features pinned on his wife. Joan let out a snort of distaste and slipped away.
Feeling something for the first time since news of Ghislain's death three years ago, Philip rose from his chair. He followed Joan, rage prickling the back of his brain. Ghislain would not have let him bring this upon his lady wife. Adelaide would have offered herself, easily taking upon herself his fury and diffusing it into the damp night air. But Ghislain was dead, and by all accounts, Ada had been burnt for a witch the month he attained his crown.
“For every crime, there is a price to pay, Ghislain,” he wrote. Then he crossed the words out, and sat upright at his desk, staring hard into the sun pouring in through the window. “What was mine?” he asked the late summer air. His manservant reminded him the ceremony would begin promptly. Philip dressed himself, as was his preference since wounded in Flanders, choosing to keep the twisted flesh to himself, and allowing no one's fingers but Adelaide's upon it. “What was my crime? What must I pay?” he asked again, his voice breaking at the end. He inhaled deeply, and bent over the bowl of water to splash his face clean. Exhaling, he turned to exit. The wedding would be a test of endurance, as much as a nail in the coffin of his relationship with Ghislain. Yet whose eyes did he spy upon entering the courtyard the next afternoon, but the new Queen of Aragon's uncle, the lines of conspiracies spoken deep in the gardens hard to erase from his aging face.
“My king,” Ghislain whispered, and fell to his knee with head bowed.
Joan's snores kept him awake, more than her sobs ever had. He climbed out of bed and walked to the window, gloriously naked, and rested his hands upon the sill, wrists up to the moonlight. There. There, she was. Mysterious Auvergne, early springtime mists parted by the rising wind, revealing all her secrets only under the unwavering gaze of the full moon. Her wondrous body splayed toward him, obscene and yet virginal. There, hadn't Ghislain once told him of a hunt in that forest there? Of learning to swim in that pond?
He looked back over his shoulder at Joan. In the suddenly troubling moonlight, his wife's body had been replaced by an unsettling nest of shadows. Moving toward it, he discovered just what lie atop the sheets. Charcoal. No, no – not charcoal at all. It was … Ada. Her hair had been burned away. He would not have identified her save the sickle blade set atop the bundle of ashes, glaring accusingly from the center of her chest, where her heart had once beat for him.
He sank to the floor beside his wife's bed, and pushing his hands through his hair, let out a ragged scream that shook the white halls of the fortress. Not the least, it roused the corpse from slumber, and she sat upright, charred hands covering a gaping charcoal mouth.
I am going quite mad, Ghislain.
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Post by Nasrin al-'Anizzah on Mar 3, 2010 20:51:48 GMT -6
“It is a very strange place, is it not?”
“Different, not strange.”
The mountains she was used to were bigger. They were jagged, rocky, barren. They did not rise like the heads of frogs from the mists, covered in that between green that marked early spring. There was water here as there was nowhere she had lived before in her life. Water that was so plentiful, so abundant, there were no wars fought over well rights, no worries about uncovered aqueducts, water that could be wasted and found anew again, replenished by ceaseless rains. They were surrounded by mountains. Mountains and water. It was a very different place.
The Alps had been good mountains, she recalled. They, too, cut the sky and had caps of ice and snow to spear the clouds above. They were violent mountains, made in violent times. These, these landscapes of Auvergne, they were very different. As if she should remark on oddities, when she and her husband traveled in such a motley contingent of Romans, Mongols, and Arabs, with an escort of the French, bearing the dual standard of Rome and the Ilkhanate.
During the day, the wind blew hard, and the mists could not linger. They called it the mistral, this hard and cold and dry wind. It snapped the pennants of their standards and made the horses uneasy. It threatened to topple the carts. After the hard passages of the Alps, it was one more difficulty in a journey of difficulties, fortunately weathered by those who were used to hardship. Neither she nor the Mongolian who rode at her side seemed particularly bothered by this wind, both being a people who wore wind-chapped faces like badges of honor, and sunburns as a matter of pride. She merely lowered the thick, deep crimson of her robe across her mouth, and sank deep into the fur-lined boots and wool clothing hidden beneath the great folds, and braved this very different sort of winter.
Auvergne had a softness to it that even the mistral could not hone. After several days in the region, she wished they might stay a bit longer. The Mongolian would perhaps like to hunt, though he may frighten their contingent, dire as his reputation already was, even among the Chagatai. Nasrin determined it wiser to remain on mission, and sighing into his warm body in their tent at night, never mentioned it.
They reached the fortress at the seat of Auvergne, where it was said the King of France resided until June. Trumpets sounded in the distance. They were sighted. With a motion of her fingers, her escort raised their banners high and sounded back. Up ahead along the road, horsemen poured out to greet them, though for a moment, Nasrin's heart lodged somewhere in her throat as she considered their intents. Might they slaughter the diplomatic party? Bent on Crusade, would it be launched here, against an ally who would gladly fight at the side of these backward, barbarian Europeans who wore their furs turned out and slept in feeble little tents?
“Hail!” one of the horsemen shouted once they were within distance. The Mongolian at her side shifted, moving his horse with the subtlety of the muscles in his thighs, that he might draw nearer his wife and help her from her saddle. Then he dismounted in one fluid movement, and walked ahead of her to meet their counterpart.
The Mongolian did not bow. He stood stoically facing his opponent, arms folded across his chest, inscrutable dark eyes alien to this land. His dark hair was long, braided away from his face to keep it from lashing into his eyes during a high wind. After a very long silence, the French spoke first, keeping his green eyes pinned on the Mongolian. Barbarians both, Nasrin thought with a spark of amusement, but modestly covered by her heavy robes, humor passed unremarked in deep shadow.
“Welcome to the sovereign nation and people of France, have you documentation?” the green-eyed man asked. After long consideration, the Mongolian pulled the sheaf of papers stamped and sealed in Rome from the folds of his own robes. He studied them, his face impossible to read, of course, but perhaps to the French, it appeared he knew nothing of the symbols on the sheath he held. He shoved the papers in the direction of the guard without a word spoken.
“Some diplomat,” the green-eyed man muttered under his breath, accepting the thick papers and rifling through them to see they were in order. He went back to his men. Nasrin glanced at her husband, but of course, he missed the look. He was busy staring hard at the men, and maintained the posture even as Nasrin quietly translated all that she read from their lips.
“He says it is unlikely we shall have a meeting with their king. He says the king has been ill this past fortnight, and has seen no one. Not even his personal physician is allowed entrance.” Nasrin's voice stilled as the green-eyed man straightened his posture and looked back at the odd pair and their bizarrely multicultural contingent.
The guard approached them once again, inclining his head crisply to the Jalayir. He then gestured to the white fortress behind him, and indicated they follow. With a mild grunt, her husband accepted the offer of hospitality. With that, the diplomatic party sent from the Ilkhanate to enter into negotiations leading to a Crusade against the Seljuks was welcomed to France.
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Post by Men of Skye on Mar 9, 2010 22:11:06 GMT -6
James, dressed in the robes of the French Royal Merchant, now donned the beard he wore in the presence of the Amir of Morocco weeks before. Pacing aimlessly, part frustration, part enthusiasm; as when the door to the King’s room opened, he paused, and looked in that direction. The man who exited shook his head... “The King remains ill, and sees no visitors,” his voice mellow. James shook his own head... his voice a bit of distaste in the tone... “Damn... So when may I see the King. It is utmost of importance...” The man shook his head. “Tis unknown MiLord... When he calls for you?” James huffed and mimicked the words...
“A horse! A horse,! My kingdom for the want of a horse.” James spouted as he left the Hall... his boots thudding along the stone floor. “This kingdom would fall under that mindless waif...” he muttered incoherently as he stormed out of the King’s sanctuary.
James has spent much time placing the proper deceit, spreading the right lies, and making pacts where he had no authority; yet he was in position to come out a wealthy man from either of Spain’s, France’s, or Morocco’s victory. Years in the works, James had managed to position himself in favor of any major power, save Skye, as a Merchant ready to establish a trade worth more than any King’s imagination in gold, jewels, and spices...
Skye !! And even there he owned major land in the Isles of Harris and Lewis. His land even held one of the Mo’r Triath’s premier shipbuilding facilities in Stornoway!! He even had a fellow contact in the heart of Turas Lan businesses... Good ole Rebekka, she was always able to funnel his wares out to the black markets, right under the Mo'r Triath's nose. Now if he could see the King, he would even moreso positioned to ignite the fire that would burn his half-brother.
James had been discussing trade with some of the other ministers in the adjoining room of the King’s Hall when the doors opened capturing their attention... James saw the familiar clothing of the foreigners and he smiled.
The Jalayir was a fierce specimen, narrow eyes glaring at all in the room while he quietly removed the fur-lined hat warming his head. His hair was long, windblown, with the occasional thick braid trailing down amidst the textured black. He was unlike anything most in this realm had seen, and he used it to his advantage. He stuck his hand out behind him, clasping the only bit of skin visible in the thickly robed woman standing behind him, and yanking her forward to his side. They both stood a head taller than the average height, she at a towering 5'10, and he considerably taller. "Wife," he barked to the room by way of introduction. Then with a slow scan of the room, he smiled entirely without joy, and touched his chest with his free hand. "Qadan Ulagadai."
The figure beside him bowed her head. The lack of women in the king's hall had not passed unnoticed by Nasrin, who raised her head a moment later to survey the gathered nobility. Nor were there many merchants, given the fine quality of their clothing. It is as the guard said -- they came to Auvergne to hunt, but with the king ill, the only game they sought was in dicing and cards. That is, until the contingent from the Ilkhanate arrived, changing the rules entirely. Her husband would despise this sort of hunt, but Nasrin would thrive. She could nearly feel him stiffening at her side with impatience to be gone from these stifling white walls and be-damned Frenchmen, his tolerance measured in grains of sand while her tiny smile, hidden in the shadows of her cowl, was only an inkling to how much she would enjoy this.
The French did not pull their wives everywhere they went, but it was a sign of great respect if a Mongolian wife should accompany her husband. The women were greatly valued for their wisdom, and often accompanied their husbands in everything, from battle to diplomacy. If they found it odd that Nasrin should be present, Nasrin and Qadan believed it very strange that women were absent. It was amazing what a good deal of diplomacy might be forged at the hands of women, who would rather have their sons and husbands whole and unharmed, than see them off to battle. In the few long seconds it took those in the hall to decide whether they would tolerate the barbarians or scoff at their mere presence, the servant reappeared and crossed the room to speak with Qadan, looking mildly disturbed that the task should be left to him.
"The king has changed his mind. Please follow me."
James was entranced by the woman... His sea-green eyes gazed upon her, almost to a stare... Then when the man pulled his wife forward, James grit his teeth. The presumption was, a beauty under such wollen clothing was a shame... such as she, need not be man-handled, except in throes of passion. That thought brought a smile to his lips.
As the pair stood still, he could feel their eyes casting upon him, feeling as if stone had fallen upon his chest. Then as he started to move forward toward them, the door opened... a man came out and approached the pair... James just watched.
“Changed his mind...??” he gruffed silently. “What do yu mean he changed his mind?” James barked as he approached the servant, his French clear and precise, almost as he was born into it. “I have been waiting for days to see his Highness... It is imperative that I see his Excellency immediately...”
James looked to the pair and apologized to them in French, hoping they would understand him.... “My sincerest apologies your Excellency, but I must see my King. I pray I have not insulted you.” He bowed his head and extended his arms downward and out. Only his eyes stayed upon them, focusing mainly upon the female. She was beautiful he assumed under those veils and hood... and his eyes averted to the floor, as lewd thoughts flooded his mind.
"Yes, changed his mind," the servant said, almost but not quite losing his temper with the impertinent... Well, what was he? The servant arched a brow, and perhaps raised his nose a fraction of an inch. Though he owed the man no explanation, he was taking particular pride in putting some of these greedy nobles in their place. They had come to Auvergne for a hunt, and hunt they would. They would fight over the scraps of their mad king's affections. "Your lordship, I should present to your attention the ambassadorial contingent from the Ilkhanate, sponsored by Rome. Qadan Ulagadai of the Jalayir, and his ... lady wife."
Nasrin watched the exchange beneath her cowl, amused, but keeping her thoughts to herself. Nothing save her mouth and her hands were visible through the red folds of fabric, lending an air of mystery to the woman that she did not have to try very hard to cultivate. What the world thought of her was not much of a consideration. What the king thought mattered a great deal. She clasped her almond-colored hands before her, interlacing her fingers. She could translate for her husband later, though judging by his entirely adversarial stance, he seemed to understand the gist of the conversation without her aid. Her husband called her idugan, a witch-woman. She saw through men as if the physical did not exist, even if her powers were entirely of this earth. She had always believed it to be a matter of eye color -- not many Mongols had eyes the precise shade of blue as Nasrin's, as if mirroring the high altitude heavens -- but she had been wrong before.
"You may have been waiting a very long time, monsieur du’Chere, but have you, too, a Papal bull commanding an audience with His Highness, and I shall lead you directly to his chambers."
Qadan knew better than to laugh, but Nasrin felt the flicker of amusement in his body. She rested her hand upon his shoulder, ever so briefly, as if stilling a voicing bell. For a moment, the fabric of her robes slid back, revealing more of her wrist. Silent, were the Mongolians throughout this exchange, and the hall itself was still enough to hear a pin drop. The servant bowed crisply to James du’Chere, and with an apologetic nod of his head to the Mongolians, he took a step away to lead them to the king's private chambers.
James stared at the servant, the sea-green eyes narrowing with distaste... “Fine... when I do see the King, I shall let him know of your disrespect to the Royal Merchant of the Court...” James sneered then smiled at a bit of retaliation. When the servant introduced the members of the Ilkhanate, James took on a more dignified appearance. “Greetings your Highness... welcome to France...” speaking in proper French... looking at the man, then the woman.... if only he could see her completely.
James snapped his attention to the servant when he too retaliated mentioning the Papal Bull. Gritting his teeth, if he was anywhere else, he would have slapped the man with enough force to rattle his brain... How dare he speak to him that way?! If eyes could talk, the servant would have been severely reprimanded; yet James maintained an air of nobility about him. His Father, Lord Maubrey, had taught him well... “When the King’s available then; hopefully at his earliest convenience...” James replied softly, letting the French language roll gently off his tongue. Then he collected his blue robes about him and stood to the side as the servant lead away the Mongolians.
The many hours of their discussions were privy to none save the King. He kept his privacy, as he always had, yet in refusing to see his courtiers, restlessness and latent rage began to filter through the court. It was like a disease, Nasrin thought to herself, passing through them after their negotiations had reached an impasse. They suffered for their greed, no matter how well-intended their plans were. The servant from before led the Mongolians to their rooms. Surprisingly, they did not take umbrage to the four stone walls and heavy roof. They had lived in this way before, albeit in architecture with far lighter design aesthetics. As ever, her husband went his own way. He must pace the grounds before settling in, like a dog spinning in circles before finding just the right spot on the floor. He went with the others in the contingent, walking silently beside a Roman, the two men having much more in common than their shared silence, though it was difficult to see beneath her husband's foreign coloring, narrow eyes, and the hair of a wildman.
As for Nasrin, she changed from one robe to another, setting out the heavy crimson wool for the washing, while unfolding and airing out the silks to which she was most accustomed. The shade of peach and gold was not one seen in these lands, or so she was given to understand, by the look of amazement and envy in the eyes of her handmaiden. The girl's fingers slid along the damask border when she thought Nasrin occupied elsewhere in the suite, but Nasrin saw her, and smiled as she rubbed the softly-scented oil of neroli into her skin to soften flesh made dry by the hard winter travel. At last, she donned the garment, pulling the cowl over her head, and sinking into the luxurious folds. For all she knew, she might resemble nothing so much as furniture beneath dust covers to these French, but she was not about to adjust her comfort for their ability to stare at the Jalayir's wife.
The handmaiden arranged a tour with the daughter of a local baron. The girl started out as enthusiastic, pointing to various features of the fortress, but the shadowed figure towering over her from behind made no comment at all, and soon the deafening silence swallowed her tour guide's voice, and Nasrin walked the corridors in peace. She let her eyes fall from room to room, taking the girl's arm and shaking her head to indicate she did not wish to return to the hall. "Oh, the men," the girl said with a knowing smile, and led her instead toward a central courtyard garden. "Papa says you would like a garden. It is winter, though, so I don't think there is much here for you. It's enclosed, though."
Nasrin would much rather, like her husband, do some prowling of the fortress, even if that prowling was restricted to the walls. However, a garden would do. Her people had invented the word paradise, and in her estimable judgment, this place was far from it. But there were benches to lounge upon, and the first of spring's flowers were beginning to push their green shoots up through the earth. Enjoying her privacy, she slid the cowl of her robes back, letting it fall across her thick dark hair without dropping entirely, her hands lingering above her ears as if listening for unheard birdsong. Or, perhaps, the mutterings of outraged Frenchmen.
In the courtyard, amongst the new sprouts that would later be blossoming flowers, James du’Chere and three men stood, muttering amongst themselves, then looking around to see if any heard, then continued the discussions. James could be seen shaking his head and pointing his finger... no words could describe his frustration with his cohorts.
“I have been spent vital time trying to get yu to understand yu pig-headed fool. Do yu think the negotiation with Spain will go any better than with the Berbers?” he poked his finger in the man’s chest... “I have not spent the better portion of two years trying to set this up for a bumbling fool like the King to put kinks in the plans... Yu heard me Tomas... Tis yer job to get the Papacy against the Mo’r Triath... How difficult can that be?” He huffed... “The plan calls for the rendezvous on the Isle of Mann two days hence... be there with the right solutions...” then James stormed away from the men leaving them to depart without any words said.
Alone, near a tree of the garden, James opened the leather satchel and withdrew a rolled scroll. It was a map of the trade routes of the Middle Sea, each adorned with a number to a corresponding legend at the bottom. That legend was years of observation and annotation – each trade route had a specific cargo and type ship... His legend had more information, even moreso than the Admiralty in Skye had... or at least he presumed.
Senses hardly failed James, as it seemed he had extraordinary perception of them... Just as his half-brother did... Quickly placing the scroll back in the satchel, James turned slightly and saw the woman from earlier. “Greeting MiLady... I pray your reception with the King was well-met.” His French was clear as if he was a native.... which took years of practice.
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Post by Men of Skye on Mar 20, 2010 8:43:02 GMT -6
The garden was a quiet place. Every little sound seemed magnified in the silence, from a rustle of a bird's wings in the trees, to the sound of men's voices. It stilled Nasrin, with her hand touching the edge of fabric near her ear, the other resting calmly in her lap. The men of this land believed her less than human, she thought mildly. Nothing so dangerous that they must still their tongues near her. It was what she had told her husband, as she and Qadan discussed their plan on the long road from Rome. A more temperamental woman would hardly have been able to control her thoughts, but by profession, Nasrin was as placid as a lake on a spring day.
She pulled the fabric lower upon her head, so that its edge hovered above her brows, and hid her dark hair from the sun's rays. But the smile of greeting was still apparent as James approached, nothing missed in that man, though he did a decent job acting covert. The scroll intrigued her, but not nearly as much as the indication of other negotiations in Spain, or the mention of Berbers. They were no threat -- yet -- to the Ilkhanate, merely a curiosity, but her cousin would have little complaint if she brought home more information than for which he had sent her abroad.
"Bonjour," Nasrin said, her own accent so thick, the word struggled to free itself from her mouth. She shrugged elegantly, pardoning her lack of language. Her translator was not here. Though she feigned a complete lack of knowledge, she likely spoke French better than he, and a handful of other languages with the fluency of a native. She saw the looks of the men here, wondering if she was chattel led about by a noose behind her barbarian husband, but ever in their wildest dreams, would they imagine Nasrin the ambassador? "King unwell. Not listen to husband, husband insulted." She canted her head for a moment, studying him with a directness he may not have expected from her, and made all the more striking by the brilliant hue of her eyes. "Many insulted here. We are not unusual then." “Insulted? Distinguished visitors such as yourself?” he responded. He did not believe this woman to be so lacking in intelligence as to use broken speech... Would her illustrious countrymen send someone to see the King of France that was not bi-lingual, or multi-lingual? Probably not, so the ruse continued, even so, James would not insult her as to use broken speech. “I too have been insulted by the court... several times, yet tis my country... and my King...” Lying was easy for James... lying with no indication of such. Maybe later he would wash out his mouth with some strong whiskey.
Finally, he was near enough to see her face and his assumptions and presumptions were now dignified. She was truly a beautiful woman... but to his surprise was her blue eyes... and his expression might now give indication of such. “May I sit with you??” he politely inquired. His hand indicating a nearby bench.
Nasrin gave a slightly tired smile, folding her hands upon her lap and sighing. "Your country is... very beautiful. Your king is a very blessed man." Blessed was the word she seemed to linger upon, settling her striking gaze upon James as she indicated with a nod that he should indeed have a seat. She kept the appropriate distance, turning her covered body toward him. "But maybe he does not know his blessings. Maybe he cannot see them."
What would make a king see his blessings? Nasrin, though apparently an oracle in many ways, knew nothing about the mind of this king. What motivated him? Who were his friends, and what did they enjoy? He seemed to have none within this court. According to her sources, the only things that had kept Philip occupied the few short years since he was crowned was a movement to consolidate the French-speaking territories under the crown. Was war this king's hobby? Her deep thoughtfulness did not cause her to miss what James had to say, however. She listened to him as he spoke, fitting his words into what she knew as if they were pieces of a puzzle. She may never see the grand picture -- few ever did, save with the benefit of hundreds of years of history as a lens -- but she was better than most at seeing patterns and images where others saw chaos. "You want the best for him," she said slowly, with a nod. "The best for your king is the best for your country. Same, I think, as Ilkhanate. What is good for one, makes both happy."
She looked around the garden, barren to the eyes of a Westerner, but about to spill over with life in Nasrin's eyes. "Some people say is not the king make decision. Wife is powerful woman. Bend her ear, and the head will follow. She has a taste for black tea, from the Ming court."
“Yes, my country is beautiful…” then he paused as he sat beside her… he did not know about his king though… “My King does not see anything, but only what he wishes… he counts only what he wishes to claim as his own…” pausing again… “He listens to ones who think themselves close to God, but in reality, they think only of their divine pockets…” James did not trust the Papacy… for Rome had always thought of themselves as above all else… and this irked James. No one was above James Maubrey… especially a French king… it must have been the English and Maubrey upbringing that embittered James against the French and the Spanish…
“Yes, I want the best for my King…” he lied to the woman straight-faced… emotionless… “But what I want right now if to know what is best for the Ilkhanate.” War was profitable… and James liked profit… but what he liked more was the power war brought to the right people… James knew that if the Mongols aligned with France, that would make things more difficult. He smiled at the woman, the deceit hidden deep below years of lying, deceit and treasonous instigation. If only his Father could see him now…
“MiLady, if I could speak freely…” he paused… “If the Ilkhanate sided with France, that would make my King happy… but it would infuriate some… to know that the Franco-Mongolian alliance would prove powerful against the Muslims, it would also be the King giving away some power to the Ilkhanate… for in all alliances, there is give and take… and the French would take more than it gives, I trust yu in that…” Treasonous words… yet who could prove that he had said it…?
