Post by Julian Luke Monroe on Apr 20, 2010 23:50:07 GMT -6
Jean-Claude d'Aquitaine
In our lives there is bound to come some pain, surely as there are storms and falling rain; just believe that the one who holds the storms will bring the sun. April always held such wonder, a burning new life for each day as they were never like the other. The winds of change had blown in a storm that ended the day too soon, her rage come undone with heavy rains and a violent force that could rattle a tree to the barrel of it's root. For what reason was the lightning? So violent, a quick death when struck--the powerful force of God almighty; each flash cast chills to chase his spine as a brooding devotion of a man could have been overturned by any given strike. This, was what he wishedto harness, the very reason all of Paris had cast their stones. A single question, asked even in his dreams as the nightmare of his reality set in. How could we harness this power? God's well energy spent seemed to have no meaning,no reason, or any kind of pattern; lightning never struck the same place twice, but from it came fire. Paris, had been an opening eye to the ruins of a man's mind, and from it only well devoted passion rose. It was a refresher upon purpose and the self given drive that pushed him through what had been lost. The storm had passed, leaving behind the destruction of new flowers--their petals streaming with the flood in the streets, and as the clouds would clear around the ivory tower there still struck the flash of lights, hidden behind thick amber glass it seemed to be a beacon in the night that the Master had returned. (d
Janice de'Brabant
The synonym to the flashing principle of God was the resonant glow of a bit of light made flesh; the tread of the horse hooves cantering in the lane across the stone didn't have the same non chalant, glorious zeal as a bolt of thunder but served to navigate the young woman through the remnants of petals shaken free of trees. Semi-naked branches gaped a seeming embarrased red along their worn to wick limbs at the immodest holes the wind left in their floral garments. Alas, but imported blooms could not withstand the lust of a Scottish rain. Across the saddle bags on the taupe colored gelding, hidden under thick wrappings of leather and cloth were the tools of the trade.Fog rolled in, but didn't detere her advance towards no where particular, for all the true business had been concluded. Now, as the night cleared? She looked upward at a patch of sky that survived the onslaught. Through the black clouds she saw the diamond glitter of stars. The word for star flashed through her mind in no less than ten languages; a livlihood made from words increased ten fold when the one to whom eternal word was given faded back over the horizon. If he had only stayed, he would hear his ancestral name said with respect instead of imagined cynacism, but to have the patience of a cloister nun, one would have to be no less than she. (d)
Jack Trades
The rain that flooded the streets also poured into the darkened alleyways. In the shadow of the tower, another shadow stirred. A heap of oilskin cloth top with a broad-brimmed hat had coiled up onto a small crate as the petal laden streems burbled past. Black as the night around him, the folds of oilskin cloth parted, and a calloused had came to rest upon the hulking figure's lap. Within the scarred digits rested a small intircatley carved wooden box. Its lines and curves were inlaid with silver and gold. Meaty fingers slowly opened the box. The wind that pushed the storm clouds away also pushed the tinkling of a slow and beautiful melody through the foggy air. In the box, a tiny figure turned and bobbed to the music. Poised in elegance, the angelic face of the alabaster dancer turned up softly to the gaze of the shadow that held its home. (d)
Julian Monroe
The light was all the warmth in the very air of the night, the cool breeze a swift change from the somber winds, and the clear patch of the stars could not have been without reason. Ivory fingers, long and thin were curled within pockets of his coat, that was the color of a deep oak and seemed to outline his body enough to add height where it was not needed. In passing, heavy boots hit every puddle as if the feeling of the water breaking beneath his feet gave him some sort of power over the weak. Julian walked in the light, never once stepping where the night seemed too far gone from the day, and keeping to the streets. Alleys were for rats, and this would be the category he would place the toymaker happily. For a man who spent so much time with the Lily's, Julian had heard of Trades far too many times to keep his thoughts clear, and perhaps he would start to make some sort of comment about business if he thought the man beneath the oil skin cloak was worth his time. Much had changed since Jean had been gone, and as the sight of the beloved Angel came next he could not help but smirk; though again he held his tongue brushing past herwith enough force to lodge a step clear if she did not hold her balance well, and found his steps in direction of the tower. "It is what you get for counting on stars you know." His voice trailed off as he made his way down the street, to wait where Jean-Claude said he would meet his young apprentice. Were they all gathered for the same purpose? If so, he still wouldn't stand on the same street corner--afraid for the man's smell, and the constant motion of Lady of Letters lips--in all 10 languages it all sounded the same. (D
Janice de'Brabant
Hot balls of gas contained poetry in the form of liquid mercury dancing across an eternal plane of alchemy. The man whom did only nudge the side of the gelding forwent poetic appreciation of the sky, but perhaps the man in the shadow with his music box could draw a better conclusion of God's work. It swayed her not, but irratated the horse enough for him to seek the edge of Julian's shoulder, missing it by a narrow margin. "Let it be..let it be." She clucked her tongue, issuing soothing words while inward for a moment desired the outcome of that nip. Vindicative she was not, but a little practical vengence was oft called karmic justice. Julian loathed the ground the Lady of Letters stood on, and given the circumstances? She no longer tried to like or dislike him. He merely was, and as a fixture in the world of d'Aquitaine was given his proper due. "By your leave, Monroe." It was as close to a fair evening as he would be wished. Polite, but of all people, there was a distinct resonance of social civility turned cold that might even give him pause. Indeed, things had changed in the master's absence. Enough for the underside of the Angel's wings to grow the occasional barb. Turning her face toward the oil skin gentleman, she smiled to him instead, peering towards the contents of his box. Master Jean-Claude's arrival was more of a feeling to Janice than outward signs, as were the movement of any of the elite ones (d)
Jack Trades
While the less than courteous exchange went on, the music box tinkled on, seemingly oblivious of the petty sourness. As the Lady's attention focused on him, the slightly gnarled digits closed the box unhurriedly, silencing its melody. The meaty hand closed over the box as it retracted back under the oilskin cloth. A hearty voice rumbled out from the shade under the brim as the wrinkled canvas lifted