James smiled as she spoke of the King’s wife… His hand coming to his chin… “Tea eh?” then he looked at her with a side-glance… “And does that go for the Ilkhanate as well…” he smirked evilly… “Are YOU more powerful than the King of the Mongols? If yu bend his ear, does his head not follow?”
Temptation… the emotion that has led many to their knees. James was a womanizer… and lewd thoughts did cross his mind, thoughts of he and her… but now was not the temptation of the flesh, but one of power… Could he tempt her with such emotion? Could he sway her to keep the Ilkhanate from aligning with France? To offer her something she desired most? Now if he could only discover what she desired most, above all else. “MiLady, speaking freely, what is it You desire most?”
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Post by Nasrin al-'Anizzah on Mar 28, 2010 12:46:41 GMT -6
Nasrin: Nasrin laughed, then, truly amused at the idea that she was powerful enough to bend a king's ear. She shook her head briefly. "My cousin rules the Ilkhanate, and I am as like to rule him as the moon govern the sun." Just as she could never dictate the course her cousin would take, neither could he instruct her on her own. Nasrin was an entity unto herself, a concept these Westerners would not understand. Life could be no different from what it was; Nasrin was not fool to play a game of wondering how it might have been different. Mistakes were made when they were not believed to be mistakes, and though much older, she may have made different choices, it was doubtful she would be alive to reflect as she might now. But she, just like the Chagatai Khanate, was as autonomous as she was feared in the Ilkhanate court. Sending her to France had been her cousin's sole stroke of genius, for it rid him of his irksome cousin and her terrifying husband. Humor glinted in her eyes for a moment, but faded as her thoughts moved onward.
"Desire. I believe that the very purpose of life is to be happy. From the very core of our being, we desire contentment. We are not solely material creatures, my friend -- contentment does not come from an accumulation of things, but of gathering others to care for, to concern yourself with their happiness. It is a mistake to place all our hopes for happiness on external development alone." She had been looking just past him as she spoke, but now she returned her gaze to him, studying him with a forthrightness that some would find disconcerting. The women of her generation had been taught to be deferential, but Nasrin had been born to an 'Anizzah Bedouin woman and a Mongol khan. She had not been sheltered in the harem the years of her childhood. Her skin showed how much of it had been spent under the sun, like any other man. "But expecting kingdoms to thrive on altruism is expecting mangoes of a banana tree," she concluded with a smirk of her own.
"The Ilkhanate is troubled by the Seljuks and the Mamluks to the west. To the east, we have the Chagatai Khanate. Though in recent years, the Chagatai are not very troublesome. The khan is Muslim now, like my cousin. Tarmashirin is occupied more with the Sultanate of Delhi. This is good for us -- the luxuries in the Ilkhanate court would make even a jaded man like you drop his jaw to the floor." With an easy laugh, she rose to her feet, letting the folds of her silks unfurl, floating away from her body with the elegance of a sunrise-hued stream. "But access to the west, this is what the Ilkhanate desires. The king here desires war. Rome desires war. We can give this to him, and be freed of our neighbors in the bargain." She arched a brow. "Our desires are no secret, friend. What are yours?" James: James displayed a false sense of interest. His interests lie elsewhere… yet he rose when she did and he could not refrain from laughing. “Forgive me MiLady, for tis not at yu I laugh, but the situation…” he stands near her, but not too close to cause invading her space. “Rome desires what Rome desires… and my King guides France closer to war than he realizes… yet does he care?” James shakes his head… “as long as gets what he wants...” “Access to the west?” canting his head, a smirk crosses his features… “And whatever for? If yer Court luxuries were abundant as yu say?” James was prodding now… this woman of interest just became even more interesting… “France and Spain are not the only traders… the Kingdom of the Gaelic Nations, particularly Skye has emerged victorious in the game…” canting his head, only to fluff his blue cape… “Those of Skye wish to conquer the lands of Bab el-Zakat and control the straits… harboring a stranglehold on all trade…” He lied again with no emotion nor inkling of deceit. “They wish to impose clan governship upon the lands foreign to them and make them a duchy, putting Gaelic dukes where kings once tread…” He paces slowly in front of her. “Besides, Skye supposes Rome is on their side, but Rome merely tolerates their frivolous attitude toward religion... Their Mo’r Triath’s even married to a pagan...” he glances to the woman... “Now, if yu allow me, I can offer a voice in the courts of France and Spain for the Ilkhanate... but of course, I shall require your assistance.” He stops and kneels before her as she sat, squatting down, the robes shifted behind him. “If, you and I can come to some sort of accord, Your interests at court would be ratified by me and my peers... and we could both profit healthily... and we could ensure the trade routes from the Ilkhanate to the Great Ocean would be under either Spain or France protection.” Pausing... “Now if Skye gains the trade routes, then I could negotiate with them upon yer behalf as well, as I do have contacts in Turas Lan as well...” He was weaving an evil thread of lies and deceit... but at most he, and she, would profit by any outcome. Nasrin: "It is a king's right," Nasrin said philosophically, canting her head beneath the hood, and lacing her fingers behind her back. "Is not his duty to see your private success." She was not so simple, and certainly, he must sense she was merely engaging in debate. Though her motives were as perfectly concealed as her body beneath the robes, nothing of the Ilkhanate diplomat appeared sinister. Barbaric, yes -- in their first hours, rumors swirled through the court about her husband. They were not much more favorable where Nasrin was concerned, little more than his property dressed in strange fabrics, pulled along in the wake of her husband's venture into Europe on the Khan's behalf.
"Ah, fault us not for what you seek yourself, my friend. My cousin can never have enough of the world's riches, and follows our predecessors' dreams for a union with France." He was wrong to engage her in terms of religion. The Ilkhanate shifted religions as sands in the wind. Her own father had followed a path from Mongolian ancestor worship to Buddhism to Sunni and Shi'a Islam. Her court was as multicultural as any in the world. The elder Mongols still practiced their spirit worship, and in their eyes, she would always be idugan, a conduit for the spirits and a woman of great wisdom. "I come with Rome, with a Papal Bull," she replied at last. "It is not in the wishes of my people to go against their wishes. If Rome wishes an alliance with France, and such is also in the interests of the Ilkhanate, then it is unwise to anger either party. It is also unwise for my people to ally with Spain. Surely, they have no good intentions for a Muslim people. But I will take your offer to husband, and we will discuss."
She bowed politely to him. "We meet again soon. I am too long in garden, husband maybe back from his hunt." She delicately pulled the fabric of her cowl across her mouth, and walked gracefully from the garden. She was correct about her husband's return, though. He stood in the doorway, a mildly disapproving look upon his sun-roughened features before turning into the shadows of the interior.
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Post by Nasrin al-'Anizzah on Mar 28, 2010 13:16:20 GMT -6
Nasrin: The King had retreated to Auvergne for a hunt. What he found, amidst the scrabbling nobility waiting for his attentions, was the ambassadorial party of Rome and the Ilkhanate, which made no demands upon him save the only seal that might draw him from the madness, emblazoned upon crimson wax the same shade as the woman's heavy robes. She never spoke, but remained one step behind her husband, more personal guard than chattel. Yes, even the king could recognize such a stance in a woman, after spending a lifetime recognizing it in the men who guarded him. Hearsay and conjecture wafted through the light-colored halls of Auvergne, but the Mongolians either did not speak English, or were so expert in feigning ignorance, it served the same purpose. What words were spoken with the King, and what drew him from his two-week hiatus from sanity, were all left in the king's chambers. He cut his hunt short, and took into his personal entourage the Ilkhanate ambassadors, ignoring the sleight when the man chose to ride alone, but thoroughly enjoying the mysterious silance of the man's wife. She never broke the image, despite the flicker of amusement he sometimes caught at the corners of her mouth when she believed him occupied elsewhere. He gave them heir own private home in Paris, settling them in amidst such opulence, it was clear he needed no further prodding from Rome to keep his guests entertained. Yet they were so often in court, if hidden in the whisperings of private gardens and salons, Nasrin began to feel she was as nomadic as her legacy suggested. She had no home, only the endless drawing rooms of those growing in import to the king. She had no female companionship, either, standing apart from the men due to her gender, and the women due to the language barrier. It was on such a day, bored with watching her husband follow a conversation like a dog pondering a piece of meat at a table high above, she chose to take a solitary walk through the castle, hidden beneath the folds of her silks, nothing visible save the smooth almond-toned hands, and the lower half of her mouth from beneath the shadows of her cowl.
Jean-Claude of Aquitaine: Never in his life had he thought to miss a time as the spring in Paris. It seemed to come early, then the rest of the world with the desire to shed away all the drab dull colors of winter, and the bright vivid change in the sky. She seemed to open, her smile a careless sigh of a more gentle wind, and the sun warmed his back. Perhaps, there was enough time in the day, and now more then ever he lived in the moment. Skye, held it's on power but seemed to miss out on months as this, their break in the weather meant the rain would stop, and the clouds would part...for a hour. Business was well in the streets, the market fair as it seemed all the French did truly know was wealth. A more fertile land meant, a more complete compassionate trade, and it seemed everyone had enough coin to spare. The shop here was happy to see their foundation arrive, with the new assortment and ideas. Jean-Claude, adored the little petite honey haired miss who kept it well, and carried with her a fair amount of life. She had been a student, under the thumb of a seamstress who had died in an illness and he was happy to have her. A great part of him wished Julian held the desire she did, but she had her own family fortune; and was less in need. There had been a big part of him that had wanted very much to bring Adelaide with him, just to see this part of his life that she did not know. Here, he was himself, a man long lost between dreams, happy open and careless. This was as much as a vacation as the scientist ever got, and now in the labor of the day he was without his coat. He lived in the moment the sun could warm the skin under the thin fabric of the billowy sleeves, and could even reach where the deep blue vest held the rest. "I'll return shortly." The French carried so easily, natural and welcome--he was home. Strange how it was to move through the very streets that had once carried his death, but for this he was thankful. None, here knew who he was. Towards the castle he parted, the delivery a bit of personal pride as it his work carried now upon royal hands.
Nasrin: It was still very cold, Nasrin thought, entering the gardens on restless feet. It was cold, and this wind held too much moisture upon it. Though even she had lived in such mild climates before. Desert-born, nothing could change her preferences, not even a lifetime spent living elsewhere. She tilted her head back to look up at the sky, blinking away at the brightness, and then lowered her gaze back to the garden. It was greener here than in Auvergne, as if the two weeks made the world's difference. Flowers, yet to bud, came up to her shins as she walked. Here and there, couples frolicked in the lawns, playing games, holding hands. It was very unusual for Nasrin, but not unpleasant. They did not call to Nasrin, certain as they were that her world was too far from theirs, and languages tended to fall flat after vehement hand gestures were no longer effective. Why she persisted in the charade was only for Nasrin and her husband to know, allowing the Romans to translate where they would. Her husband knew enough of the language to be reliable in negotiations, but nothing would tame the White Horde from him, nor would she ever desire him to be tamed. He grinned with a ferocity that, if anyone knew the meaning behind his second name, might have them banned from France. He caroused, he was vicious, and he was even more fiercely independent than Nasrin. For some, she held the element of sympathy, even among the more hardened men of court. The delicate weave they made in this court was more effective than any grandstanding speeches. They were also the only pair to have the king's ear in private, even as the weather began to warm, and traditional court activities began to move outdoors. The king remained inside, sullen, but not unreasonable. Her slipper squished in a particularly soft patch of grass. She lifted it up with a wince, feeling water seeping through the fabric. And mud. No matter how wild she feigned to be, she was a princess of the Ilkhanate. No matter how many lands she traversed, there was nothing more miserable than having a wet, muddy shoe.
Jean-Claude of Aquitaine: Court was something he tried to avoid, like a sickness he wished not to catch onto the madness that came with the little games, and the bright eyes of newly designed women in their lower seams, and higher hems. It was intoxicating to say the least, but he found himself a bit too old to join in any 'frolic'. Though amusement passed over his lips as he thought of years gone by when he spent most of his summer along the banks of the river with some tart. Down the row, where elaborate town homes still stood in the wake of the new era, and as always his heart warmed with the sight of the one he had once lived. His parents estate in the midst of it all, when court came to call and there were lessons to be learned. They always spent Springtime in Paris, the diversity was enough to settle the winter blues, and the summer to come. Welcome, by the staff he kept them outfitted, a uniform of sorts there within the palace, and it was enough for Jean-Claude. He wished not to venture inside, to see faces he had long forgotten about, or teased about what he had in fact left behind. However, the entrance was gained down the path in which the rest played, and the muddy slipper would not do. "Oh, Mon Cher.." He offered her his hand, turned up right to help her take a seat. "What good are shoes that can not hold to the weather hmm?"
Nasrin: Nasrin's head moved upward at the sound of the voice, but she stopped short of providing her hand to him. She did not mean to be impolite, but neither did she trust any of these Frenchmen any further than she could throw them. At her towering height of 5'10, it was a great deal more possible for her to carry through on such a threat than most women, but just as her husband might be banned if he started showing his true colors, she may also be asked to leave if she began throwing these courtiers across the lawn as if playing bowls. "Shoe," she merely said, pointing at a foot invisible beneath the folds of her heavy robes, willing to nudge the toe out past the hem to reveal the mud-spattered cloth. These shoes were not ready for mud, much less a garden. Her home was not so muddy as this. Their gardens, better irrigated. She folded her arms across her chest in a singularly contemplative mood, examining him from the comfort of her cowl's shadows and determining whether she liked what she saw. He was much older than these courtiers at play, and much better dressed. Perhaps he was an acquaintance worth making. After a long moment, Nasrin unfolded the heavy sleeves of her arms, and drew a surprisingly delicate hand to her chest. "Nasrin," she said by way of introductions.
Jean-Claude of Aquitaine: Dark eyes passed from the shoe to the woman studying her for a moment, though not letting his eyes linger long he would offer a small smile about her shoe. "Ah, so I see." His voice was kind, motivated enough to keep his composure but just curious enough to have the bit of freedom it would allow to continue, "Is this your first Spring in Paris?" He spoke to her in French, but motioned a hand to one of the serfs who passed; keeping the same tone, but the request clear. The gesture in which she offered her name caused him to raise a brow, though his heart sank. Did she not know proper manners? And the cowl damn near almost killed him. Perhaps she was a savage, though he had to wonder what she would be doing out in the lawn? His own gloved hand came to brush the tips of his fingers against his own chest, "Jean-Claude." He offered only this, for the rest would be slaughtered if she could not speak the native tongue. In the matter of wondering, he kept his thoughts pure though the unease of where they sat enough to press him on. A well trained ear would pick up on conversation, the mention of the King enough to collect the bit of information and keep it. Black eyes settled once again in hers, the navy undertones warming with his soft smile. A moment would pass before a dry cloth was gathered and given to the elder as he went to start cleaning her shoe.
Nasrin: She could hear the disappointment in his voice. What had he expected of a creature so dramatically different than any other in this garden? She almost laughed at the frisson of amusement that ran down through her veins, but kept it to herself, instead sliding her foot out of the slipper and standing in near perfect harmony upon her one foot, the other tucked like a crane beneath her robes. "Jean-Claude. Ah... plaisir." She watched, almost studiously, as the shoe was cleaned. She stepped back into it with a bow of thanks, inclining only a few degrees, but sustaining it to show her gratitude. She straightened, and held a hand out toward the garden. "Walk?" Her husband would not be amused that she borrowed his limited, but effective, vocabulary to suit her purposes. "Romans speak for me," she offered, sounding apologetic. "Speak my language. Speak yours. I like to hear yours better." Her voice was quiet, but not small -- she was no young girl in a strange land, but a lady in her maturity, who had learned she would be listened to if she had patience, but was far happier to do the listening. When they wandered from the most crowded area of the garden, Nasrin drew both hands to the edges of her cowl, and drew it down around her shoulders with a little sigh of relief. "Hot," she explained, angling away to avoid the sun until her eyes had properly adapted. They were the most striking shade of blue, made all the more alien that they were in Nasrin's face, a high altitude shade of sapphire framed by heavier black brows, while the angles of her cheekbones swept dramatically away into the wild, dark hair crowning her head. Textured braids fell through the locks, a tuft or two of crimson feathers braided in to match those of her husband's tribe, the Jalayir. She turned back to Jean-Claude, and offered a truly genuine little smile.
Jean-Claude of Aquitaine: "Très bon," He smiled with a nod of his head, standing as she did. "We..walk." Suddenly he felt himself under dressed, exposed though having more clothes on then the rest of the court could combine, but in wind he pulled his hair back-tied it with a ribbon, with days like this he was left without any choice. "Parlez-vous anglais ?" He asked then wishing to switch the context so that he could understand, for he felt himself treading down a path with a racing heart. Women who covered themselves seemed always forbidden. His work was too precious to be unrooted now. Was she a spy? Another from the path of his own walk? Taking a deep breath, he pressed his shoulders back, flattening his lips and slipping into the roll of a gentleman. Though he would not offer her his arm, foreign procedure he knew best not to be tripped until studied. Just a small gesture could be taken the wrong way. "I have a shop not far, there are proper shoes." He offered once he stood at her side, remarking at how tall..though any over Ada's height had to be an amazement. His manners left him, worried of where they would venture he took a deep breath and finally smiled. "And where are you from?" Of French or English, it mattered little now he was simply eager to learn of her.
Nasrin: He need not worry of whether Nasrin was a spy. If only she had known of his worries, it would have been very easy to set them aside. He was an interesting man, she decided. He did his best to have a conversation with her despite the barriers, and she wondered why he was not more interested in going back toward the more populated areas of the gardens. Did he not have friends? As he spoke, she seemed to gain more confidence in her own language, letting the words trip from her tongue with the same hard consonants as her partner, though in fact, she had been raised to speak many languages with the same proficiency as those native born. Her Chinese tutor, who exposed her to Buddhism and the sciences, and Arab instructors, who told her of economics and medicine -- there were so many, many more who traveled with the Ilkhanate, eager to impart their knowledge. She had gone to battle as a child, sitting on her uncle's seat while he issued commands, playing with toys in tents while the battle clashed a mile ahead. It was a very different world from this France. No better and no worse, but it made her feel like a charlatan to pretend she was as barbaric as they perceived her to be. "You have a shop? Interesting. You trade in materials, too? This woman, she seemed not to know about damask. In a land of luxury, you wear not so good quality fabrics," Nasrin said, sounding a bit sad. "The Ilkhanate has fabric from many places. This wool, from Altai, example. Husband wants to spend on horses more," she added with a brief snort of amusement.
Jean-Claude of Aquitaine: "I do trade in fabrics, and most ask of the nature of your cover.." He gestured to it, "It is a fine color, of what land is it from?" Jean-Claude's way of getting further information, and the passing whim that came along with it. He lived in moments as this, but here on the streets he could not simply be himself. Though nearly 20 years had passed since his life here, he could not so easily find himself falling back into the routine. His heart swept through the rhythms of the market, the square famous year round and the growing population ever fruitful. He missed Ada. Someday he would have her return with him. Though, she was the rock that kept him on Skye. Her refusal of the country did wonderment on his desire to stay. In his attire today he could pass as a commoner, a peasant had he not such detail around the hem, or a fine treasure of silver buttons. Yet, there was nothing that even his manners could mask of his true birth. "The illkhanate..very interesting, may I ask of what it is you are doing in Paris?" It perked his attention, very greatly.
Nasrin: "The wool is from Altai. It is north, north of where I am from," she clarified. They had long since left the gardens. She was not certain where they were going, except that he had mentioned his shop. Many ambassadorial parties never left the castle grounds, but the Ilkhanate were different. Her husband went out for nearly daily rides upon his horse, keeping the animal -- unusual for the French -- in good exercise while allowing his own thoughts freedom to roam. He was not a man of the court, her husband. She had seen him in battle. To trap him in finery was the worst sort of punishment. A Mongolian husband could be missed, Nasrin reflected, but it was worse to keep him pinned down. "They speak different language there, but good wool." She glanced sidelong at him, her dark brows rising slightly in consideration. "Silks are from ah -- what that -- " she angled her arm toward the east. She knew her directions no matter the land she walked, but she did not always known their name. "Damask from city of that name. Wool and fur for traveling, not court. It ... " she stopped in her steps, thinking for the word. "Bold." Decided, she continued onward again. She did not expect him to defer to her, and she would not defer to him. The Ilkhanate had distinct roles for their genders, and even had their own ridiculousness of court mannerisms, but Nasrin had not been raised to them, nor had her Jalayir husband. "We have problem in Ilkhanate," she said at last. "Seljuks in -- that." She angled the arm to the west this time. "Syria," she explained shortly, raising her unsettling blue eyes toward the skies before lowering them level with the elaborate townhouses his gaze often settled upon, whether he realized it or not. Nasrin had. "We come to make friends with France. Maybe interests are the same."
Jean-Claude of Aquitaine: He chuckled lightly, the first sign of a break in his face. Though he was not worried nor concerned to be here, it simply put him in another time, another place, and forced his attention to settle anywhere but in the present. There was a more human nature to him here, one that caused him to seem younger, but perhaps it was simply the manner he carried himself. Without the drawn in dart of his coat, Jean-Claude seemed a more broad man; a taller more stout individual who stood a great deal above the rest. His frame was uncommon for the generations here, but not of the family he had left behind. Often he hide behind a different name, and wondered if perhaps he should have all around the board. "Then I shall send out my buyer. Wool here, would not be needed for another series of months but it is never too early to start." His name was not as known here, but the shop was. On the streets he could simply be another servant to the store, and he paid his keep to stay with the trend. "Bold yes..I have heard of such a place. Though I fear only in books, or from the mouths of sailors." Peregrine didn't like to work with or around anything of the nature she was from. He had an underline hatred of anything born of the sand, or perhaps it was simply the world without a forest. He enjoyed the Mongols, but only a certain handful. Most of his trade was with the coast, and even a bit further North. They passed by the row once more, where the shell of his estate seemed so lifeless and empty. Had it not been entertained in years? "I do have to say I'm intrigued in the colors, the silk of the East is by far the best known. If you have any connections, I'll be the first to put my offer on." She asked of his interests and he shook his head, "No..I am but a peddler wishing to make trade, keep business and provide for my family. Nothing more. Though..I do take a certain interest when it comes to keeping a good health, and unsuitable slippers will simply not do. You'll have a cold before the week is over, once the rains set in." He would open the door to the shop, like a gentleman letting her pass inside. The keeper was a sweet ample woman of 17 years who was a bit plump, but like Jean-Claude she was a noble simply seeking her dream. "Please..look around."
Nasrin: "Price of friendship maybe not so high. France have many things to give Ilkhanate. Ilkhanate has many things to give France." She shrugged lightly. Were she a shorter woman, the gesture would have seemed nearly dainty, but such an adjective would never be applied to her. Small loss, Nasrin supposed, as she stepped past Jean-Claude and into the darkness. She slid free of her ruined shoe. The one next to it was quite pretty, covered in the sort of silk one might never see in these lands. To the woman, they seemed nearly disposable, walking away and unfolding the tremendous length of the wool covering as she wandered the shop at her whim. "Health, this is a good thing. My people live a very long time." She set the robe off to the side, glad to be free of its weight. It was comfortable for the travel she did, and kept out the drafts, but Paris was warmer than she had imagined. Auvergne, victim of the mistrals, had been bone-achingly cold. The silks she wore were a simple, smooth peach winding down her top, overlaid with a gold-shot ivory that gave the dress movement and sparkle, while affording the woman who wore it the modesty to which she was accustomed. They were simple, muted colors, but they dazzled upon her darker skin. She rounded the aisle and emerged, having explored enough for the moment. "Have many connections. Do not always know what to do with them. Maybe I speak to you more, have more ideas." She pulled a small purse from her pocket and gently placed it into his hand, ensuring his fingers curled around it so that he could not possibly drop it back into hers in refusal. "Maybe wife will like." Inside, was a small but sturdy glass vial with rose of damask oil finely bottled within. Worth more than its weight in gold, Nasrin merely shrugged. Though her name meant 'Rose,' the scent had never settled into her skin. She far preferred the smell of camp fires and nearby animals, and her luxuries were most often boxed away in crates, still smelling strongly of foreign spices when she unfolded her silks to air.
Jean-Claude of Aquitaine: The purse no doubt, the vial perhaps, but it was the shoe he knew Ada to like. Though..there were not enough sparkles on it. "A good trade, please.." He would raise his hand to show her the various shoe for the spring, ones tall that went over her ankles for the mud, and some slipper type made of leather in place. "The mud will simply come right off, will not stain." He smiled admiring her dainty foot, for a tall woman it had surprised him. She reminded him of his Ada, when she came back from her trips in the woods, the nights she could not be held in, but it was the smell of the campfire to really settle him. Ana-Catalina would like the rose long before his Adelaide, for it was far too tame a scent for his hell cat. He turned from her to place the purse over the counter, a small smirk forming over his lips as she spoke of ideas. It had been his curse as well his blessing--Jean-Claude seemed to know how to get another thinking, and perhaps this was what truly drew so many to him. "Ideas of what, my friend? For trade?"
Nasrin: She slid her eyes over him carefully. It was hard to hide where her eyes went, they were such a startling color. Her habit of wearing the cowl, particularly as a diplomat, might begin to make sense. "These." She pointed to the boots she liked the most. They were good, solid, sturdy boots that were laughably at odds with the silks she wore. But then she smiled and shook her head. She had a pair just like them for riding, and then her finger slid toward a set far more appropriate for France than the boots she tromped across mountains in. "You are not a ... merchant," she said at last, her eyes resting on the buttons he wore. She was daring enough to reach out to touch one, the silver heavy in her fingers, but it was the ornate etching upon their surface that had initially caught her eye. "Merchant not know true value of rose of damask, but you do." She did not underestimate merchants, particularly not in such a cosmopolitan city as Paris, but the oil she had given him was as precious as life. She saw how his graceful fingers went over the purse, and that he had not had to open the strings very far to know what his nose smelled. It had pleased her, of course, to know whom she dealt with. His name was still whispered in the courts. None had told her he would be so physically striking, so tall, and with such strict black hair. She bowed her head on pretense of picking up a boot, and in clear English, arrived at her point: "I believe it is medical knowledge you wish most to trade. This I have. Should you wish to strike a bargain, the sale may only be completed if the Ilkhanate has the support of your King. Is the price too high?"
Jean-Claude of Aquitaine: Like a breath captured in his chest, Jean-Claude seemed to stop breathing. The very air around him pulled in as he took in the chance to regain himself, though a very different man stood before her. At her touch he seemed to die, her finger over the silver the likable part of him seemed to fade, as he returned to himself. A master held his strings, pulling him like a puppet until his stance was corrected and his shoulders back like a noble born. Her closeness held a danger to it, one that perhaps she did not understand. "I have many Kings in my life." So spoke the spider in a whisper, "Of France, I have little connection with. Nor, do I desire anything other then what is in this shop." He searched for answer, the stretch of the truth so great it could not be a lie, "It takes over a hundred roses to make even a small portion of that oil..any man would know that, if he had a wife as mine who loved the garden so." Though his pale lips flattened on his face, the thin lines could give away a curiosity that could not be cured. It was his madness. He wanted to know more, but knew he shouldn't.
Nasrin: Nasrin did not flirt to make her point. She held that weapon beneath her, as if only a fool would resort to seducing a man she wished upon her side. No, the woman who had taken a seat in one of those comfortable chairs to try on a boot was not the sort to twine him around her finger with those promises, but she was not beneath making fair bargains. She pointed her foot, examining the line of the boot. It had an elegantly sharp point to it that she found even more delightful on her foot than she had when the boot was on the shelf. She glanced up at Jean-Claude. "I do not ask for your loyalty," she said with a lazy roll of her shoulders. "I know why you would be loathe to give it to him." Her husband called her idugan not as a sign of affection, but because he truly believed her a witch. Between soul-searching blue eyes and observations that cut like the finest of blades, she was the truer diplomat of the pair, and was everything her father and father's father had failed to be in negotiating with Europe. It was amazing what one heard, when one was as close to a shadow on the wall as a perceived lack of French made her out to be. The occasional rough handling by her husband further made her at once a sympathetic ear, and an object to be shuffled off into the darker recesses of greedy minds. She knew her craft as well as Jean-Claude knew his, and for once, it was nice to speak with a fellow master. "The bottle you hold is a gift. Not a chip for bargaining, my friend. Take it. You are not beholden to me, or the Ilkhanate, for knowing quality." She smiled, genuinely, but now was a time for reservation. "You have knowledge that could bring him out of his private chambers, and back into politics. Think, of whom he lost, and what might inspire the fight within him again."
Jean-Claude of Aquitaine: "What would bring him out is tucked safe away in her peace with her child, and without any reason to come here. She will not, and no amount of any desire would have me ever ask it." He closed his hand over the purse once more as he picked it up. He looked down to her then, not because of his height but because of the amount of force it took for him to stand in the very same room. She spoke of things, that no amount of whispers could tell her, or how close to his anger he had become. This had nothing to do with him anymore, or their conversation. She asked for his loyalty to get to her key? "I am simply a man of business, Nasrin, forgive me. You must have me mistaken for another." He would motion for the door, "Now. Enjoy your boots." His hands came to fold behind him as he stood there waiting for her to leave. "And thank you for the gift." He would put it to good use. Though his eyes were forward there was a large part of him that trembled, wished to see Phillip again, see how his friend was doing, but of Ada? He would never subject her to this again, for his own selfish fears of letting her go.
Nasrin: Nasrin stood slowly, and inclined her head with great politesse. "I am certain that I do not have you mistaken, but I thank you for your time." She took the heavy wool and wrapped it carefully about her again, lifting the cowl to cover her hair, though her hands lingered near her ears for a moment, refusing to plunge her face back into its accustomed darkness. She glanced over her shoulder at him. "She would not come to France without you, my friend, you must know this. Her friends are all dead and gone, and whatever secret she maintains with him, there are none left living to speak it. You love her very much, I see." His eyes betrayed him a great deal. Did he know this? She thought perhaps her next gift should be a looking glass. They did not make silver nor glass so fine as in Venice, and she happened to have a contingent of Italians serving as her translators and guards. She carefully folded her arms across her chest, letting the sleeves of her garment billow down across her stomach. "So does Philip. He need not see her to know she breathes. He is very mad, your king," Nasrin completed, a single dark brow arched high upon her forehead. But it fell almost immediately as she turned, pulling her arms apart and drawing the edge of the cowl down over her forehead. There were not many true friends in diplomacy, but for what it was worth, she had liked Jean-Claude very much. She hoped they would meet again.
Jean-Claude of Aquitaine: "I would not let her come here without me." He had not wanted to correct her, but in fact make a point. He knew the subject upset Ada, when her former lover's lover had died he had watched a great deal of her go as well. It hurt him to know that somewhere she had lost a good memory of her world, but where had Phillip been when Ada was suffering? He had watched them all burn, in his little weakness and now was left with what he deserved. Her eyes alone would haunt him, but her words...Jean-Claude would not find rest tonight. The King suffered greatly, he heard it on the streets as well, perhaps from the same voices she listened to. He felt obligated to continue, but felt himself weary already of the subject; his temper short. "I.." He felt already he was betraying himself, "Tomorrow..there is a small stone circle on the walk to the Seine, meet me there as the sun sets." He would unfold his hands to let them fall, the gloved digits coming before him. "Come alone."
Nasrin: She rested her hand upon the door, listening to his words filter through the folds of her robes, and wished very much to turn back and touch his hand. He was no enemy. He did not deserve to be in such a position. He could learn a great deal from her, if he but found a way to break Philip from his stupor. She let her breath out in a prolonged, but inaudible sigh. "I shall try." There were dinners to attend, but she had not made herself indispensable. Her husband was treated like a barbarian king, but still a barbarian. There was little barring her way, should she wish to escape, but if Qadan found out she was walking alone in a strange city, and would remain until after dark, he might put his foot down for the first time in their many years of marriage. Any other occasion, that might have been fairly exciting, but Nasrin's priorities were sorting out the crown of France, and Jean-Claude held the keys. With that, she pushed her way back out into the sunlight, her new boots making a crisp noise along the cobbles.
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Post by Adelaide d'Aquitaine on Mar 28, 2010 13:40:58 GMT -6
Jean-Claude of Aquitaine: Spring had always come so easy on the streets of Paris, where one could let down their hair. A small little townhouse by the river had been occupied for scholars long before Jean-Claude was ever born. The wide window space was easily covered, and a private path to the park could be found easily through the back garden. By a weekly base he kept it, never with promises of any longer, but somewhere in the back of the landlord's mind he figured the raven haired man to someday buy it. It was his place for Adelaide, somewhere she could be while he worked here, on business--half pleasure. It was a slow step, the toe in the water; testing how far they were welcome. He had never forced her, and never would. However, the times were different now. They held an entire nation behind them with the powerful force of compassionate strength. Claramae would come for him, Maahes for her. In the spirit of the season, all the windows were open allowing the light of the sun to shine through the damp area, but still the wind chased over the cold water to roll up the hill. Always when he spent time in France did the sun find him more, color to a face that had always seemed too pale for it's own good, and Jean-Claude even shed down the layers of his clothes to two--none more. The dressmaker, dare not venture any further then his shop though the old buildings of the university still stood. How he wanted to listen through the windows, or find himself front row in a lecture. Perhaps it was a small form of torture to be so close, but just the memory of Genna's cries carried him through; Ada's face as well...her hand. Shaking away the sights he pressed from the window to turn away from the day, happy to have it coming to an end. The woman from the shop had nearly done him in, her words enough to spark interest but leaving him wanting of more--was the power she held. She had a secret he would kill to have, and he knew it well. Of what kind of fool did she take him as? Did she think him a man so easily tempted? Pulling the drapes he shut off the world, working then on undoing his gloves; stripping down free from his bindings, and letting the cool air sink in over his bare skin. Jean would even undo the lace around his neck..nearly the whole way.
Ada: "Genna, Genevieve," Ada called, the second word holding only the faintest note of exasperation as she held the door open. Her daughter's loose, shining black curls bounced around her cherubic face as she ran toward the door, one of spring's first flowers stuck over her ear. Ada leaned down and picked her up, swinging her across her hip. As they walked through the kitchen, Ada inspected Genna's hands. Clean, miraculously. Genna had been more interested in her dolls than dirt. Jean-Claude would say there is hope for her yet, and she grinned as if she could hear the dry words in person. As she rounded the next corner, the nanny caught up to her and explained that the master had just returned. Now that she canted her ear, she could indeed hear his footsteps overhead. "You do not mind?" she asked, already handing Genna off, and placing a kiss to her girl's head. She gathered her skirts in one hand and went up the stairs. She did not have old neighborhoods she wished to visit. None there would remember her. Or if they did, it would be for reasons Ada would not dare explain to her two-year-old. Neither did she feel like venturing toward the court, reasonably frightened that a sighting might lead to more violence, and her ghosts were best left alone. But she had merchants to talk to, trade routes that were just being forged, and all the shopping had led to quite a few more elaborately-dressed dolls for Genna and a new leather surgeon's kit for Ada. It had the requisite knives and tools of her trade, but it also offered a unique system for shelving the most necessary of her herbal vials. She was enjoying the time away from work, even if it meant a much more leisurely lifestyle than any she had experienced thus far in her years. And Jean.... Well, he had an extra spring in his step these days, and just watching him from the doorway was enough to put an amused half-smile upon her lips. "Well, hello to you, too," she teased lightly.
Jean-Claude of Aquitaine: The purse was in the pocket of his overcoat, still warm from where his hand held it on the way home. "Good Evening, Mon Chatte.." He smiled pulling down his hair, letting the ribbon fall free over the bare part of his back having removed his shirt long ago. The trousers held by the leather of his belt were in dire need of a good sizing, the stress of the trip always shedding away what meat remained on bare bones. Though he was a broad man, the outline of every muscle clear for it was easy to tone what wasn't covered in fat. Stress often shed away the man, but even in the past year much of him had filled out. "How was your day?" The first sign there was something on his mind.He went about the room as if nothing was between them, passions gone, and their conversation rehearsed. Jean-Claude cared very deeply for her, loved her with every beat in his chest, but it was not like him to forget to kiss her. Only when his mind was distracted did he treat her like any other subject. Shed away from the days work he lived in the feeling of the robe that was drawn over his shoulders then, his bare fingers coming to sweep his raven strands free, and then he turned to face her--human again. "I do hope it was full of nothing but my darlings laughter?" He smiled then crossing the space between them, and letting his hands circle around her hips drawing her in, with a kiss to where it landed. "The weather has been wonderful." Idle small talk to prevent him from going too far just yet.
Ada: She wondered, after these years together, if he yet considered himself as beautiful as she did. She rested quietly against the frame of the door, pillowing her head against the wood with one arm. Her arts were more practical than those of Jean-Claude, and she was content with not being the artistically talented one in this relationship, but there were many moments she wished to preserve the way he looked. Perhaps it might prove to him what she saw. He was distracted, if he did not immediately go to the door to kiss her hello. But, as with all things Jean-Claude, the truth would out if she gave him patience, and wait she did, unfolding from the doorway when he finally approached, and moving her fingers along his jaw to center his lips upon her own. "It was very good. Genevieve and I went to look at some spices, but they were not very special, so we played in the garden all afternoon. She likes her new doll very much." Her brows moved upward, a quizzical look as she waited for a sign from him. What was his mind chewing over? "Was your afternoon eventful? I would think with this weather, anyone who is anyone would go for a stroll."
Jean-Claude of Aquitaine: "Mmm." The soft small sound of the perfect bliss she always gave him, this muse that had once even held the attention of the King. His thoughts were not so distracted as she would think, he knew the path to take very well, but in her arms all of him could be lost. "A new doll?" He mused dark eyes settled in her own though roaming over what was afforded to him of her face. "Eventful indeed. A new customer gave me something, in trade for a pair of shoes. Go look hmm? In the pocket of my coat?" A place that had once carried frogs in his youth, perhaps any other would be afraid. He let her go so she could go over the purse, the contents and he could undo his boots, at the edge of the bed. "Forgive me, for being so informal tonight, Ada..I'm simply happy to be home." And tired, though with the bit of color it was hard to tell. "I have missed the strolls, the walk of the square seeming such a task as a child, but now..I understood why my father insisted on it so. It takes a good bit of reason for me to see beyond his idea of life, how he could be so tempted with so much around him, but forbid me. Protective..I understand now, but how it paid off." He really was not himself tonight, looking down to his hands then thinking them not so horrible, but simply hard for another to look at. The skin was not so bad, simply red and raised over parts the color rushing up to the bend in his arm; returning to normal until the line trailed down his spine and just as back started to curve again continued. "It was so easy to be here, and not wonder..I had not had a reminder until today that there was in fact a life you and I both left behind."
Ada: "For me? Hmm." She was always pleased when he brought her things, though her collection of gifts from him wouldn't so much as resemble lover's tokens to an outside observer, but a collection of the natural and maudlin. She went to his coat and took out the purse. The fabric was not like any she had felt before, and what slipped into her hand had barely been out of the bag for a splinter of a second than she knew what it was. "Those must have been some shoes," Ada said with a laugh, and drew the rose up to her nose with a delicious inhale. Her tastes never ran so floral, but she could appreciate good craft. She joined him at the edge of the bed, taking another whiff as she did. Rose had a lovely, luxurious smell to it, reminding her a bit of his fine silk sheets. "A life?" She made a distasteful noise as she slid the container back into the bag. The ghosts of roses lingered around her for a moment longer, making her eyes swim momentarily. It was potent oil indeed! "Whatever I had, it is long gone now. Everyone I knew is gone, or I wish were gone." She quirked a smile at him. "I found the one I wanted." She let her hand settle upon his leg, giving it a brief squeeze. "I think, for nostalgia, I might take Genna down some of my old neighborhood streets, but then I recall -- they were not streets a young girl should have been on, even then. I doubt they are anything for Genna's eyes. I am not ready to explain what she might see. You look like you got some sun today, no?"
Jean-Claude of Aquitaine: He took her words in for a moment, letting his hand raise without thought to brush through her curls, "A life yes. I did leave a life. A good one. One where I was expected to inherit it all. My father owns nearly all of the wine country. A Lord." Though his name would not leave her lips. "But I've come to realize they must be dead, for my mother would not miss Spring in Paris." He smiled bending to kiss her neck lightly inhaling the very scent of her as his mind broke from the thoughts, "but it is not this that has brought me here today.." He whispered over her skin, keeping the closeness for the moment as if he wished to protect her from the words. "They say Phillip has gone mad, Mon Chatte, the court is abuzz with it, and the Mistress who would give me this has asked that I help her." He placed his hand behind her leaning in to pull her against him, as his face came to rest atop her head, "She is a woman of medicine, a master of her trade; temptation, mon cher..an art form. I could only imagine what it is her kind have dreamed up, new ideas always came best from the Middle East." He sighed into her, nearly longing to find out, and that was enough right there to break any heart. What good was the human kind if they must be held back at all cost?
Ada: She returned his embrace when he mentioned his mother. She wished she might meet the woman, knowing as time drifted past, Jean-Claude's mother did not grow younger. His family intrigued her as much as certain aspects of it repulsed her. A very small part of her, the part Peregrine identified with most, wished he would take her to meet his family, and introduce her as his wife. It would provide endless years of entertainment for them all. "You did have a very good life here. You still might, if this appeals to you. Winter here would be kinder on you, and Skye summers the right reprieve from the heat of Paris in August." She settled against him to listen, unsure of what she would hear, but there was always astounding news of some variety in Paris. What she heard, though, threw even Ada off. "New ideas of temptation?" she asked stupidly, but then blinked. Jean-Claude was a man, certainly, but not fool enough to be tempted in carnal pleasures. Had he really an itch to be scratched, he could find no better than Ada. She sighed, and carefully pulled away from him, lacing her fingers behind her back as she walked the short distance across the room, and then toward the window. "We always worried he would go mad, Ghislain and I." She seemed momentarily agitated, caught up in some memory or another, but unable or unwilling to go through the details of it. There were not many like that for Ada. She did not live in fear of her regrets, though she certainly had a few. "He sees no one. But he sees her." She tapped her chin with her index finger, suddenly back in the present, turning away from the window to look at Jean-Claude. "And he will see me? Is this what she implies? How could she possibly know, I have been gone from France these many years, it is impossible." Unless he raves. Hadn't she, wracked with fever, while Jean-Claude and Ghislain kept watch? She puffed air upwards, making the curls hanging over her eyes flutter in exasperation.
Jean-Claude of Aquitaine: He chuckled lightly at her suggestion, her question she knew the answer to. "Mon chatte. I can hardly keep up with you." Was the truth, for he sometimes feared he was in fact too old for her, didn't please her as she did he. "No.." He brushed a curl from her face once more, "Of science. It is easy to learn when an entire nation supports you. They are savage in their ways, but have it perfected." Jean-Claude went quiet, pressing his lips against her hair as his eyes closed not wanting to admit the truth. He held nothing from her, but this damn near killed him. Tattered and torn, he had gotten sun, but most of all he was raging battle behind his eyes. "I am not so certain she has seen him, I go to meet with her tomorrow. I was very course in our first meeting, she knew too much about me..of you. I am not a man so easily forgotten, no doubt every school across the world uses me to keep their children close to their faith, but she said the court still talks. I had wanted to come home and pack right away." He sighed again, "It is a gamble we take staying, but the King..Our King.." How his parents loved Philip so. "He's not well, I have heard this myself. I listened to you speak of your time with him. In vivid nightmares you've talked openly about it.." He drew her hand up, "But even now you keep me from the truth, tell me of your fears so that I may send her on her way tomorrow."
Ada: Ada gently squeezed his hand. "I swore that I would say nothing. Even I cannot comprehend what I did. Or why I did the things that I did. I was not so much in their glamor, Jean. There are many things I should have done." She shrugged lightly and then settled in his lap. "I can tell you how I met Philip," she added, sounding a little more cheered at the prospect. She told him how Philip had come off the battlefield, with a cut up his thigh from a sword he had not so deftly avoided. Enough to save the leg, but not much else. Benoit had sent her to him. Philip was terrified the wound would make him seem weak to enemies, so Ada went instead, dressed like one of the courtesans, and ushered through back corridors with her supplies in a heavy basket covered in lace. "The ruse worked very well, particularly when his lover was in residence. Gossip, of course, could not be stopped by my addition to the two men, but there were less rumors of heresy and sodomy." She smiled, and met his eyes momentarily. "He had me craft poisons. Before he took his crown, and became king. He had me craft poisons." She drew her hands over her mouth, just for a moment, to keep more from spilling out. Jean-Claude knew her other talents. How fitting it was, to have such a convenient cover, alchemist, and seer, one who could disappear when she suddenly became inconvenient. "Philip is a friend, but a dangerous friend. Nothing is without purpose in those near to him. That he has none near to him now suggests he lost faith in those near him long ago."
Jean-Claude of Aquitaine: When she was finished he pulled her close, like a child on his lap he held her against his chest. "Then we will think nothing of it, let them go about their business." He couldn't let anything come from her again, and this alone was why he went head first into his business. There had been so much he couldn't let happen, and this was above all. He wished for the peace, to carry out the rest of his days with her. Genna, would have her future now, with them both. "It was simply startling to have been gone so long, and somehow she knew." His eyes closed once again, the feel of her so close a warm comfort. Yet, now he wondered if this was what kept Phillip so close to the lot of them. "It was not a secret he spent his nights with men, but when you were thrown in...did it make it any better?" By this time he was gone, or at least not around long enough to learn of names. Their King was a dangerous man, that even his own father could not bribe him out of the punishment they all received. He took a deep breath perfectly content with the way their world was turning, "I will forever wonder what it was like to watch your city burn." Would be his first question for the King, "But let us just go home. Back to Skye."
Ada: "It is shocking," Ada agreed. "Ah, I do not know. Maybe if Ghislain had not come to Skye, I would not be so intrigued by this woman's request. But I think that I am. I do not want to see Philip again." Was there a compromise? There always was in Ada's world, which is perhaps what might be making Jean-Claude feel so particularly old when she started thinking of ways to satisfy everyone she cared for. "Ah, he did not spend his nights with men. One man. Ghislain. It was always Ghislain. He did not like me much, not at first. I was intruding upon his time with Philip. But then he began to tolerate me. I suppose he discovered Philip had his own feelings for me, and he would not begrudge Philip that much. I ... I was very happy, with them. It was new and exciting, and I thought what I did, it was for Philip. It could not be wrong, not really. That changed." She laughed quietly, and let her chin settle against him, thinking back. To say it had been a dark time would be a lie. They had been very good years, and she had loved both men dearly. Seeing Paris burn from the distance of Honfleur, and feeling deeply responsible for the horror occurring down river, had put a definitive end on that period of her life. "Let me come to court with you one day," she said at last. "We do not have to stay long. The impact will be fairly immediate. I have quite a reputation there," she added, her usual dry humor returning with a vengeance.
Jean-Claude of Aquitaine: "I do not go to court. I was..helping." He sighed, letting the better part of a sin show. "Ada..no. Let us not talk of this any more tonight. I have missed you, and our darling child. Let us rest, tomorrow let us walk by the river and enjoy our time..as a family." He let her go then, but not without a kiss; a tender touch of his lips against hers eager to remind her there was only one man left in her life now. Even Peregrine had fallen somewhere in the distance, and though he worried dearly there was reason to wonder how long it would take before he would see the pirate here. How easy that would make things.."We shall talk more tomorrow..after dinner even." But now he had a family to enjoy.
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Post by Nasrin al-'Anizzah on Mar 28, 2010 13:59:10 GMT -6
Jean-Claude of Aquitaine: A storm was coming, the staple of the season as the thunder rolled from the country. The rain had not fallen yet, but the promise was drawing closer with each moment. A once vivid bright sky welcomed the thick black clouds that swirled with the bit of brush stirred up from under the stone streets. The path was nearly empty, not a soul who dare gamble the fate of their state in an attempt to even cross the street. Jean-Claude stood on his own, a bit more refined then the meeting from before--his attire more of his normal. With his back to the city he watched the storm, it brewing over the river almost welcoming as perhaps he was the only to think it a calm. He found comfort in the winding clouds and the restless nature of the power of the Lord, he felt his presence on the rain; even when it wouldn't fall he could feel it there. His heart went out to Skye in moments like this, when he felt he could leave it all behind. Where would he be without the Order, the Underdark, or even his captain. Thoughts though centered well, worried over those that were left behind though somewhere he knew they were all well. In the moment he could connect the two; lands torn between politics to become one heavy storm.
Nasrin: A strange power, she commented to Qadan, resting a hand upon his arm as he looked out across the city. She was certain, she insisted; he merely commented upon the weather, and she would do as she chose. She was as free as the wind, though with a bit more power and force than a brewing storm. Nasrin, unlike the winds, always knew where she was destined. Humidity weighed her down as she walked, but the winds stirred fabrics of such delicate dye as to enunciate the subtle variegation, of blues as deep as the ocean, grays and blacks and greens the nearly indecipherable shades of a storm cloud. The hood remained low over her brow, though there was shape and form to her robes today that did not exist beneath the heavy crimson under which she preferred to hide. She was striking as always, and always for differing reasons. Today, she was the storm itself. The gentleman was where he had said he would be, and for this, Nasrin was grateful. She had not meant to put him on edge, but such bargains often had high costs. Nasrin had met her own price more than a few times in her past. She never asked it lightly. "We could have picked fairer weather under which to meet," she said by way of greeting, effortlessly speaking the French she pretended not to know. "Even the heavens wish this exchange to be brief."
Jean-Claude of Aquitaine: Eyes that could rival the very storm that grew in the distance, did not turn away as if drawing power behind the force of the winds, but in fact it was the idea of the energy. Ideas were born with looks like this, in minds as that, and behind a heart that beat in time with the thunder. "I do not agree, Mon Cher..Perhaps it is God laughing at the irony of our meeting." He turned to face her in all his height, the wind sweeping his hair over one shoulder. His heart could have stopped, but his face would never show it. His features were solid, severe as the storm behind; he was afraid. Fear lived under people who hid from the world, though could her hood count? "Thank you for coming." He spoke though his eyes stayed on the river to watch for the rain--No gentleman would ever wish the other to get ill now would they? The purse in his pocket, from his future wife given after she had settled him in ways only Adelaide could, adding a calm where there was a fear, and giving life to the chance that this would in fact pay off. The smell of her naked flesh still filled him when he breathed, and the feel of her skin so very warm that even the chill of the gloomy day could not chase away. "Shall we walk?" The rain always made his knees stiff, the muscles around the bone hard; Jean-Claude needed this walk, and extended his arm.
Nasrin: "Ah, I am glad, because neither do I." She smiled, the corners of her oddly hued eyes creasing. Hers was a lifetime under a harsher sun, but this, the only sign. "I have always treasured a great storm. I have simply never lived in a land where such things were anything more than the once in a century occurrence." She hesitated a moment, and then took his arm. It seemed the right thing to do so far from home, though she could not say for certain why she felt this way. "We have many things to talk about, you and I," she said slowly, letting her eyes drift upward to glimpse his profile at her side, and then back along the river. Her education was a lifelong affair. She could not remember a time in her youth spent out of reach of her tutors' long arms. Her first memories were playing logic puzzles on the floors of tents, the sounds of battles not far off, if she paid them heed. The Arab and Chinese physicians employed by the court had delighted in teaching their half-breed princess of the sciences, and so many nights had been spent beneath the heavens, naming the stars in their courses across the great expanse. She wished she was there now. How many years stretched between then and now? "I brought something for you," she said after a long, pleasant silence. "Waft it, do not inhale directly," she advised, pulling out a small vial of a dried, greenish-brown herb. "It is unknown to Europe, but widely used among my people. We call it angedan, or asafoetida."
Jean-Claude of Aquitaine: "So we do." He commented lightly, the wind pressing against his back as he lead them down the path that followed the river that divided the city so perfectly. Though her offer was in fact appreciated it was clear he wished it not happen. He had nothing in return though once the vial was passed over his nose he would wrinkle it, the smell to nearly knock him down, "Delightful.." His eyes watered, as they met hers again. "You will have to forgive me..and perhaps find the very same reason I am here..I am out of the loop when it comes to new discoveries. I'm not afforded new time, or to even study journals from across the world. Dare I even ask of what one would do with this?" He would tuck the vial away, closing it tightly and daring to not leave that open in Ada's way. He would listen to her explain it if she did, but long after their conversation became still Jean-Claude would stand with her on the walk. "May I say but one thing before we begin." He let her go to curl his fingers over the tip of his cane, the purse in his pocket feeling as if it were fire begging to be released, but he dare not let it go just yet. There was a danger lit well behind him then, that could not only rival the storm but pour it down around her. "If at one moment she is put into danger, my friend, this entire nation will be under fire." And if any knew of how to kill of thousands it would be Jean-Claude.
Nasrin: "To you, it may as well be gold," Nasrin said, with a very slight shrug of her shoulders. She told him how it might be administered to cure the influenza, as much a problem in campaigning troops in unfamiliar, wet terrain as it was in Northern Europe. "Inhaled in small doses, it stills the lungs and reduces inflammation in those prone to breathing attacks. It also destroyed most illnesses of the bowels, halts fits of the mind, and is the most effective contraceptive, if the most expensive, my people have yet to discover." It was a gift. If she had expected anything in return, she would have said something of the kind. As it was, she was quiet while he spoke, letting her eyes move back upward toward his, and nodding solemnly. "My people mean her no harm. I, obviously, cannot speak for the king." Negotiations were at a standstill as long as he refused to commit his name to paper. "In my heart, I feel the last thing he wishes upon her is pain."
Jean-Claude of Aquitaine: "Have yet to discover? Yet you know?" She weaved a very interesting puzzle, one that was incomplete, her words so full of meaning yet so few. He was intrigued greatly, though so much of him was simply not willing to release that side of him--not here. The rain came upon them in a sweeping motion that could capture a bird and drown it. The river swelled with life though as the path lead them under the bridge he could relate even further. Water fell over the support while all his cares could sweep underneath. Breath caught as even the sudden burst had surprised him, and soaked nearly all the layers of his attire. "I have forgotten the Spring here." He laughed, a sudden break in his appearance that was very rare, the water rolling like oil off his hair. "It all must fall sometime." The moment had pushed him, given him that backbone to give her the gift. The sound of the stones clicking together nearly drowning in the rain, but somehow even the purse had missed the rain. "You will have to forgive me..I am not myself. I find it very hard to keep my composure..I beg you please do not judge." Even Ada had noticed the change in him, but the very feel of this land worried him. Jean-Claude had learned over the years it was so hard to want something so bad that did not return the desire.
Nasrin: The rain caught her unawares, but she did not move as quickly as he under the bridge. In fact, she walked slowly, relishing the feel, though the silks she wore would be utterly decimated by the water. She could afford more. It hardly seemed to bother Nasrin. "There are many forms of contraception, but not all as powerful as the asafoetida. But yes, there are properties to it that my people have not yet discovered. It is used in mystic ceremonies. It is said the resin has the power of life over death." With a faint smile, she looked past the bridge, watching the water sweep in curtains across the river. It was beautiful. This land had such a wealth of water, it could not even dream of a place like the Ilkhanate. Even in winter, it held sch abundant life, it veritably burst forth in spring, unable to contain itself for one week longer. "I try not to judge those I intend to see again," she said softly, meaning it. "So much of my profession is the ability to sum up the parts of a man in the blink of an eye. A mistake can cost a kingdom. In the moment, a man rarely changes his position. Yet in the course of a relationship, he can change as oft as the sea its tides. Is it fair to judge him?" She smiled, and accepted the purse, breaking contact with his eyes long enough to empty the contents of the purse into her left hand. She picked one out of her palm, a piece the size of her smallest finger, and canted her head. "Chess pieces?"
Jean-Claude of Aquitaine: His gloved hands came up to cup hers closing her fingers over the pieces, and he took a deep breath. "Then you understand that this is very hard for me." He wished to not see it, not in it's full as it would be best for him. He could not handle another parade of a woman he loved so dearly, though Ada held the cards. "I would imagine they would not mean anything to us, have no reason. Adelaide gave them to me to give to you, I have asked her nothing else and she will not tell me. I do not dare it.." He closed his eyes as he straightened his back, slipping back into the silent roll of the shadow under the bridge. "I can tell you nothing else, but do with this token as you will." The Scientist gave her where they were living for the time being, and in that he felt he gave her the key. "From here..I leave it in, My Love's hands..what you find out, I do pray it will soothe our King."
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Post by Adelaide d'Aquitaine on Mar 30, 2010 11:08:04 GMT -6
Jean-Claude of Aquitaine: Somewhere in the middle of the night the rains refused to fall, yet the sound of it upon the window could unsettle any man's madness. The light tore across the sky like a pain through his side, yet silence would only follow. For hours Jean-Claude's black eyes stared out into the void of the night, there upon the flat of his back with the woman he loved curled close. The covers pooled around his hips to spare from the heat of the dying embers in the hearth. The mild winters had been harsh on the lands of his birth, but the Spring always held it's captivity for the elements. The days were warm, the nights seemed alive with the heat of passions of the artists lane, and the new awakening of the life. Was the city of love, capital of the heart this Paris of theirs. To each they held their secrets, compassionate wonders of what had once been, and now it plagued him. How many nights had spent awake wondering if it all still existed. What had happened to the life that he left without warning? By ways of death he had been torn, taken yet still lived to walk away. He could hear the rain refuse to fall now, the same Spring storm having long been blown away, and her words haunting. His eyes fell upon Adelaide's sleeping face, her dark lashes so exotic against the rise of her cheeks, a beautiful contrast in color. It was no wonder their King had loved her so, what man could refuse such wonder. She kept youth to him, made him feel alive when all around him seemed so void of life. Yet, still he kept so much from her, for the only reason he wished not to bring it up. They were best kept secrets, that even now as his bare fingers trailed along her shoulder he wanted to shout at the height of his whisper. "You are asleep, Mon chatte?" Sometimes it was hard to tell with her, she moved in and out of her dreams as if walking from door to door. Perhaps tonight he would even get a taste of what was there behind her closed eyes, or another comical commentary of what was going on.
Ada: Always restless when it rained, she found it difficult to remain still. Her dreams were bizarre, nonsensical, and blessedly brief, spitting her back into wakefulness. She'd blink a few times, disoriented, and fall back into sleep moments later, with the lingering sensation that she should be doing something. She should be checking on the herbs in the garden, ensuring they wouldn't flood in the rains. Or seeing to it that Genevieve slept soundly, as prone to waking up during the rain as Ada was, but with her dreams still vivid in her mind. Ada wondered if her childhood dreams had been so colorful, or precise. Not for the first time, she wished she had her mother to consult with, but that was not a luxury she might enjoy. Like everything else, she figured it out in her own time, often after a few missteps, but sometimes, it came together so perfectly, she wondered why she ever doubted her ability to cope and adapt. She was the girl who had shouted outside Benoit's window every morning, dawn light pinkening the streets, until he poked his head out of the windows and begged her to be silent for a moment. Even if Ada didn't get it right, she was persistent. She turned toward him when he spoke, opening her eyes and pinning them upon his face. Reading minds seemed like a skill she should have picked up at some point, and though she came close sometimes, the skill yet eluded her. They both had secrets. Those she shared with the king were not ones she wished to share with Jean-Claude. He knew enough. She wondered about Jean-Claude, though. Was he happy here in Paris? "No, not really."
Jean-Claude of Aquitaine: "Mmm, of course not." He smiled brushing back a few strands of her curls from the curve of her face. No matter how much time would pass he would remember that mark against her, but she had a way of healing that he could have longed for. His fingers trailed the length of her jawline as his thumb brushed her full lips. "Neither can I." He pressed from the bed then, a stretch to even out the pressure from being pinned in one place for too long. The heavy weather made his bones ache, the thin muscles stretched over the bones impossible to flex, and the skin seem to burn. He had to move. His whole body needed to feel alive again, and as he pulled up the fabric of the pant the tie seemed damn near impossible. "The rains have passed.." He turned over one shoulder to look at her, collecting his cane to aid in his effort to check in on Genna. "Shall we walk under your moon?" It was her night after all. He came to the side of the bed she was closest to, sitting on the edge an undone well kept man. "It is too beautiful to be inside, perhaps this is your problem?" He smiled reaching out for her hand lacing his fingers within her own. "Come. Get dressed. Tell Nana we are to step out, and perhaps we shall see if the nightlife is still alive even after the storm."
Ada: Ada sat up, her hair mussed from sleep, but wilder still from springtime humidity. She grabbed a ribbon from the nightstand, knowing if her hair was too wild for her own tastes, Jean-Claude was unlikely to let her out of the house, as permissive as he generally was with her more natural sense of fashion. She slid out of bed, ducked over, and tied the ribbon around her hair until it was piled neatly on top of her head when she stood up, the edges of the ribbon tied into a quaint bow. She took his hand, pulling it toward her, and kissed his knuckles. "A walk sounds pleasant. We could both use the fresh air." She certainly could. She missed it upon her flesh. Granted, now that they were in Paris, she could not lay out on their roof in her chemise as she did in the warmer months in Skye, but even feeling it upon her cheeks would be nice. Ada stepped behind the screen, hanging her silk shift upon a corner while she pulled on a fresh dress, smiling at the memory of the first time she had done this -- in reverse. She hadn't had a few of those scars then, but she'd had plenty of unhealed wounds. It was all fair, in the end. It worked out. She perhaps had more fears now than she had then -- more to care for, more to love. It was worth it, she thought with some satisfaction, straightening herself out within the dress and then finally taking his hand again as they went to check on Genna. "I am certain something of amusement is happening tonight. Or I hope Paris has not become staid without us."
Jean-Claude of Aquitaine: Genevieve was fast asleep curled around the stuffed animal Peregrine had picked up somewhere in his travels, and frankly the thing startled him. He was not even certain as to what it was. His heart smiled though at how she clung to it, and for the second time in one night he wished he could witness her dreams. Were they of his own? His bare hand went through her curls, brushing them back as he smiled and kissed her cheek gently. Turning to face the night the world opened around them and the night lived in the moment. It was a marvel at how quickly he could get dressed and look as though it had taken years to complete. Though tonight he did not put as much effort, simply covered. "I could get used to this, my dear. Perhaps after our union we shall find a small little summer home in the countryside." An answer to her thoughts, yes he missed it here. "That is..if you will still have me." A curl of his lips had cast a different man, one relaxed and welcome to the subject of their future. However, he knew it all to be a dream. Already he moved with tension through the streets, worried of what another would find out, if they would put a name to the face long forgotten. He wanted to keep her hidden, at best he could, but all it would take was a single man who had once dreamed of her naked body to call out her name. Vixen that she was. Jean-Claude found him leading them to the streets that lead away from the city and into the midst of the church district; where a graveyard seemed like a painting on the path. There was laughter around them, but his mind was elsewhere. The itch to explore was not of his nature, but tonight he simply had to know.
Ada: Her daughter -- she always thought of Genna as hers, perhaps to save herself from a very confusing conversation -- was the best thing she had done with her life. Perhaps it had been foolish. Perhaps it had been hurtful. But Genevieve had a healing power all of her own, a life and a spirit that was vivacious, one that would carry her far. She watched Jean-Claude for a moment, then looked down at her hands. The broken bone had healed, leaving the finger weak, but she would give it time to strengthen again. It could have been much worse. It could have been much better, too, she'd suggested wryly to Jean-Claude a few nights ago, finally admitting it may not have been such a mess had she used her other hand to punch out Julian. But I may not have been as accurate, she concluded with her usually unusual logic, biting back a smile. "There is no question whether I would have you, mon grand. Think of everyone back home we would have to tell if I said no now." She took his arm in her own, and finally lapsed into laughter. "I like the idea of a chateau of our own. A little garden in the front for me, with butterfly flowers for Genna." And for him? She arched a brow, wondering what he would bring on a holiday to the countryside. He was always so full of surprises -- no more the adventuring type, going on holiday seemed equally unlikely, yet here they were, walking through the streets of Paris, where Ada had never thought she would roam again. It was odd how much she remembered of this city, yet how much of it had forgotten them. It made her feel old.
Jean-Claude of Aquitaine: There were so few places that could have refused the spring, and the cold stone angels of the monuments seemed to immortalize the bitter chill of the passing months. He felt so alive and welcome here in the midst of the dead, yet he kept her close as if to chase away the cold. "I would think they would be used to it by now." He didn't miss them, any of them save for a select few. However, there was so very few that could understand. He felt alive here, his mind wondering through the past opening around them. Names came in French of noble born passing their marks he found so few he knew. Yet the deeper they went the more grand the monuments became, and the names carved there were of friends; family long forgotten. "No matter where we are all from, my family's grave is here." He smiled, "Such a tradition I would think only the French to have hmm?" It was clear he was looking for names, closer then cousins, aunts, uncles. He went over the angels, the dragons, eternal creatures of stone who would watch over their dead, but came up short. It was a great mystery to him, one he fought with all his might to not wonder. Yet here they were. He had not realized he was clinging to her, holding his breath waiting for the names of his parents to pass before his eyes, and suddenly could breathe again. "They had me at such a young age. My mother was hardly 17 that winter I was born."
Ada: Ada never liked graveyards much, but she'd never particularly had a need to visit any. Her mother hadn't been allowed to be buried on consecrated grounds. Her father had disappeared so far in the past, he almost never entertained her thoughts. Many she loved had passed away from this world, but few had graves to visit, including Ghislain. He should have a memorial somewhere, Ada thought sadly, as they passed beneath the huge marble span of an angel's wings. It was not Ghislain's fault his father strayed with a village woman. Ghislain had more than atoned for that sin. She held onto Jean-Claude in return, slowing when he slowed, looking over the names as he did and hoping -- for his sake -- that they would not find the ones he sought. "It is likely she is alive. Do you want to go, Jean?" She looked up at him, uncertain what his answer would be. They were here, in France. It would be a missed opportunity if he remained in Paris. It would also take some of the pressure off of Ada, who could go where she willed, assured none from her past would ever walk the halls of Jean-Claude's childhood home. Her people, even Ghislain, had no hope of rising to the status as Jean-Claude's family. For many, the impossibility of it festered. For Ada, it was reassuring. She never asked for more than she could reach, and in many ways, had been very lucky to receive more than she had ever dreamed of.
Jean-Claude of Aquitaine: "I.." He started cleaning the leaves from the graves, brushing back the stone out of respect, "Am not certain what they were told. Or if they even know I survived. Let them continue to think that. It is not the sort of attention our kind needs in the moments as this. Not with Phillip the way he is. Adelaide..we need to talk of that." He took a deep breath realizing they were at the end of the path, where a great tomb waited the candle burning from the inside seeming bright, though it was a single flame. It had their family name carved upon the castle like monument, the dragon seeming so real it could have been alive. The door opened so easy, and on the inside there was nothing much different then the out save for the birth dates of a long family line. The door closed behind them as the turn of a torch hand would swing it so, but soon a new entrance was born a stairway opening up to the underworld of the streets of Paris. "Tell me, did Ghislain ever permit you here?" A few of the stairs were descended before he turned to face her; eye level with her now a youth there to his eyes, and the truth of what he really came to this graveyard for.
Ada: She admittedly jumped when the door shut, sliding her hand against her chest for a moment to feel her heart flutter anxiously before settling into its usual calm beat. She scurried to catch up with Jean-Claude, and stuck close by his side. She was not as brave as she liked to think. But not every woman needed to be a warrior, and there must be some comfort in being a man who knew his partner would not rush into trouble intentionally. Ada always stumbled in accidentally, and if her current state of health was any indicator, could defend herself with more success than failure. She hoped there weren't any rats. She hated their long, naked tails. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "If he received the chess pieces, he knows," Ada said, to still her own suddenly racing heart again, as her overactive imagination began to shift into motion. "No one else will play with him. He cheats." She smiled in the semi-dark. "But Ghislain and he would have days-long sessions, and I would mediate when they inevitably began to squabble over rules. All we did in their court was in search of pleasure. It was idyllic, for a very long time." Even in the face of their black deeds, she would say it was idyllic. Now, she saw the looming black thunderhead for what it had been, but it had been different then. She had no idea of her consequences, little belief that she had any lines she might refuse to cross after having stepped brazenly over so many. She blinked. "I wonder if knowing is enough. I wonder if he would like to see me again. I wonder ... if I would like to see him." She sighed softly, and lightly took the fabric of his sleeve between her fingers, for something solid to feel and hold onto. She looked up at him, then to the stairs. "No, we never came here. I have never been."
Jean-Claude of Aquitaine: "You have..this leads to the streets below the city, Adelaide. It will take you to the palace. The king's bedchamber. The church. The University." He took her hand in his as he lead them down the torch now in his hand lit. The same lines that had once been his underground lab ran the walls but he dare not light them. "I am not certain I want you to go, or speak to him at all. In fact I'd like to go home soon. I miss Skye." He lied, but the truth was not far from it. "I do not fathom the thought of your in his bedchamber once again. Not as my fiance. Perhaps it is my pride, but I worry of the King..but not enough." Jean-Claude had been happy to see her with Ghislain again, even if it had been so close to his death. "I'm not certain where I wish our next move be, but I always come here to clear my mind." The halls opened up to a great underground church, the spiderwebs proof enough that none had been here in many years. It was a lecture hall of sorts that held the natural light of the moon, where he had first heard a lecture on the human brain. "This was here before the school." He smiled, "My father brought me here once, to be cured of my madness. The men told him he was a fool to think so, and took me in." He smiled. "I met Benoit here."
Ada: "Oh, the church, that explains why I do not remember this," she joked, but as they walked, she began to recall things. It had been so long! After Jean's disappearance from her life, she hadn't spent any time at all down here. Benoit had her working long hours at the shop, and after, she spent long hours cajoling information out of friends and acquaintances in bars and gambling halls. Not long after, she had been summoned to Valois' side, who had then been a prince, and an unlikely successor to the crown. It would have been unwise to return here, though she imagined it might have made sneaking into the king's bedchambers a little less of a public affair. Had either of the men wished to spare Ada, they would have taken her down below, but that would defeat the purpose. "I do not want to .... No, the time for that has come and gone. Maybe he did not know why I left, but he watched his city burn that night, and asked nothing of Ghislain if I survived. He was happier not knowing." She pulled her lower lip thoughtfully between her teeth, then released it. "I miss Skye, too. I miss my garden." Even if he lied, she wanted to believe he missed it, and let it go unremarked, instead leaving his side to climb up the stairway to the lectern. She rested her hands easily on either side, and leaned forward in a provocative way none of the old masters had affected, though it might have made lectures more interesting. "Did it work?"
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Post by Adelaide d'Aquitaine on Mar 30, 2010 11:51:16 GMT -6
(contains adult content) Jean-Claude of Aquitaine: Her words shifted over the stone hall as if it were one of the phantoms that haunted the high arches. In the distance the sound of the underground river could be heard, but without oil in the lamps they wouldn't have any light for the path; he would not dare venture there without the sun. For what was known beyond the shadow now? Was there the haunting visions of the same past, that once separated these men from monsters? It pained him greatly to be here, but somewhere in the spout of his memory did he hear her voice break his thoughts. Adelaide..always the tease, no doubt her charms worked wonders in her favor, well..he did stand before her looking up at her for once. "Did what work, Mon Chatte ?" His long fingers curled to touch her cheek the reach a bit far, but well worth the strain. He worried greatly that time had not come and gone, and though he could not keep her tied to one man--he worried of the king now. What madness crept behind those thoughts now, with such power? It chilled him to think such a man capable of all the deaths here. From where she stood he turned to face the worn stone seats, the great balcony that as well had once held the greatest minds of their time. As a small boy this room had made him feel so small, and now as a dignified man it still held that same power. He missed them something fierce. Ada: "Are you cured of your madness?" she clarified, stepping down from the lectern and joining him, her hand resting upon his lower back as she followed his gaze across the room. "As much as a mad scientist can be," she added, with a typical note of wryness added to her words, though she was concerned about the pensive look upon his face. What was he thinking about? Was he transported back to the past? Or was he considering which decorations might spruce the place up a bit? The last thought was not as preposterous as some might think -- she had been living with Jean-Claude for the majority of three years. She knew his tastes as well as she knew the nearly obsessive nature of drawing the full potential out of any room or person with a bit of fabric and strategic stitching. She walked over to one of the benches, and after rubbing the dust and cobwebs away, sat down. "The acoustics must be lovely. Have you ever played your violin here?" She wasn't sure if he had always been secretive of this ability, or if he had merely become reclusive after the fires. Here was a part of Paris that she had witnessed only by proxy, but was central to Jean's life. She was curious what it must have been like for him. Maybe she would see a glimmer of the fellow who had kept her from picking his pocket all those years ago. Jean-Claude of Aquitaine: In his small amount of laughter the acoustics did a number on a voice that needed no theatrics, and he would take a small turn about the room her questions wouldn't be answered then if they ever were of what he was thinking. He gave the same look, held his body the same with hands planted on either side and his steps long and careful. "There were many times I had to question my father's intentions. He brought me here to be cured but always seemed so curious as to what we were doing. It was as if.." he paused for a moment drawing a deep breath, "If he wanted in on it too." With that his eyes traveled up once more to see the light that hung from the ceiling in dire need of work. "Non, Mon Chatte , my violin was another trade from the court. Something forced upon me by my mother. I find little passion in it, as I don't enjoy music perhaps as many would think. It was one more way my mother could parade us at parties. Her perfect children, someday to be perfect.." He stopped mid-sentence, wondering if she even knew whose son he was. There were so few things that separated them, he wished not to trouble her, or to toss a title around in her face. He worried it would be something he felt she would miss out on. Didn't every little girl dream of someday marrying into wealth and living as a princess? Watching her he smiled softly, and questioned his thought. Not Ada, he doubted very much her childhood dreams had anything to do with money, politics, or even what color she wore. No..his fiancee would no doubt have been dreaming of flying. If he could he'd give her wings, but found it comical how she kept him grounded by her love alone. Breaking from his thoughts he let his voice carry down the hall through the stone, "To answer your question..No, I am not cured. I am going to marry you am I not?" He was already facing the long hall with lamp in hand, "Come Adelaide, or you'll miss the adventure." So spoke his disappearing frame into the shadow. Ada: She laughed -- not her usual earthy chuckle, but a broad laugh that had her throwing her arms across her stomach until she realized what a noise it made in this room and cleared her throat to stop. "You do know how to compliment a woman," she teased, rising from her bench and swiping the backside of her skirts as she hurried after him, her mind working far more quickly than her feet as she processed what he'd had to say. She loved that man, even if he was difficult to detangle at times. Now was such a time, his mind a labyrinthine adventure to rival their current path. "It is a shame, Jean. I would love to hear you play again. We do make beautiful music together." Her humor was strange, especially given the shadow she suddenly found herself submersed in, unsure of which way was right or left, but able to hear the clicking of his boots along the stone. She followed those, occasionally catching his silhouette, until at last she was beside him again. She was glad chasing after Genevieve kept her in reasonable shape. It was difficult keeping up with his long-legged stride, though once she was beside him, it was effortless walking abreast. "Next time we are in Paris, remind me to bring my flute. I could play for you." With a grin in the dark, she finally fell quiet, though she still worried if they might be sharing their underground stroll with rats. Jean-Claude of Aquitaine: He laughed again, though this time a bit more quietly as he put his arm around her as if collecting her to keep her beside him. It would be a horrible place to not be able to find her. "I said I was not as passionate about music as some would thing, but I do know good music when I hear it...and that was.." He stopped himself openly teasing her, and in these moments she caught a part of him that she would have never known. In his youth, just right from the university when the title man was as fresh as the season; he had been an outspoken careless spirit who lived life on the edge. A playboy in his own right, a healthy bachelor in his prime, a beautiful woman on his arm (sometimes two) each night. There had once been wildness in him, a youth in revolt, but too proud to admit he was rebelling. No, he kept his class but worried his mother sick he would never marry. It was all she had thought about, all she had wanted of him: to marry and give her grandchildren who she could start over with. It pained him to learn his sister was baroness, and finally widowed in the small bit of information he bled from the pirate..literally. They moved through the tunnels coming up beside a heavy steam of water that flowed below the city and smelled much like the sea. Somewhere above the light filtered through only enough to add a somber glow to the water filtering it with bits of light, and the rats that did inhabit it. One would pass before their feet, interested in the glitter of Ada's shoes. Ada: Ada arched a brow in the dark, but the expression lapsed into a smile. "I could be convinced to play again." Despite Jean-Claude's wilder days, there must have been something kind in him. Why else would he stop a street rat like Ada? Why else would he help her? Convince her to find a safe place to sleep that night? She didn't romanticize him, but it was a good memory, and the sole reason for her girlish crush on the worldly, intelligent, and wild nobleman. Ada entertained no dreams of marrying into wealth or respectability. That fate was not for a milkmaid from Embrun. But if she did have a dream when first entering Paris, Jean-Claude had been a part of it. It would kill her to admit anything of the sort to him, but she loved hearing his side of that time. It was very different from what she had built up in her mind, even after the first fires and his disappearance. She liked who Jean-Claude had become. If she wanted who he had been.... Well, that was long past, and Peregrine a settled family man now. She shook her head at the thought, uncertain how that had come about, but glad it had. She'd just come to the conclusion when she felt something skitter past her foot. With a yelp, she clung to Jean-Claude like a barnacle. Jean-Claude of Aquitaine: Fate had come a long way since their first meeting, and from there he wondered if she would ever come to remember the man he was. He was still a kind man, just simply..more willing to be open, he smiled more, and there was so much of him that would have shouted their love from the rooftops..or well spoke it loudly. "If you so wish it I will suffer through more." He laughed lightly, but her little sound delighted him as he laughed. "Ada. You are not afraid of the rats?" It surprised him greatly, and he happily took her up into his arms. "Rats that I am convinced have all lived in your hair at one point?" His steps would carry them both down a small turn just from the river where the river ran through a hillside and the tunnel lead up into a small room where the light of the night filtered in through the ceiling. Old books lined the walls, forbidden text that dated back even further then the society. It was a collection that he would have liked to have looked over had he been able to take his eyes out of hers. Her small little moment of weakness, her fear came to life, and his desire to protect her had pushed his mind to capture the very part of him that only she knew. The entire way he had walked with her slowly, nearly rocking her as they went and even now he sat her down along the pages that had been scattered on the floor from lack of care, and the wild storm winds that pushed through the small break in the ceiling. The water ran through the middle, from the rains but somehow the books kept dry by the great mind that designed the waterways. They were not far from the castle that much could be told by the tower bells that rang out the nightly hour. He lit the torch inside the room, filling the space with the light as the other was placed on the other side of the room. His hands went over the spines and many of them started to crumble in his hands. "Such a shame.."Ada: "I hate rats. Their tails." She glared at him. The traitor was teasing her about her hair when there were rats about? She rolled her eyes. "My hair may be big, but it is clean. Admit that you like it the way it is. If you can keep the rats away from me," she offered as they entered the new room, "maybe I will let you straighten it for the wedding. Maybe." It was a given he would make the dress. Ada had given no thought to finding another couturier. It would be the height of betrayals! Even if Jean-Claude now gave most of his work to Julian, their hatred of the other was mutual by this point. Julian would as soon design a wedding dress for Ada as Jean-Claude would streak naked through Turas Lan. Among the pages, Ada finally decided to stop worrying about the rodents and picked up a sheet. She angled it toward the torch light. "Hmm. This must have caused a stir in its time, non ?" She climbed to her feet and went to explore the shelves for herself, picking among the titles. "Why were these not removed before the last fires? A few more would not have damned me any more than those I already smuggled out."Jean-Claude of Aquitaine: "These books are not the same as the rest, we dare not move them. They have a hidden name, that I have researched for years. The writer unknown, no birth record, nothing, but sometimes I feel as if I have heard these words before. Perhaps in my dreams." He came up behind her, touching her shoulders with the warm palms of his hands, and kissed her neck before whispering, "I would only have your hair one other way.." Any other way, his fingers trailed through the curls that he worried Genna would have, but perhaps if he started now..he could straighten them out. He wrapped his arms around her holding her there pressing her back, and took a deep breath as he found himself lost in the back of her hair, "I feel so at home here. Myself. For the first time in nearly 10 years I feel this weight off my chest." If any who knew of destiny he knew it to be her, and now as he clung to her he knew she kept him grounded for he was in great fear he would wake any moment and this all be a dream. "So much of me wishes I would have died with them. I feel as if I am being punished for surviving." He admitted more to himself. "Please tell me I am not dreaming."Ada: She held his arms around her and leaned against him, maximizing every inch of space so that they were as close as could be. She sighed, slowly rubbing his arm with one hand, and tilting her head to let his chin drop against her ear. He was too tall and she was too short, but sometimes, it barely made a whit of difference. "I know something of dreams. This is not a dream. It is not a punishment, either. I am ... so glad you survived, Jean. Perhaps it took you a long time to arrive here, but there must be value in the journey." She glanced up at him, out of the corner of her eyes, and then with a smile, turned around to face him. She drew her arms around his neck, and let them fall until her hands remained, loosely turned upward so that her fingers grazed through his dark hair. "I do not wish to believe the only value is in saying farewell to ghosts. It is such a lonely thing, to be the only one with memories of that past. There is a purpose for it. Like these books. If one knows where to look, the answer is there." Ada had played both sides -- standing where Jean-Claude did now, and as the tool to find answers men sought. "We deserve to be happy." She said the last few words with a certainty that Ada was not known for, but it sounded right. Jean-Claude of Aquitaine: "I have been so void of emotion over this entire thing. I have cared either way..living life with pirates. In the underdark..Adelaide, though you have only seen part of it, the world down there..nothing compared to here. Peregrine is a very evil man to the heart..the life not suitable for me. I was there only for my desire to die along side them, until I started to care, but even then.." He was depressed, deeply, but not with her. "I'm so thankful to have you, and this life we have..for Genna, and Polly. Claramae. Hell I shall even like to think Skye had held it's great part in this, but now being here.." He sighed though content. "It amazes me to think such a small space could hold such joy, like those trees you and Pere slept together in. This is my tree." A twisted version of it, but nonetheless. "Your role before, I had so little information on, but even when you were after the contents of my pocket." He laughed lightly, "You were something so special. Perhaps then I should have taken you home then. Turned you over my knee and set you straight." He touched her cheek before tipping her face back so that he could meet her eyes..his neck couldn't bend any further. "We deserve more than just happiness, Adelaide. Perhaps it is our turn to burn this city down. Pere and I have talked about it for years seeing the whole lot of Paris in flames. Revenge." There was hate, anger, fear..a verdict he had already passed his judgment, and held nothing but bitterness towards them all. "You could get next to the king again, work your charm, or simply wave your hand. He could watch it all burn this time."Ada: Ada snorted. "I would have found it pleasurable. No lesson learned from a spanking, I am afraid." She pressed her lips to his, closing her eyes and sinking into it. She never judged him. He'd had every right over the years to judge her, and had always opted on the side of waiting to hear the full story. Yet he would have to wait a bit longer if he wished to know why she kissed him so passionately, if it was the idea of razing Paris or a spanking that inspired such a response. She drew away and studied him carefully, dark eyes shifting across his face. "You have said there is darkness in Peregrine's heart. But I know there is good too. And in yours, a balance of the same." She curled her fingers over the muscle in question. "Perhaps I damn myself with my talk of happiness. Were I a God-fearing woman, I would worry of heresy. But we both know where I stand on the Church, and I must admit," she seemed to struggle for a moment, battling her better senses against her own dogma, "if it would make things right, I would stand at your side. It would not be the first nor even the second time we saw the sky over Paris burn orange from a distance." But it had nearly shattered her the second time. After a third? She blinked, slowly, and then swallowed the emotion. "Philip." She felt like breaking away from Jean-Claude and burying a hand in her hair, as if it might help her think better of such a controversial subject. That she no longer wished to be with Philip did not mean she ceased to love him. She could not draw a line with him. She never knew when she went too far, and she was tired of Jean-Claude feeling obligated to pull her back. Despite the urge to break away, she remained where she was, resting her head upon his chest. "I think I would like to live in your tree for a while, mon grand , but I do not think I am capable of betraying Philip. It would ruin everything." How could she be happy knowing she truly was the cause for another fire? She still believed she was responsible for the last one. Jean-Claude of Aquitaine: Her kiss drew him in, until he held her there pulling her back against him when she started to drift, "Non, Mon Chatte ..do not think of him. There is only me tonight. Only you." He let his lips brush into her own, gently at first but the hunger growing that the truth of the mater--he would never let her burn. He would not watch her suffer through her memory alone, "You..do not damn yourself. We live in sin together." A sin he would happily recreate here, with her body against the bookcase, and the passions intertwined by the naked moment. It was not hard to be passionate with her here, to show her he loved her dearly by opening himself more then he ever had. He fed from her, but gave back a renewed strength very rare in a torn body. Every muscle in his body seemed to carve around her own as if the river had been a fountain of youth, and with it all the years lost without her were suddenly there to start over on again. Supporting her body, he brought her to his level lifted her so that she could meet his eyes as he loved her, and the her back cushioned only by his hands against the writings of another. Somewhere in his mind he wondered of the author and if he would write in this moment a chapter on the passions of human nature as it seemed so natural rising from the young couple. "You can not leave me, not tonight.." His words whispered, "I'll not share you on this land." He meant every word. Ada: He loved her in his familiar, deeply passionate way that made her feel like his queen. Not a typically jealous sort, she nevertheless felt like the only woman who entered his thoughts, the only one he wished to lavish such attention upon. She felt her toes curl at his words, leaning her head back against the bookcase and letting the full effect sink in, though she kept her eyes open upon him. "I will not be shared," she returned, daring him to mention Philip again, much less working her charms upon him. More than feeling compassion, she knew what Jean-Claude wished of her, and discovered it was precisely what she needed. It was a new phase in life, to be certain, that she should even entertain the idea of being a good noble wife, much less actually becoming a lady. When they had had their fill of the other, and rested among the ruined pages on the floor, Ada unconsciously stretching her bare feet to the rhythm of Jean's breathing, she returned to his whispered words, and felt heat blossom on her cheeks. Maybe she made him young again, and anchored him with love. He worked his subtle magic on Ada in return, drawing her focus inward, making her a far better person for his love, without compromising who she was. She placed a tender kiss upon his forehead, then settled back against the bookcase, carefully drawing one of the volumes out and gingerly turning the remarkably delicate pages. She would be a fool to jeopardize any of this, she thought, glancing away from the book to her dozing fiance, his features in perfect repose -- save she saw the signs of happiness there that seemed to exist nowhere else but here among the books of an unknown author.
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Post by Master Jean-Claude d'Aquitaine on Mar 30, 2010 20:26:55 GMT -6
Mourners: THINGS YOU SEE IN A GRAVEYARD.
Rotti: I’LL KEEP THOSE VULTURES GUESSING. ASHES (ASHES). DUST (DUST). MY CHILDREN WERE A BUST. THEY SHALL INHERIT NOTHING. NO, MY LEGACY IS TOO GREAT TO THROW AWAY ON INGRATES. -Repo: The Genetic Opera “Captain..do you hear that?” The man spoke through the edge of his lips, the French seeming cut and dry from his thin lips. There had never been such hatred in the pure being of any other, then in this man for the nation. Though he was born French he wished only to die a native to another land. Here, he would do anything to see to it the world came falling down around the King. “Voices..?” The sounds carried up through the stones of the streets as the light lit the underside of the small bank that lead into the grave, and the sight that came next would bring a gasp to the man’s face. From the end of the gate the figures could not be mistaken, as they often haunted the castle with such vigorous stride—the sway in her hips alone. “But I thought he died..his death was posted over the boards.” The once great man who sat so close with their King had fallen well into the underground, and met his death on the open seas somewhere outside of Skye. The couple, taking their exit out into the night seemed as fabricated as the very night air, the tall dark scientist sweeping his long fingers behind the back of the petite frame as they walked out into the night—and they could be mistaken for ghosts. Inside the mind of the man, the keeper of the graves he knew well that deep down he knew; the dead did walk again.
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Post by Lady Rosalind Avalle on Mar 30, 2010 23:36:05 GMT -6
His Paris was quiet. His court, unseasonably stifled from activity not by the heat but by their own king's depression, walked listlessly among the corridors and gardens. They waited not for rain to cure the drought, but for sense. Clouds rolled in and out again, bringing hope but no sustenance, and pretty ladies in elaborate gowns withered as their lords prowled for activity. It was only a matter of time before trouble, in the form of violence, visited a court too long oppressed. After his return from Auvergne, few ladies walked alone, and none walked after dark without escort.
Even the contingent from the Ilkhanate walked in a crowd, the Church's translators and guards surrounding the still-novel figures of the Mongol ambassador and his half-breed wife. They were impenetrable. What they felt, none outside the tight pairing of husband and wife were privy. With a lack of royal gossip to consider, wagging tongues turned to the delegation. Would France go to war? Would she trade with the Ilkhanate? Would next season's fashions revolve around the spiced fabrics swirling around the mysterious woman's legs? But even this was not enough to thrive upon, and tongues soon stilled, fed nothing to sustain as the lady walked serenely past, ignorant or unwilling to acknowledge what a strange court she had stumbled upon.
Philip, for his part, handled his madness well. He sat before an empty hearth and addressed his jokes to Ada. The wench had not lost her ability to succinctly put his humor back in place – namely, far from public hearing. His jokes were terrible, and even he knew it. He settled her upon his lap, and entertained himself for hours pulling at those shining spiral curls, and watching them bounce back into place unperturbed. And when night fell, it was as if no time had passed at all. When he had pushed himself past his limits, he collapsed upon her, and miraculously, found the energy to laugh at the squeak of protest she made at his weight. Ada was good company for a madman, never judging his rants and tirades, boring holes into the back of his head when he derided his lady wife for failing to attend dinner, quietly sorting out her herbs while he pondered a chess board occupied by only one onyx army.
She went with him on his late night wanderings of the halls, wandering ahead in complete awareness that he admired the sway of her backside until she disappeared around the next corner, a dark-eyed look over her shoulder to demand he follow. He chased her shadow until too weary to continue, and staggered after her to bed only because when Ada insisted, a man was a fool to refuse. She poured him drink and smiled when his eyes began to swim with the liquor, kneeling at his feet and resting her face against his inner thigh, the warmth of her breath sending a chain reaction up his leg, and tightening the muscles of his stomach in anticipation.
She had the unique talent of holding back the ceaseless tide of grief for Ghislain. Why had he not recognized that talent while she breathed? Her open arms had held both men; they could, without effort, hold the night skies themselves and all the stars therein.
Joan lingered at the door, waiting to capture his attention. He'd had little use for her since Ada's return, but the ghost had been insistent he have dinner with her. She had refused, terrified since their last encounter in the bedroom, when he had roused her from restless dreams with a shriek that could be heard in Marseilles. But now she returned, hoping the most recent gossip she'd overheard might put his demons to rest. How could his beloved lady wife know they were not demons at all, but his most treasured distraction? Ada quietly padded off toward the window, where she stood with her hands on the sill, pressing forward so that the light spread across her skin and set her aglow.
“The men are terrified of the graveyard, my king,” she said, following Philip's rapt gaze toward the empty window. “They say ghosts walk there. A woman, with long black hair, and a man at her side.”
She held Philip's attention for the first time in weeks. He tore his gaze away from Ada and let it drift over his queen. “Tall?”
“She is short,” Joan clarified. “He is tall and lean.”
“Ghislain,” Philip said with a note of satisfaction, and though Joan remained where she stood, she might have melted away for all she mattered in his world. Ada had turned from the window, and stood with her hands still draped upon the sill, shoulders rising in a minute shrug, as if admitting she didn't mind spending so much time with Ghislain in the afterlife. He is more tolerable these days. Her warm smile inspired a laugh from her king, and Philip took another drink from the bottle of wine, the contents sloshing in the deeply distorted glass.
He had some time to think about the pair of ghosts in the graveyard. Watching the sun sink like a stone while Ada rested her cheek in the space between his shoulders, he wondered why she came to visit, and Ghislain refused. Did Ghislain still hate him? He had been very harsh in the matter of Auvergne. He should not have been so harsh. And yet Ada.... He had not cared whether she lived or died all those years ago. Why did she not hate him? He did not have the courage to ask the specter, rather enjoying her uncharacteristic silences as the world around them glared red in the setting sun.
The strange woman had returned. He never saw her face. He was lucky to see her hand as it extended toward him, turned downward. She was holding something. Like a boy hoping for a treat from his tutor, he held out both hands, and was pleasantly surprised at the weight of the bag. He pulled apart the strings and emptied its contents into his hand. The stones clinked delicately. For a moment, he was not sure what he was looking at. But then Ada picked up a piece from his palm, and angled it into the sunlight so that the alabaster radiated, pink-gold in the fading light. She held the king. Remaining in his hand, the knight.
“Ada,” he whispered, and jumped when her piece smacked on the ground and promptly rolled in the crack beneath his bureau. His mind was an agile one. It had to be, to keep up with the friends he'd once kept. The moment the king came to a stop beneath the heavy piece of furniture, Philip understood what was afoot in his kingdom, and pushed his hand through his hair until the skin of his face was taut and his knuckles blazed white.
Swallowing his nausea, he stuck his head out the door, all the hair upon his head sticking up, and bellowed:
“GET ME THAT WHORE OF THE ILKHANATE! BRING HER TO ME!”
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Post by Adelaide d'Aquitaine on Apr 15, 2010 8:24:34 GMT -6
Jean-Claude: The sun was shining brightly in the afternoon sky, watching as the world changed beneath it's warm gaze. Under the cloudless sky the day had turned out to feel as if summer had taken it's warm embrace, and had it not been for the rich clean new scent of spring any could be fooled. The markets were buzzing with new life, and Jean-Claude found himself in the midst of it all. A new day had started with a new step in an old soul, but from here he looked forward to life. As he grew closer to Ada each moment they shared there had been a weight lifted from his shoulders that swept inside his ribcage circling his heart. He loved her dearly, and even now as her beloved daughter played in the window of the storefront he was very thankful for the life given. Genna watched as the world passed by the window with wide eyes finding herself feeling rather small, but was that desire Jean-Claude saw there in her eyes? "Your mother should not be long, my darling." He smiled from the small break between customers bending to kiss gently her curls, and fluff the ribbon tied in her hair. Never did he mind having her here in his shop; be it Paris or Skye there was always happiness when she was near.
There was so much of him that could get lost in this life--here--in Paris, but perhaps there was the longing in both their loves eyes to return that reminded him of the short time left before they had to return. Somewhere in the back of his mind the familiar face of Genna's birth father found it's way forward, and he suddenly felt bad for not being more active in the roll. What had come of the trio? Did the feelings die? Did Genna miss her playmate turned sister? He did. Perhaps it was time to head back for the season return when the change was finished. An event was unfolding before his eyes, as it seemed nearly every fine flower of France wished to shed their image for a single night in honor of the changing season. A dinner was to be held with fine wine, dancing, and no doubt a good spill of drama. Genna bounced in the window, nearly pulling down the curtains as she squealed to see a familiar face walk up the street. Jean-Claude nearly jumped from his business to attend to the child who was already heading out the door and into the pirate's arms.
Ada: A gardener lived and breathed in wait for spring. To be away from her garden, when the ground had finally thawed and the planting could begin, had been like leaving Genna in Skye while she and Jean-Claude visited Paris: inconceivable. She missed it now with a slow, deep ache, though she enjoyed her time away. She was learning more of Jean-Claude in these weeks than she had in years, and the brightness about him naturally made Genna and Ada happier. Yet it was her traitorous gardener's hands that wished nothing more than to plunge into fresh-turned soil. She walked the marketplaces some mornings as if surveying her own garden, noting what had popped up, smelling fresh produce, wondering all the while if Marcelline had followed Ada's meticulous guide. The Scots did not eat vegetables, thinking them vulgar peasants' food, but Ada looked forward to the cucumbers and peppers, the heads of lettuce and carrots, a feast of the earth's bounty. She could craft new medicines, continue her work on the capsules -- so much came out of that garden, including dinner. She turned down the corner of Jean's street, swinging her basket at her side, and then stopped abruptly. "What is he doing here?" she queried, but her eyes brightened and she dashed forward, sliding to a stop beside the trio. And then what? She paused only a moment as she made up her mind, reaching up on the tips of her toes to kiss Jean's cheek, patting a posey in place in one of the button holes before reaching to hug Pere, and by proxy, her child, who earned a sprig of lavender behind her ear.
Peregrine: "What are you doing inside on a day like this, Genevieve?" Ocean eyes that held the blue of the sky's reflection looked about for the park, the rich thick grass..anything other then cold stone, and shadowed building fronts. "Jean, where is.." His heart stopped when he felt her close, the very wind pulling the fresh rich scent of the soil she so loved dearly. Adelaide carried it about her, even if she was fresh from a spring; it was part of her charm and the definition of her character. (In his eyes) "I'm on my way home," He answered Jean's questions that carried, of why he was there and of his well being, "and yes I need a haircut." Jean-Claude returned the kiss to Ada before leaving to return to his busy store. "You keep her inside? Like a princess locked away by some gargoyle." He teased though the wrinkle of the child's brows came together clear she didn't like Jean to be called names, but they'd share one more hug before he sat her down. Fresh from the sea his face was alive with the sun, and the salty sea air still clinging to the wild mess atop his head..that did need a trim. The backs of his fingers reached out to brush her hand lightly as he smiled, wondering if the awkwardness would ever fade. "Keeping an eye on Jean-Claude?"
Ada: "I like your hair the way it is," Ada said with a grin. Of course she would. Ada's stance on her own hair was quite well-known, and never was she more vehement than when discussing her daughter's. Jean was lucky to get a ribbon among those dark curls. She squatted down to get on level with her daughter, leaning in close to take a deep breath of the spicy lavender. "You smell delicious, my darling," she teased, reaching out her fingers to tickle Genevieve until she, squealing with delight, sat down in surrender. Ada brought Genevieve up with her, hitching her girl on her hip and smiling at Peregrine. "On your way home from where? I thought your last adventure in Paris was enough for one man, non? And no, Genevieve and I spend nearly all our days outside in the garden, don't we? She has a new doll. It seems to inspire better manners in her, we can re-use her dresses when she comes in," Ada added with her usual touch of wryness, but grinned when Genna did, happily sharing the joke with others, though they still had plenty between mother and daughter. "Jean-Claude does not need me to keep an eye on him. He is happy here."
Peregrine: He smelled of the sea--the rich salty air clinging to his skin by the sun, but forever that deep woods lofted somewhere against his flesh. However, the very faint scent of a woman's perfume traced the outline of his jaw and expensive oils tainted the curve of his neck. Roses..he smelled like roses, that Rosalind so rarely used. "Just visiting an old friend." In many ways he spoke the truth, but so much of him lied. It troubled him to say as much, but not before Genna. Words were screaming to be released, begging to fall from his lips so much he knew his eyes betrayed him. How could she be so stupid? Nervously he bit his lips while his attention fell upon Genna, and somewhere in his chest he felt his heart ease. "She's so beautiful." He smiled, and for now his fear subsided, and when Jean-Claude stood in the door he would throw his chin back to acknowledge the other. "Bet he's got me a change of clothes hmm?" He teased Genna, tickling her lightly. "You too..?" A warm hand came to touch Ada's back ushering her in gently, but for the small moment enjoyed being close.
Ada: Ada canted her head for a moment, almost birdlike, her dark eyes gently resting upon Pere while Genna fiddled distractingly in her arms. He looked like a man with a great deal on his mind, and even more on his tongue, so when he ushered them indoors, Ada went. When he drew near, she caught the odd fragrance from him, so absurdly different from his usually masculine tones that she paused. Pere was too observant, and they were both too awkward, to run into one another due to her lingering step, but she could sniff again -- and did. Roses. Had Rosalind come with him? Did she know he was visiting her?
She placed Genna back in her favorite seat at the window, taking a perch herself on the edge to prop up Genna's doll. The doll was a fine thing, more delicate than a two-year-old should possess, but it would hurt no one but Genna if she managed to break it. Genna squeezed the doll to her chest, and Ada took this as a cue that she might stand up again. "Should I send for something from the pub? Ale? Food? They have very good cheese, and I'm teaching their cook how to pickle grapes...."
Peregrine: His attention turned to the window missing the questions thrown at him, but as a guard walked the street outside the building he found his breath forced in daring not release. The pirate would forever walk on edge, part of him always ready and willing to lay down his life to survive. "I had business here, a shipment docked..I'll leave for Skye tomorrow. Rosalind is expecting me." His half answer to any question, his reasons to return mostly always his wife. As the guard passed he let his out his breath, turning as if he wore a mask of a smile back to the rest, but to those who knew him--knew where to watch for signs of his caution. "But I can stay the night? We could go out? See the city? Run it wild with adventure." The assistant here in Jean-Claude's Paris store came from the back room with the order ready, and nearly went red with the sight of the pirate's smirk. How well these two knew each other, as his vicious flirtatious manner always seemed to bring a color to any virgin's cheeks.
Jean-Claude: "Peregrine..please, we have far too much to do, and I am ready to return home anyway. So please.." Instantly his long covered fingers touched the chin of the assistant once to pull her back to reality as if he turned a flower to the sun. "We have much to be done. Adelaide, I'll be late and the hour grows even longer. I'll work best now if my favorite distractions were not present." He smiled bending to kiss her cheek, and run a hand over Genna's curls before he pulled her present from his breast pocket. "You were good today, Ma petite." A new dress wrapped up no doubt for her doll, or at least the hat to match the one she had on now.
Ada: "It is almost time for her nap, but I suppose...." She glanced at Jean-Claude, and hearing that he would rather have them gone was enough excuse for Ada, who was more than a little amused at the assistant's reaction to Peregrine. On top of the worry that crossed his face when the guard passed by, Ada had a million questions bubbling up in her mind, and not a single one of them was appropriate for Genna's ears. Luckily, the child seemed content speaking only in French. Small blessings, Ada decided, helping Genna off her seat and back onto her feet, and untying the package for her. "Look at that!" Ada exclaimed, and Genna's chubby fingers could figure out what to do with the dress next. Ada stood up, and held out her hand to Pere. "Let us see what trouble we may stir up in but a single night," she joked, and then cleared her throat. Too soon. She very would likely be the death of Jean-Claude with such words. Her other hand went to gather Genna's. "Doesn't Rosalind wish to come to Paris? It is the best season." Then again, Rosalind wasn't very typically French. She'd been living in Scotland too long, Ada suspected in her clinical opinion.
Peregrine: "After our last trip to Paris, I doubt Rosalind will ever return." He mused running a hand through his hair beyond ready to freshen up for the coming evening, and he happily took her hand. "I've a few stops I'd like to make." He grinned, "I used to run this town to you know? Had lots of.." Worried eyes went to Genna, "Business here." Of the escort type, Genna wasn't the only bastard of his in Paris. The thought caused him to turn a look to Jean-Claude who had happily gone back to his work after seeing them out the door. Through the streets they would move then, and he would happily swing Genna between them as they walked--something Jean-Claude refused to do. It wasn't correct. "I've got a room on the other side of the river, if you think she will nap there?" He could use a bath, and the view of the city was amazing. His French was a bit rusty, though natural in many formations of the words. The river was wide but the bridges built of stone over it seemed far too advanced, but Paris held that power. Along each side children through bits of bread to the waiting ducks, and a few sailors seemed more then happy to ogle the newly blossomed flowers. Though they were far from the sea, ships could sail rather well if they were small enough at least partly up the passage of water. The bright sun felt like such a blessing over his face that even when they walked he slowed enough to devour in the light. "I'd like to take you out tonight." He spoke quietly, though once again he held back--not here, he told himself.
Ada: Ada had not come back this way from her herb-scouting mission, so there were plenty of sights to keep her mind occupied as they walked. Peregrine certainly had a freedom and ease to him that Jean-Claude lacked. Though it was hard to criticize either, she thought hastily, nevertheless enjoying the difference just as much as Genevieve. "She will nap anywhere. She sleeps well." She hadn't at all, it seemed, for the first year. But everyone in the neighborhood had been relieved when Genevieve figured things out, and began sleeping the nights through. It was enough to make Ada almost certain she would never want another child -- she enjoyed her sanity a great deal, and her neighbors might revolt. Ada stopped while they were on the bridge, Genna too occupied by her doll to worry over, and watched the ducks beneath, swirling and grabbing in the dark water. The recent rains made the waters swell up past their usual level, but there were no rapids today. It was quite beautiful, and a sight she hadn't realized she'd missed until that particular moment. "Take me out tonight? Where? Whatever for?" She turned to him, a look of amusement on her features, before she grasped Genevieve's waiting hand and they resumed their stroll.
Peregrine: Peregrine hooked his finger through her own, pulling her hand between them and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "Do I have to have a reason to want to spend time with you?" He whispered his careless nature a bit reserved from the single bit of there affection. Here they could be whatever they wanted, pretend to be something they weren't, and perhaps live a happy ever after if he would not miss his wife so. "We'll go wherever the night takes us, some fancy hall, where you can wear out those new shoes..or perhaps under some bridge eh?" He grinned returning on their walk. Jean-Claude's assistant had handed him a package that he kept tucked under one arm no doubt something to change into a bit more suitable for their surroundings. "Tonight all the Kings horses and all the King's men will be on the town square--music--dancing--free food, and fine wine." He grinned leaning into her as the walked, "Who knows..just say yes." Once they reached the inn where he found a room, there were many flights of stairs to be climbed before his chamber was reached and the open door seemed endless as the room revealed itself. Though it was not in the highest end of the city, it was well to do and the view of all of Paris remarkable. The bed was still made, though his big of bags were proof enough he had been here for nearly a week. "Here Genna," Pulling the shirt from his back he would let her change into something more comfortable, and though worn--clean; familiar. He let her bounce on the bed, let her fix the pillows as she wished and kept the window open so the breeze rising over the buildings could sweep in the fresh scent of the flowers. She looked very cute in her sailor father's tunic, and the fancy white silk ribbon of the other man who loved her dearly. "Gonna have to beat them off with sticks." Boys, he meant. "When you are older." Lord, they'll be in for a surprise.
Ada: "Why would you want to go to something like that?" Ada asked, sounding almost exasperated, but Peregrine always had a reason. Maybe it was good. Maybe it was silly. But a reason always existed. She had spent this time avoiding areas she knew the courtiers favored, days in the garden spent with Genevieve to bypass awkward conversations with those who believed her long dead, not to mention all the additional precautions she and Jean had to make to lead the quiet life they desired here in Paris, if only for the season. She shook her head slowly, as if that would help her determine what Pere's motive was, but eventually gave up, and was uncharacteristically quiet as they made their way down the street and up the stairs to his room. Genna flopped back on the bed, the sprig of lavender falling out of her dark curls, which Ada picked up and slipped into the pillow. "I do not wish to think about such a day. I worry about her enough already." She went to the window to take in the view, resting her arms upon the sill beneath her chest, and letting her eyes comb over a neighborhood she'd only seen at night on the arm of whatever gentleman she picked up from the gambling hall. She quirked a smile. Her daughter had not fallen far from the proverbial tree. Ada had good cause to worry. There were other neighborhoods -- one she had sold love potions in, another where she and other apprentices had played dice and drank wine out of jugs, and just in the periphery was the run-down, harsh neighborhood where Benoit had his shop. It hadn't changed much. She turned back into the room to face Pere. Genna was already asleep, lulled by the breeze. Would Ada ever tell her who her real father was? She wasn't certain that it even mattered at this point. Genevieve was the happiest child Ada had ever seen. That mattered most.
Peregrine: He had not left her side while their child left them only for a little while to chase butterflies in her dreams. "It will come before you know it. Watching them grow..live their life, to someday leave you behind." In death or life, it was all the same. "Will only be tomorrow Jean-Claude will see to it she's married to some nobleman in England, or off to some fancy school. He's already tried with Polly." He grinned, "I have a bit more say in that one, but Rosalind will kill if she's married for anything other then love." Moving from the bed he stepped to join her at the window wrapping his arms around her as he stood at her back, "This city is..something special. There is something so.." He brought his hands together before her resting his chin on her shoulder, struggling to find the right words. He thrived where places were broken up, sections of different life to feed his desire, and find will behind his ability to survive. "The dangers in this city hold nothing compared to what would happen should he be found." Finally it broke from him, the words racing form his lips in suit of a better match. Peregrine didn't know how much she knew, or she could remember their conversation. "Does he think they are dead?"
Ada: "She will do what she wishes," Ada said gently. Jean-Claude's intentions may be fine, but he could never confine a free spirit unless it wished to be held. Had he not learned that lesson with Ada? "If it is school, it would make us both very happy. If it is a rambling gypsy, I would be happy that she is happy. As her parent, I just hope she does not make the same mistakes I did. Though who better to comfort, than one who has been there before, ah?" She settled back against Pere as he wrapped his arms around her. For a disorienting moment, she forgot what time it was. Even the city she was in seemed to waver until she drew her wits back about her. "I do not know what he thinks. We went to his family tomb a few nights ago. He did not find their names." She sighed, unsure what she thought about his parents now. She thought, at least, his father had made an effort to do something for Jean-Claude. Maybe he was not cured of his madness, but he had thrived in the university. Ada seemed to know a great deal about the heart, but when it came to parents, she was as confused as Jean-Claude, and she would be the first to admit it. But with such prime examples in her life, it was no surprise to any who knew of her childhood. "I think he is ready to go back to Skye. I know I am."
Peregrine: "Our story...Adelaide..do you know our story?" He kissed her neck inhaling the scent of her as he started to sway with her gently as their child slept behind them. His arms were a fortress that perhaps were not as long as Jean's, but no doubt nearly twice the size. "You know I pulled him from the fire. You know I helped heal him..but did you know why I was here? Why of all the places in this world I would have picked Paris?" His distraction was pure, the sweet child he shared with Ada could captivate any heart, but inside his chest he lived in the moment with her. Peregrine wasn't sure he could love her so openly, worried what would come from her broken thoughts and was secretly thankful she held very little of him in her features. Worry crept in over his brow again as he watched her playing, and then found the line of the man who could very easily claim her as his own. Jean-Claude was busy as always, was the season part of the reason they came to begin with, and he wondered if his thoughts were all in a row. Something about the much taller man seemed at ease, at home, and surrounded by peace. Hell--he even looked younger.
He wound a curl of her own around his finger, adoring that she let him, but finding it some what erotic to tie himself up within her--even if it was innocent. Though he would have never be as tall as Jean-Claude he nearly doubled the man in bulk, though just the mention of those fires made him feel so small. "I wouldn't have saved any of them, if he hadn't the same color eyes." A distant face, innocent and pure fell back into his memory almost childlike, this mask of a young lover. Though, Peregrine was well a heathen then just as he was now, there had been something that captivated him in her. "Jean-Claude has a sister, a very.." He grinned then, with a small raise in his brow, "Fine sister." The color that came to his cheeks could have been rivaled to that of when he spoke of his wife, though Rosalind wasn't nearly as wild in the sack--nor Ada. He laughed, letting Ada go to look out the window, "There." He pointed to the pointed rooftop of the estate like home inside the city, "She's right there, right now. Along side his parents who are both very much alive." Rocking on his feet before he leaned forward, Peregrine put both of his palms on the window to let his head fall level with his shoulders, "And if they found out Jean-Claude lives; they'd kill him again."
Ada: Were she privy to his thoughts, she might have been mildly upset at the idea someone was better in bed than she. As it was, ignorance was bliss, and she swayed gently with him, watching Paris unfold while her daughter slept peacefully behind them. It took a great deal of self restraint not to take the hand playing in her hair and find somewhere more productive to put it. She pressed her lips together to resist temptation, curving the corners upward in a smile while he spoke, though she heard Jean-Claude's voice exacting his promise under duress. She blinked at his final statement, Pere's voice registering a moment too late. The smile fell while she gazed out the window, and she turned her back on the view to look frankly at him. "You've mentioned her before," Ada noted, lacing her fingers behind her back, and leaning on the sill behind her. "Why would they kill their only son? They would marry away their wealth to another family? I understand he was not the son they desired, but there is spite and there is foolishness." Scowling, she turned back to look out the window, unlacing her fingers and resting them on the sill. "He has told me what he wishes me to know about his family. But he does not call me his cat for nothing -- I am too curious for my own good." She narrowed her gaze where Peregrine had pointed. Would they go to court? She could kill two birds with one stone.
Peregrine: "Faith..Adelaide, it all comes down to their relationship with the Lord, and pride." He was quiet, straightening himself to make sure Genna wasn't awake. "It's this damn court. The whole thing has fallen apart, a darker side that perhaps only you know.." He caught his lips before catching her eye, and whispered. "Scares me to death to know you are here. I drive Rosalind crazy enough as it is, but even she I think knows how dangerous this place is." Though it often seemed so harmless. "They would see to it he died for sake of family shame, and their wealth married off if it meant keeping their perfect image." He took a deep breath, "Though Cosette much to my surprise has not married. She's still in love with me as ever--waited for this day I'd return." A somber frown came over him as he let his eyes fall upon the window and shuffled his feet, "Told her I was married, and it nearly killed her. I've lost that contact, but I'm afraid." A heavy breath fell from his chest as he caught her eye again lowering his voice, "You are not safe here..talk Jean-Claude into coming home. Don't let him dig too deep on the society around him. He'll be blind again..it thrives still, and with it so will he--only to repeat the fate." By now they would both know that he would die for either of them, but there was another life he had to have. "Too many secrets you don't even want to know Adelaide..it's just best you both left."
Ada: "I know." What was she thinking, staring at that inn roof in the distance? She tore her gaze away. "He would hate me if I poisoned them. But I would. It would not be the first time I changed the balance of power in the court in such a way," she said quietly. She meant every word of it. She could share secrets with Peregrine that, for some reason, she stalled upon when it came to Jean-Claude. Jean-Claude had seen her at her very worst. He had heard her rave in fevered dreams, and suffered when she thought she was doing the "right thing." He likely knew everything, and would never press her for details she wasn't willing to give. She wasn't certain why she could so freely admit to Pere what took years to say to Jean-Claude, but the secret was safe with him. She drew her hand to her chin, cupping it like a physician discussing a diagnosis with a fellow practitioner. "I want him to come home with me. I miss my garden. I miss ... having patients. And Marcelline. And all of our friends. I can see him very easily resuming his life here, but his life is not here. It hasn't been for many years, though he longs for it. Pere, if I have to bind that man with ropes and throw him bodily upon a ship, you know I will. I am afraid enough of fires for both of us combined. It is a luxury of never having been burned." She lowered her arm, unconsciously rubbing the portion that had, to bring Jean-Claude back. She smiled suddenly. "I understand Cosette's anguish. You're quite a catch." Winking, she brushed past him and took a delicate seat on the edge of his bed. Genna had her thumb in her mouth, and one hand tangled up in her dark curls.
Peregrine: "He wouldn't have to know." A revised answer to her statement, as he too had thought once about it or hanging the both of them upside down from the bell tower. "So take him.." He followed her, coming to sit beside her looking back at Genna with a warm smile, "But let's go turn heads hmm?" That cat's grin returned as he wanted so badly to wake their sleeping child. "Fancy up for the night, wear a big hat. The kind Jean-Claude hates, there is a dinner party in the square. All of who is anybody will be there." That look gathered around him, the kind that begged to be out, but perhaps this came with being shut in on the sea for too long. "Are you brave enough? To walk right up to that king and toss your arms around him before the entire court? Before your lover's parents, and all of Paris?" He stood to come to stand before her using his knee to pry her's apart before pressing her back on the bed beside their daughter, and laughed. "Paint the roses red." He kissed her neck with his chuckle before gathering his feet back on the ground and turning to the package that Jean's assistant had left him. Always white..she always picked white, perhaps because she liked the contrast of his skin against it. "That woman..she's something else." He started to try and figure out the...whatever this was that was meant to cover his body, but threw it over a chair. Already he worried of the heart he had left behind, finding himself unable to hide behind his rakish nature anymore. What would come of the beloved daughter of a Count? Duchess..Great Granddaughter of a Queen.
Ada: "I don't know if I am brave enough," she admitted honestly, but the words had barely escaped her mouth when he pressed her back. As much as she wanted to twist until he lost his balance and fell off, there would always be that part of her, instinctive, that wished to pull him back into that mystery. It wouldn't be right without trees overhead, though. Slightly flushed when she sat up again, she looked away from Genevieve and to the clothes. "I wish you wouldn't do that," she lied, leaning back on her hands. Changing subjects without transition was a specialty of Ada's, and she leapt back to their previous topic, thinking of Philip. Another, of course, she had the most absurd time saying no to, no matter the ridiculousness of his request. She worried about that. It didn't matter what Philip was indirectly responsible for, nor that he hadn't cared enough to verify if she lived or breathed while the ashes cooled. She had a mountain of far more amusing memories to draw upon, though even she could admit it would be bittersweet without Ghislain. She wondered if Jean-Claude had any inkling what it would do to Ada to be a good fiancee while she was in France. Certainly, their nights here were far more interesting than they had been before. She absently stuck a hand in her hair. If there was any doubt whose child Genna was, it disappeared in that gesture. "Did Jean tell you why I must see Philip? Did he tell you about that woman from the Ilkhanate? She promised him knowledge." She laughed quietly and shook her head. "I doubt she will come to Skye to teach him what he wishes to learn from her. Ah, Pere. I hate this. I thought I would love Paris again, but my time here is not the same as Jean's. It was not the same, even then. There was a mania in barely surviving." She rolled her shoulders, and tired of sitting in one place, stood up. "It is all tangled again. I've lost the knack for sorting it out. And back then, I wouldn't have given a damn."
Peregrine: His heart hurt for her, and as he came up behind her letting the warmth radiate from him as his arms held her tightly. "You are brave enough, you are one of the bravest I know." He nuzzled his nose against the back of her hair as he kissed her crown gently. Peregrine went silent listening to each word savoring this side of her, only in the idea that she let him in where none else got to go. Sometimes he even wondered if she let Jean-Claude where he stood in this moment. Did he know she was afraid? That her nerves listed along side his own desires. He wanted in, while she wanted out; where Jean was happy to simple be between them. "He's not told me anything," But Peregrine listened with open ears, and an open heart as she explained the workings of the court; where she stood in it all, but again his heart hurt for her when she gave the small admission of hating to be here. "Then come home with me. I can leave right now. Take you and Genna somewhere tropical." When she rolled her shoulders he brought his hands up to rub at them gently, easing her back to reality--or so he hoped. "This woman...something I can help with?" A smirk filled his lips as he looked over her shoulder at her leaning in to kiss her cheek. "Apparently I'm a good catch."
Ada: She laughed. "Pere, if we go off to a tropical island, we will both do something we will regret. Many times. In many creative ways." But she settled against him, and drew his arms around her again. "He wouldn't tell you, would he? There is something sinister at work here, and I do not think Philip has anything to do with it, for once. He's gone stark, raving mad. He's laughing to himself as he runs down corridors at ungodly hours of the night. He refuses to see Joan. Rumor is, she's terrified of him. I don't blame her. I doubt we will see her there tonight." How Ada knew all of this was something he would have to take at face value. Some things, Ada simply knew. And what she did not know, others were more than willing to speculate upon. "I do not think this woman will care one way or another what you are. She wants a Crusade. Rome wants a Crusade. I doubt women bent on war care much for a handsome former pirate, with a ring on his finger. And you do not want to hear what I have heard about her husband." Rosalind would have crossed herself at the horror of the gossip, but Ada merely chuckled, believing every word of it. "I am nervous, not afraid, Pere. It has been a long time since I've seen Philip. I love him." It was different from what she felt for Jean or Pere, but she still had feelings for the king, and Ghislain's death was an unhealed wound on her heart. "I do not think I could hurt him, is what I mean to say. I wish I could be vengeful." She grinned, and slid out of his arms. "But I am not. Where are my clothes, or am I attending this fete in nothing but that hat?"
Peregrine: "A reason enough to be vengeful, my sweet. I have you covered there." A sinister look passed over his eyes, darkened by the drawing end to the afternoon. Genna would be awake soon, and they would spend their evening with Jean-Claude. However, the night was theirs. "You say you love him," Phillip was who he spoke of, "but how could you when he had the power to stop it all. His madness is not unknown in these parts, even as far as I've gone across the world. Would it surprise you to know that for a small moment, I felt God brought me here?" Peregrine so rarely spoke of the Lord, having too many other beliefs to settle inside only one. "Do you think for a moment, that you are alone in this?" Moving away from the bed, he would start to undo his breeches for to dip into the cool (once warm) water of the tub in the middle of the open loft apartment, that seemed a bit better suited for the birds. There was a place for a fire in the middle of the room--proof enough of Paris's cold winters, and that many were brave enough to find rest here at the inn with the open windows, covered only by the heavy fabrics that would act as a shield from the cold. Dipping under the water he let it run over his face and through his curls as his fingers would brush them back--enjoying the feeling. "And you doubt my ability?" A look over his shoulder at her, and no doubt this was the very reason he held so many bastards all over the world. "I'm not afraid of her husband, he's just a pawn in the game.." Perhaps he'll learn that his man was indeed the Rook. (Brute Force, Stone Structure, Able to Take Down His Queen.--All Of the Above) All of life was a game to Pere, but what would the world be without celebration and reason to exist. "For once, you wear what you want to wear--be you. It's going to be the most important thing I don't want you to forget." He loved her so dearly for it.
Ada: "No, I am not alone," she said, sounding bemused, though her features had darkened slightly with the movement of shadows outside the window. It was not the first time she had watched him bathe, though much had happened since that springtime walk nearly four years ago. She did not turn away, instead settling sideways upon a chair, her legs draped over one arm, her hands laced across her stomach. Much of their interactions comprised of ways to torture the other, or themselves, in an effort of maintaining a platonic friendship. It never occurred to Ada to not be friends with Pere, though not being lovers was damn near killing her. It didn't seem to be bothering him any, Ada mused as he washed. "That I detest Philip does not mean I have ceased to love him. We were young together, once. And who is to tell my heart to stop loving anyone? I have never, in the entirety of my life. It is my weakness. It is my strength. You cannot judge me for it, if you claim to love me," she added, shifting slightly to rest her head against the chair back, glancing upward to see Genna roll onto her back. Her eyes were still closed, but the thumb had come out of her mouth. "You may not be afraid of her husband, but she may be. Try it, if you like, but our strategy must be a more intricate move. One that will lure her to our side of the board." The words were a bit cryptic, but already Ada wondered if there might be a position for her in the Skye court. Why should all the fun be in France? There was no good reason, and she could not deprive Jean-Claude of the opportunity. "I thought I would be living like a recluse in Paris. I did not bring anything. But I have suspicions he has been fitting me in my sleep." Peregrine: "Ada..I'll never judge you, I can't. I've never in my life been able to read people as openly I do you. I think that's why I love you as much as I do." He spoke with a smile, finishing his bath before pulling from the water. "I'm willing to do what you wish, go your way in this..for once." A smirk then crossed his face, with having very little ability to do otherwise. He loved her so. "I'm not judging you...for you would have to do the same, and let's not remind ourselves of my faults. Though..some may call it a weakness, a give to temptation, but I loved you. Still do." His eyes found Genna again, "I wouldn't take back any of my..moments. I cherish them." A desire to curl up beside the sleeping child came as he settled into the warm wrap that dried his skin. He was tired, and could use a small nap. However, the night was soon to start and as Genna stretched he knew they were no longer alone. She had come back from her dreams, and found her way into his.
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Post by Adelaide d'Aquitaine on Apr 15, 2010 8:37:20 GMT -6
Ada: Night drew around them with comforting arms, neither too cold nor windy, the humidity just right for the revealing gowns the ladies would wear, flaunting youth and vitality in a hedonist's wild dream. She stepped out of their bedroom only to have Jean-Claude rapidly hurry her back within, muttering under his breath as he grabbed pins to fix what he had wrought, while Ada's laughter could be heard ringing clearly down the stairs. She reappeared a few moment later, flushed in the face, thoroughly kissed lips helpfully masqueraded with a dark stain, collecting Peregrine's arm and flying out the door before she lost all motivation to go out tonight. The darkness hit her face like seeing an old friend after too long an absence, and she gave a little spin on new heels to make the edges of her daringly unconventional dove-gray dress float upward around her legs. Other women would wear corsets and contraptions to shape and define their bodies, hiding everything below the hips in great swaths of fabric. Ada was wearing the equivalent of a fancy chemise, the illusion of wearing as little as possible while still remaining chastely covered – well, now that Jean-Claude had modified the hem on the bust, which she was still convinced took the fun out of her reappearance from the dead, but Jean-Claude had in spades what she so greatly lacked – taste. They arrived in short order. Wine had been flowing for hours by now, and the dances were well underway, but there was still an inhalation of breath as those standing about idly gossiping saw the new arrivals.
Peregrine: Peregrine found himself in a dream, tonight playing the part well of a Lord though one of the more handsomely armed scoundrels of the night. He had let himself go, long enough to gather back around her. Beneath the lanterns and the city lights, the pirate found himself along the same lines he wondered if his partner walked. Hair brushed back, the soft glow of the light seemed alive and well over a face that had known only the sun. Tonight he would play the part as silent protector, knowing this gamble was not one for the likes of outfitted flirt; though with spring came low hem lines, and suddenly what they said about the French women made Ada look as if she carried mountains against her chest. Rosalind had great breast, but the thought was pushed aside as he reminded himself of his wife. A calmer man walked along side her, one who could have very well dealt his hands in politics on this night. He was humbled by all the titles, though outfitted with one carried by his wife--if only they knew the truth. Rosalind carried great weight in the court, enough to free him from their last..disaster, that had him on guard (always would). Perhaps this was too the reason that Jean-Claude watched from the door, nearly jumping from his boots to join them. He worried for them both, but somewhere Jean knew the reasons went well beyond his fears.
Dark ocean colored eyes that seemed as wide as the sky moved over each face, committing them to memory from a small system of names he had come to learn. Each Lord and Lady were in row, and already his hands started to grow warm with all that could possibly go wrong..how delightful. OH, how it nearly killed him not to stir up the depths of every troubled saint to turn the rain of fire around on these fools. However, the reaction to Ada came with a humbling quiet that caused him to stand just off her shoulder, a dangerous look sweeping over his brow as they narrowed upon any who stared for too long.
Ada: A breath, and more. When even the dancers slowed to see what had caused such a stir, Ada did what few would fail to have the courage to do. She stepped forward, turned, and took Pere's hand. "Dance with me," she said with a grin, pulling him into the throngs and finding a place for them in the pattern. The dress moved beautifully around her heels, and if her gown left so very little of her figure to the imagination, it did as intended. In this sea of bodices and brocades, heavy woven fabrics and gems, hair pulled away from faces and headdresses and mesh cauls that bound and restricted, Ada gleamed. On her hand was Jean's engagement ring, flashing in the torch light from deep within, but it was the only gem upon her being, the only distraction from what was new, and so classically Ada. Though she tended to wear her heart upon her sleeve, tonight she had no sleeves -- and she could not begin to sort out how she felt. It was a blur of firelight, and centered within it, Peregrine. She was terrified of Philip's reaction. More, she worried about former courtiers she had known as Philip's consort, turning upon her after all these years and denouncing her as a harlot in the presence of royalty. None, not even Ada, would recover from such a public embarrassment.
But it never came. Over the weaving heads of lords and ladies, she looked up to the grand table on the dais. His wife was present, speaking in low tones with a lady at her side, both dressed in damask, though Joan wore a wimple where her lady wore a gold caul. The king was absent. When the music ended, Ada discovered where Philip had gone. The couples parted, men on one side and women on the other, and Philip walked behind the ladies until he stopped a few feet behind Ada. Then he continued onward, motioning for the music to start. Ada inclined her head to Peregrine and excused herself from the line, following Philip past the torches and guards and into the darkness.
Peregrine: "Of course," He smiled lightly taking her into his arms as any gentleman should, the flow of their form flawless and somewhere in his mind he wondered if Jean had been teaching her. In every motion Ada owned her gown, a perfect blissful movement captivated those around them, and the well put together Pirate found himself bursting with pride. He knew her, loved her had a child with her, but still found himself wondering if she held him anywhere in her heart. He felt the master, against her petite frame even though she followed his lead--she took control. Silently they spoke to one another, eyes ever so slightly glancing around the other in watchful motions for their surroundings. A part of their history together, came in sweeping beating hearts and he would hate to lose hers on this night.
Joan, seemed such a pitiful sight, and the wimple she wore could have broke him down on many personal levels. Second glances were given in the swirl of fabrics and dancing couples but for a moment his eyes connected with that of the Queen and somewhere in his mind he worked ways around sitting next to her if only for a moment. Ada had her way in, but where was his? Did he even want in?
Cosette, was not there, nor was the rest of her family, but like Jean-Claude they were never on time. However, when the time came for him to let Ada go he watched with his heart in his hand she disappear into the darkness. He wanted to follow her, standing there nearly helpless to resist and finally faded in with the night with them. Always did he remain but one step behind, blending well with the night as only he could. Thankfully, this time he was indeed armed to the teeth should the tables be turned against his beloved little sprite.
Ada: Trust Peregrine's eyes to find those of the damsel in distress, Joan with her solemn face and serene lady-in-waiting, the children with a nanny and her husband walking into the darkness with his one-time whore. Not for the first time, Ada was disconcerted at Joan's utter lack of knowledge of her husband. It had been a long and tumultuous marriage, helped not in the least by Philip's often impetuous attitude, and profound desire to be anywhere but Paris. She turned away from the dancers with great reluctance, and felt as though she stared over the edge of an impossibly high cliff, with the expectation that the water would break her fall should she dive. She hadn't lied to Peregrine. She still loved Philip, which was terrifying enough in its own way. But it was not the first, nor did she believe it would be the last, time she would deliberately step over the line for her lovers.
A hand stopped her in the dark. She had not seen its body, but felt the force with which it grabbed her shoulder. Disoriented enough by eyes unaccustomed to the shadow after the brightness of the square, he spun her against the wall, and without a single word of greeting, crushed his mouth upon her own. She had no chance to breathe, and a startled yelp choked somewhere between heart and abused lips. Remembering the actions of a far grander lady than Ada could ever hope to be, she stomped on the king's foot. Given her weight, the force of her slippered foot could hardly cause any great damage, but it startled Philip upright. He took a small step back, profound confusion contorting his Gallic face, but not fast enough to avoid Ada's slap -- which was, judging by the harsh glare in her dark eyes, a conscious effort.
Philip: "You're real," he said with the same tone in which he would request the strap of his stirrup shortened for the hunt.
Ada: "Sea and stars, of course I am real," Ada retorted, and then cursed with her usual fluid mixture of street rat patois as she sank against the wall, and pressed her hands together as if it would put an end to the pins and needles sensation blooming across her palm. She was gratified that Philip chose that moment to put a hand to his own cheek, and smiling, flexed his jaw. He seemed no worse for wear. They had both been young together, and she saw the boy in him shake off his lover's temperamental actions like a cobweb encountered in a summer field. The only lover he ever tormented was Ghislain, the man who always had the better of him, despite Ghislain's lack of lineage and Philip's pending crown.
Philip: "Come," Philip said, and held out his hand. She clasped it, and together, they walked slowly away from the square. Philip would never hear the steps falling at the same pace as his own somewhere in the darkness. Ada did not need to hear them to know Peregrine was there. He wouldn't miss this for the world, and Jean-Claude would string the pirate up by his toes if he did. Quietly, Ada told him of Gauthier's visit in the garden shortly before the fires, warning her that her name had been mentioned, and Benoit wished her out of Paris post haste. She ignored Gauthier, of course. "He is a pig," Philip recalled.
Ada: "Was," Ada corrected, but would not elaborate upon the means of Gauthier's death, merely wiping her free hand upon her dress, to dismiss the scratchy, cold memory of the shackle that bound her. She met silk instead, and smiled.
Philip: "Ghislain took you to Honfleur," Philip repeated the revelation.
Ada: "We watched the southern sky. That is, until he threw me forcibly upon the boat. He found me again, bless him. The encounter involved a candlestick to my head." This was the story Philip most desired. She could feel his hand clench hers with enough force to turn her fingers bone white. She brought them to a halt, and placed her free hand upon his, the gentle touch and the story of Ghislain's last hours making his hand relax ever so slowly. Only now did he seem interested in Ada's old wounds, gazing down at her in this poor light, as if it was enough to verify her words. It hardly was, and of all the things in this world that changed, Ada was not one of them. She would look the same at sixty as sixteen, not of any supernatural blessing, but a boon of genetics. He touched her hair instead, and drew a portion of it over her nearly naked shoulder.
Philip: "I want to see them. Your marks."
Ada: Ada looked out into the darkness for a long moment. Then she glanced up to her king. "I am a married woman," she lied easily. Philip laughed, and Ada conceded his point. She had never worried about modesty, nor the nation's morality, before. She turned, and while she lifted her hair, he slid the straps of her dress down, until the garment balanced precariously upon her hips. She felt his fingers trace their way up the long, thin, and slightly raised scar of the whip mark upon her back. There was nothing sexual in the examination, merely a clinical evaluation. Ghislain had given his life for Ada. It was difficult to tell, three years later, if it had been worth such a precious life. He walked around her, and let his thumb drag across the thicker scar below her breast. It hooked down to her ribcage, the only visible portion, and his fingers trailed off with it, raising to clasp her chin.
Philip: "You and your husband, you will stay in Paris. I do not want to lose sight of what is mine again."
Ada: She inhaled and let her breath out slowly, maintaining her gaze while lifting the straps of her dress, and sliding back into the garment. She was not chilled in the least, feeling the sharp electric energy of the fearless, of having already thrown herself off the cliff, and letting her body fall into alignment as the water came rushing upward. "You lost me that night, Your Majesty," she said simply. "You miss me as a grown child misses a toy he once treasured. It would have no joy to you now."
Philip: Few had the gall to say what Ada said to Philip. Even Ghislain had known his boundaries. Philip reeled back as if Ada had slapped him again, but said nothing as he dropped his hand from her chin. The abyss grew between them, yawning silence that neither knew how to bridge, tatters of their relationship hardly enough to bind them together again. Without Ghislain, they drifted -- as they should. As Ada must. "He is a lucky man, who inherited my toy," Philip declared at last with a tired sort of vehemence. Philip was petty. He was a boy in a man's shoes. It was difficult not to love a man like Philip. Ada smiled, and in not the least of her offenses to courtly etiquette, left without leave, taking three measured steps away from him, and gracefully spinning on her heel, ran fast away from the king. Her heart was pounding, and her feet matched the muted music coming from down the street, a lightness to them that she almost -- almost -- felt guilty about.
Peregrine: Teeth came together flat against his lips, a low dangerous growl could have escaped had he not promised to keep silent. That man had his hands on Ada, but it was his lips that cast their impression on her own that damn near killed him. Eyes of ocean blue turned black with the hatred and anger that rose behind him; his hand went for the throwing dagger under his jacket. There was a space in his chest that grew for her watching as she made her demands clear. The king could have her bow, but he could never tame her. It had been many years since he had last seen those scars, but the memory was so fresh in his mind. Yesterday it seemed he helped her heal, pressed her fresh wounds against a tree only to kiss away the pain. There was so much space between them now that even as he reached out for her in the darkness he felt he was drawing a complete stranger against him. "He won't stop." He whispered there in the shadow of the building, a perfect place to spy on the king's next actions, and a perfect place to hold her steadily against him. The desire to replace those imprints on her lips with his was hardly able to control, "Let's go home."
Ada: "No, he won't," Ada replied honestly, relief beyond words at feeling Peregrine's arms around her. She hadn't realized the chill of her skin until that moment, and wished very much -- likely for the first time in her life -- she was wearing something a little more substantial. "Pere, you can't tell Jean-Claude. You absolutely cannot." Pity was one thing she did not wish, but futile anger served none of them. There were no threats she could make to Pere to ensure he kept his silence, no bargains she could strike that he might even contemplate. She'd never follow through on any of them, and he knew it. But she could ask. It seemed a familiar conversation, both with secrets to keep and dreams that made little sense. It was comforting. Even if they had started to wander their separate ways, she knew him almost as well as she knew herself.
As they walked, Ada shifted her arm around Peregrine's back, keeping close while they avoided the torch light. "I slapped the king of France," she said at last, and laughed so hard she had to stop to catch her breath, straightening up with an almost pained, "Ooh," and resting her hands upon Pere's shoulders. "Sea and stars, but it felt good." If Julian only knew what sort of confidence he had inspired in Ada by giving her the impetus to punch him. Still chuckling, she found his hand, and gave it a squeeze. "You cannot take me anywhere, I'm afraid...."
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Post by Adelaide d'Aquitaine on Apr 19, 2010 23:25:54 GMT -6
Ada: Ada had had enough adventure for one night, though she seemed lighthearted as Peregrine guided her to the door. For the briefest of moments, she paused. What should she say to him, that would make any sort of sense? She wanted to hear that he wouldn't tell Jean-Claude the precise details of her meeting with Philip. Yet if they had their promises between them, they did not apply where Jean was concerned. She merely reached up onto her toes, and kissed him softly upon his cheek. She also wished he would turn his head at the last second that she might meet his lips, but he didn't. She might thank him for that someday. She wasn't even certain she wished a passionate end to this evening, so disquieted were her thoughts. They turned down dark corners she had not walked in years, back toward memories she'd struggled to put behind her. Adding more, in the form of seducing the former pirate, was in short a very, very bad idea. With a brief sigh and a roll of her eyes, she quietly slid the door open, and catlike, disappeared into the darkness.
Peregrine: "I'll not say anything, just so long as you stay on the right side." His words could be heard through the night, a gentle kiss returned. However, he could not look Jean in the eyes, a bond shared that would spill the truth between them. He couldn't let the other see the look that was written of keeping secrets. The night was still young and with it the world at his fingertips. The Pirate had but one night to make it right, to set forth on a good foot, and eventually return to his wife. When his steps carried him away from Ada, he thought of Rosalind with the night sky so clear on the cool spring night. Perhaps, the memory of their visit to Paris was only his attempt at shoving away the desire for the little healer. Vixen.
Jean-Claude: In the dark he seemed but a ghost, burning orbs witness to the night--but never once noticing that the morning was close at hand. The hour had grown late, and his body had remained while his thoughts traveled through the passing time over possibilities endless. Jean-Claude hardly seemed human in this moment, where the wind kept it's distance, but the breeze still rustled through the raven of his hair, and fingered through the fabric of his clothes. It was a slow motion unnatural to any breath of life, but the energy around him could not be mistaken. How long had he been standing there? Waiting? A cold marble carved stone of a man, waiting for his soul to return. His treasured heart best suited only one though an open book for any to read. The moment she came through the door he felt the air return to his lungs, and the sound of an ancient breath passed over his lips as he could breathe again. Unnatural nearly black eyes from the lack of light seemed like glass set deep within his skull moved from his thoughts, to return upon the door in which she passed. It had upset him greatly they had gone, but he knew he could not have kept her. Now he simply waged war on how to battle back his...anger? regret? envy? He hardly knew how to feel.
Ada: That made two of them. Ada's eyes were not used to the absolute dark within. Even the streets had torch lights to guide the way, and she had not worried about details with the slap still making her hand buzz and Peregrine in her thoughts. She wished she knew some tonic, some spell to rid herself of that man. But if the one she'd tried had failed so miserably, she supposed the Goddess had plans yet for her. She was not certain whether to feel reassured or terrified by the notion, and decided it was best not to think of such things at such an unholy hour of night. She balanced on one foot as she removed her slipper, then the other, gathering her shoes in one hand and taking a timid step forward. If she had seen Jean-Claude, she very well might have continued the charade, moving in an exaggerated, but eerily quiet way across the floor. Ada had grown up in forests, after all -- she knew something of stealth, despite her usually cup runneth over attitude. And then she saw him, confusing right foot with her left, and tripping over both to make an ungraceful seat upon her arse, pressing a hand hard over her mouth to keep from giggling. If he did not know her better, he might presume her drunk, but the glory of Ada was that she approached life stone cold sober, not a drop of wine would pass her lips unless for ceremonial (or Peregrine-like) reasons. She muttered his name like some muttered the name of Jesus Christ, though with far less reverence than it deserved. She hopped back up to her feet, and shook out the folds of her dress. "What are you doing," she hissed, "standing in the dark like that?"
Jean-Claude: So fell away the feeling he was alone, but unlike Ada he did it just with a larger amount of grace. Though his heart that beat in his chest rose enough that his ribs seemed to heave in a breath to put it back. "Mon. Chatte." He was startled she had fallen, or that she had surprised him? "I.." For a moment his eyes flashed with a wide look of surprise to see her on the floor until he went to her side to correct her. "My apologies.. I was..watching for my order." That had been waiting by the door now for nearly three hours as he let the service go unheard. He would help her correct the gown, until he extended his hand to guide her perhaps in a style she would recognize from the dance floor of the Paris square. An elegance to his hand that made it hard to believe he ever soiled it with the fine rich nature of a certain dark red substance. He wanted to hear of her night, but was a bit flushed from the small hint of shame that he had been caught watching for her. "You must be very tired." Tucking her hand within his arm he lead her from the open room to the small chamber that had acted as a small den of sorts where she could rest. "Where is Pere?"
Ada: Ada gave him an odd look. "Waiting requires standing around in the dark?" But she took his hand, returning the elegant gesture the same way one of the court's ladies would -- with just the tips of her fingers within his own. It was an odd way to be escorted, Ada always thought. Stranger still when the gentleman was one's fiance. She set her slippers atop a bureau as they entered the smaller room and settled onto a chair. Never once would she sit in one properly, as she crossed her legs and sat lotus-style. "Oh, I am not tired at all. We barely spent any time dancing. The shoes were comfortable, too," she said, stretching her arms behind her head until she heard her back give a satisfying pop. Being a delicate court flower for so long had nearly done her in, but she wore the mask effortlessly, its seams never once visible. "Pere walked me to the door and left to go back to his room." There was little of the night that had been enjoyable, save his presence. She wished Jean had been there, but how much restraint would he have shown? How much would Philip? No doubt he was, even now, strategizing how to off Ada's alleged husband as a method of keeping her close, though the Goddess only knew why Philip thought such a plan would work. "Maybe I am tired," she said after a moment, unfolding her feet and rocking forward on them until she was standing. She grabbed her slippers from where she'd placed them and started toward the door.
Jean-Claude: He sat across from her, a perfect portrait of posture and performed manners. It was an art form really, and he a master. Perhaps he could feel the very presence of the night around her, but just the small statement of the dancing had put him there at her side throughout the whole night, "And they were all there?" There was a deep longing to hear of each step she took, so that he could walk through the crowd with her in his mind as he could imagine every one of his customers in their night of fun. "His Grace? Did he attend?" The million dollar question of the night, though there was such a simple manner in his asking. He went on to ask her every question of her well-being, and stood when she came to find her way to the door. There in the door way he caught her hand, feeling the heat rise to his chest of watching her walk away leaving him without answers, but the imprints of another? With a small amount of force he would kiss her, pulling her against him and using his height to his advantage as he most often did. There was but one way to tame the wild no? Perhaps it was jealousy that fueled the next question, and he had been so blind to it before letting it go so easy..Yet, Ada was his fiancee now. "You must have danced close to him all night." The cool edge of his angled face trailed along side her jaw inhaling deeply, "I can still smell him on your skin." Letting his eyes return to hers he let her go, and took a deep deflated breath, "But I am glad you had a good time."
Ada: She turned back to him, unsure what she felt when she saw him. She wished she could define it. Never before had she had such trouble. Concern? In all her wanderings through life, the point had never been to break a heart, yet if she would break anyone's, it would be Jean-Claude's. Never with malice, of course -- but through more of her carelessness. She would do anything to keep him safe. The air left her chest at the realization of what her next step would be just as he kissed her. She inhaled sharply through her nose, feeling drastically out of step with Jean-Claude. Her teeth hit his, and he let her go, Ada still feeling dramatically off her game. She let her breath out in a sigh, and took his hands in her own, leading him back to the sofa and pulling him down to sit next to her. She told him about the night. How the square was lit up, the gowns the women wore, who was there, and who was new. She told him what the queen and her lady-in-waiting were wearing. And Philip. How she had followed him, and Pere had followed her, into the dark side streets. Where she had told him of Ghislain, and lied about being married. There was no sense she hid anything from him -- wasn't their pattern always to demand information from her, and she spilled as easily as a knocked over cup of wine? But there was another giggly moment as she recalled how she'd slapped the King of France for taking liberties with her person. She hoped Jean laughed, too, but even Peregrine had found it difficult joining in after watching another man kiss her. She cleared her throat. She asked too much of her lovers.
Jean-Claude: It was too much to ask, and he made that very clear as he sat back against the sofa's seat. The half glass of wine forgotten there at the stand taken between his fingers. Jean-Claude was not angry, simply disturbed that a mad man so easily let her go. After what he had heard..never. In a small change of subject he let his breath go once more following around the corners of his mind where he pulled it back in. "There had been such a time I would have done anything to have gotten out of those events..and the temptation to return is enough to kill me. Do you know how hard it was to know you made your debut with a man who would do so little worth for your honor?" He went quiet again, the hurt he did feel rather overpowering in the passing moment that he let his mind fall away, "I can not stay here any longer without pulling you both into Hell with me. I should like to check in on Claramae, and see my Goddaughter as well. We have stayed too long." He spoke the truth as he worried now of their King and how fast he would be to pull her back in, or seek out where she slept at night. He had been to trial once, sentenced and executed. Would they think her to be able to raise the dead? "Peregrine sails tomorrow for Skye. Should we follow in his wake?"
Ada: Ada's laughter quieted, and she sighed again, leaning into him. She drew his arm across her shoulders. "We have. But we saw what we wished to see, yes? Even a little of what we did not. I could very easily have seen you among them, Jean-Claude, and thought what a shame it was that you were not. I love you." She rested her hand upon his chest. How could she not, this man who stayed up nearly 'til dawn waiting for her return? Even if it was a bit on the creepy side. "I would like to go. I do not need to stay around and wait for the other shoe to drop. My garden...." She missed like her own child, but it didn't feel right saying aloud. "Your work." If they stayed, Ada knew what would happen next, and it did not bode well for either of them. She would, however, go in search of the Ilkhanate woman before they left, though what she would say to convince her to go north was anyone's guess. Ada certainly had a knack for convincing people to do what they otherwise would not.
Jean-Claude: "Yes.." He smiled and drew her back against him running his fingers through her hair, the bare digits alive in the sensation that she was indeed real and loved him, "Your Garden, Mon Chatte..is no doubt missing your hands." He brought her hand to his lips and kissed the back of her knuckles relieved she did not turn away on the idea of going home. "Let us go to bed, Darling..we shall need our rest." Though in truth he could have slept right there.
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Post by Peregrine Inveryne-Lamont on Apr 20, 2010 11:50:34 GMT -6
Nasrin:
Dawn was nearing. Though the lords and ladies occupying the castle would remain sleeping for another hour, the servants and the Ilkhanate representatives were already awake. Nasrin was not a Muslim, but many in her entourage were. Since her cousin and father had converted, it was necessary to go through the motions. Once, she had bowed to Allah and meant it. Now, she walked a different path, though much of it remained unchanged from that of her past. They occupied the morning garden, since it faced Mecca, Nasrin standing behind the men while they prepared, the delicate crepe silk the shade of mulberry drawn across her lips. She was one of the few women to wear such garb and seem freed by it, rather than confined, moving as effortlessly as water downhill, and happily retaining the image of mystery that persisted even in her own company. Her husband was not among them, having no use for religion, and no need to impress anyone. With rumors that he ate dreaming children for snacks, it was doubtful any faith would have him, which suited Qadan just fine. Finally, it was time to kneel, the prayers recited, Nasrin settling behind the men and pressing her forehead to her prayer mat beside the two women attendants. When it was over, she walked away on her own. With rank came the privilege of always being right. With reputation came the privilege of demanding she be treated as a human being, not chattel to be protected in transit. Those who knew her were aware, of any who needed escort, it was hardly the Ilkhanate princess.
Peregrine:
The sun that would rise in the Paris sky seemed so different then that of Skye. Perhaps because it was not hidden behind defusing clouds or seeming so late to find the sky. Smelling of the earth, and worn by the weather Peregrine seemed to be alive the most when the light changed and shifted away from the light. The morning drums to welcome the sun so native to the nation, but made of his heritage--whatever that may be. He was the wild son of the trees a child of myth who seemed so out of place upon stone streets, but second natured with bare feet over the grassy yard of the garden. The music ancient moving through the few trees filling them with life that had been forgotten, and their branches filled when his palm passed over each carved trunk. The Fire Dance, to welcome the spring needed only the sun, and so he climbed towards the sky from branch to branch as if he walked on water--it looked so easy. "and in the end we shall all be on our knees." He spoke out from his perch looking down upon the small band of outcasts if they gave themselves enough time. "For what reason?" His question was not directed to just one, though the faint tinted lips of the woman no doubt could have been his only reason for finding such a place. Paris didn't have men like him, in fact they were so few and far between. Yet as she felt freed by the small bit of mulberry she so used, his was there where his hands connected with a much forgotten earth. Too long at sea, too long in a city--it was all the same.
Nasrin:
The trees were welcoming after so much stone of the castle, but the sense of claustrophobia persisted. She chafed to be on a horse, riding far and fast to anywhere. To nowhere. It did not matter, and there was no reason. She was born to be free, had been raised to think for herself, and had been forged in the fires of too many wars. She had rarely spent more than a few days indoors, and never in a world so manicured and green as France. At the sound of the voice, she glanced upward into the trees. He did not sound French. She could not place his accent, and until she was certain, chose to maintain her silence. Perhaps the madman was talking to the trees, though even a madman must know these trees would only bend to the wind. But she stopped anyway, pressing her hand upon smooth bark, and looked back to the garden, where the men were now speaking to one another as if they were in a mosque at home. They might stay there the entire day, though what news they could have after spending months on the road together, Nasrin doubted could ever be termed "new." They recycled old stories as a matter of comfort, relating some to parables, but mostly gossiping happily while Paris slept off her hangover. Later, they would summon boards for chess, and brew the strong, sweet coffee they preferred, earning looks of disgust from the French at the unknown substance.
Peregrine:
From somewhere in the night he had stolen one of Ada's ribbons, the one that kept the back so decorated of her gown, or perhaps the one she kept to tie her hair up; no matter the reason it was his. As black as night, he held the ribbon between his fingers for a moment before reaching it out to the Ilkhanate princess and let it fall slowly. The wind so carried it with perfect precision to her feet that it appeared he could control the very breeze that so carried the scent of the rare rose oil she had given Jean-Claude as a gift. A smile to her then, as if he could have read her thoughts of madmen and the ability to control trees. The cover of the leaves was not so complete put from somewhere on the backside he kept his decent to the ground guarded from those men in the garden. "What a night this was." He pulled his legs under him perching his back against the trunk of the tree finding a good sturdy base branch to keep his balance. "So tell me Princess." First time in a very long time he gave that line, and it actually meant something. "Care to make a trade?"
Nasrin:
She turned to face him, but only after studying the ribbon. Picking it up as he made his descent, she held it between her fingers. With her hand occupied, the crepe silk fell away from her face, though there was as much apparent of her emotions with or without the silk that there was no real benefit. She canted her head ever so slightly, a serene bird contemplating a frog for dinner, and so real was the impression, that even Nasrin had to correct her posture to avoid offending him. Paris had partied the night away, each hour and each glass of wine making her progressively easy with her ways. No doubt, many heads were hurting as dawn retreated into day. It was a perfect time for clandestine deals, though as ever, Nasrin refrained from speaking until she knew the entire story. She held her cards far closer than most this pirate would have met, never revealing a source, though at least he would understand he dealt honestly with the Ilkhanate. Nasrin had played courtly games before, and had the skill to do so again even among these barbarians, but now was not the hour. She lifted her shoulders elegantly, briefly, as permission for him to go on.
Peregrine:
Just seeing her covered as she was, made him miss his modest wife. Who wouldn't wear that color lip stain if her life depended on it--and perhaps that love pushed him from his game. However, the woman's silence kept it's place well and he couldn't help but chuckle. "Just as they should, quiet until asked to speak is that it?" He heard Maahes give that line to his wife more often then not, and wondered if he too would get the same reaction. "A wild animal in the house of cards..classic. Is that why you remain so quiet?" He could guess for hours, but when he set his mind on something there was little to let him escape the idea. He put his hands to his chest as if to talk to a native of a foreign land, "King of Hearts." Pointing to her again, "Ace of Spades..will you kill me in my sleep?" He spoke to her in English because he watched her understand. "Perhaps you may not see fit we know each other, but I come with a well worth your time message." He put his chin on his hand as he looked down to her once again, "Not a fan of these little games, pieces of chess given to kings, rose oil traded for the information." How he got that bit of information was a bit of a stretch, but no less it came natural. "You pulled them in, Princess..a happy family that sealed their doom with your questioning a subject you were asked to stop. Perhaps this..is your reason you won't talk now?" He narrowed his eyes on her then a danger filling the blue surface. "You are aware if something happens to any of them, I'll find you. Oceans of water, oceans of sand won't stop me."
Nasrin:
He could guess, and never once arrive at the truth. The long look she gave him expessed just that, but without so many words. However, his guesses were bordering on insulting, and the time for silence had passed. In English, spiced with the music of another land, she replied, "I found what I was looking for. No doubt, any who wish to look in the future, will find others equally willing to speak. We have an expression where I come from. Nothing remains buried for long." The sands shifted. Truth revealed through abrasion was no less truthful for its methods of discovery. "You are a friend of his," Nasrin said, speaking once again, but lacing her fingers behind her back and righting her posture beneath the elegant robes. "I understand if you are angry. Waking Philip is like an amputation. It is unpleasant, but necessary to save the arm. He lets gangrene thrive in his court, and for very good reason, fears the knife that will cure it. I am done with the woman. Her ... husband? I will conclude my business with shortly." And it was back to silence again, but of course, judging the shorter man no less for his climbing trees like a boy.
Peregrine:
"Yes I'm a friend..more then a friend." In his own right, Peregrine never minded showing someone his cards they were always the right ones. "You don't know what you've started. Your justice is in waking Philip? There was much to wake?" He let his feet touch the ground then coming to stand level with her, wondering if she could hear his screaming thoughts or the anger that seethed from him. "Tell me what you know about her husband, and you tell me the truth. You leave nothing out, and maybe I'll let you finish." Dawn was not far, and soon he would have them all three safe back home in Skye. He let his anger subside falling away by a landslide with the hope that he could finally see a bit of himself he thought he had lost. When it came to his life, he was so careless, but when it came to those of who he loved; there was nothing in him that wasn't more careful. Jean-Claude had always been so dear because he was the brother of a woman he loved, and now the lover of another. It was a complicated triangle but there was enough driving force behind his passion that could have given into anything she would offer to see them safely home. "That's my family you could have killed. So forgive me if I come off a bit brash, but I don't have much of that left." He spoke his apology in the same voice he spoke his threats.
Nasrin:
"I know everything," she said shortly. She would never make such statements with the intention of plying him for more information. She knew, and it was clear by her tone that it was fact and not another card to be played. She was not without a heart, though. When he spoke of family, Nasrin nodded. She had had family once, too. They were gone now, all save her second husband. She knew what it was to lose them all. One could rebuild their life without them, but it was a hard life. No one chose such a life, and if Nasrin had to start over again, she would opt out. "I understand." It was unfair to play the lives of this woman and her husband in exchange for the Ilkhanate's gains, but this was what she was sent to do. It was unfair, but it was ethical. "I know of his career here, and of his birth family. I know of the title at stake, of his trial and execution. I am the only one who knows the entire story. My husband, he is a diplomat in name only. He has as much interest in what I do as ... well. You. I do not encourage you to do so, as I have worked hard for the pleasure of standing here, and have faced far more dire negotiations, but if you kill me, another has but to ask the questions as I did to find the truth. I may be the first, but I will not be the last. That woman is a threat to Jean-Claude as long as they are upon French soil. The king has made it clear to me that he intends on keeping her here. He is expendable. Who better to kill, than a man presumed already dead."
Peregrine:
His heart fell through his chest, though his chest tightened around it. She said words he had thought, but dare not say out. "Does the King know who it is?" He took a step forward, "You do. How can I trust you not to tell him?" He whispered then, "You have no clue the war this would bring to the surface between two nations." For a moment he was speechless, unable to admit there was in fact something terribly wrong with the entire situation. She held all the right cards, and perhaps she would know? This woman first time taking a look upon him, had the power to bring him to his knees. "I've got nothing to take from you, or see you fall from where you stand." He started after a moment of silence, "I would hope you would not see him killed..and know that I'll die first." Which was impossible, but why add that? "He's protected by a very very deep vein in our homeland. This court and this King will be dead not one nightfall after." A promise that could be written in blood, but still he held out his hand. "Peregrine." Should be about time for names no?
Nasrin:
"No. He has no interest. Yet," she added, wishing there was not such certainty in her tone. She did not wish misfortune on anyone. Such things happened when arranging the fates of nations, such sacrifices must be made, but had she not learned to minimize damages in the past, she would not be so successful now. Her mouth softened momentarily in empathy, but she did not alter her stance. Kings and generals had learned to take heed of her word. None could alter what she set in motion, and it would seem a miracle that she stood at all. He had merely to test the theory to be met with the training all Mongolian children received since learning to walk. She had not been spared due to her title, and was as often found charging into a battle as she was starting or deferring one from behind enemy lines. The woman was not fearless; she quite simply had had nothing to lose until Qadan.
"I do not wish him dead. It benefits no one, and harms us all. Yes, I know what his dream is, and there is much that I can teach him. Not here." The last words were spoken quietly, giving a brief look over her shoulder, and then resting her eyes back upon Peregrine. "I do not wish the king dead, either, for all the work I have done, and needlessly jeopardizing this woman is unspeakably cruel. In this, you have my word. It is not something I break lightly. For this reason, I wonder -- do you have room for two more upon your vessel? Though we have a Roman escort, our god has a different name. When the Church has what it desires, I am afraid my services will no longer be required. Allow me to give into your hands what is most precious to me, and I will ensure those that are precious to you will remain unharmed." She did not touch men other than her husband, but in this instance, she made an exception, letting the tips of her fingers rest within his hand, and hoping he clasped them. "Nasrin."
Peregrine:
"Yet..That isn't a word I like to well." He spoke with a quiet pull in his voice, seeming as if he were shy when he spoke, but it was more the pull of proof the subject bothered him dearly. "Nasrin." He did close his hands over hers, his fingers brushing the back of her knuckles clearly very open and willing to match ideas with her. Pere was a very hands on man, in the face of his enemy, and perhaps it was his smaller frame that held him so close to danger.
Her trade seemed right, but still he was hesitant to accept drawing on the world around him digging into the truth of the matter. The wind pressed a strand of his hair over his brow and it brushed against the warm part of his cheek. There was his answer.
"I don't have room for the animals.." He gave the truth for once, letting her hand go. "My cargo hold is full, but..Ada's ship.." He put his hands in his pocket tumbling the subject with a small amused look at how Jean-Claude would react to sailing home with their horses. Straightening his back he took one step back lifting his chin as he went, "I leave in 5 hours."
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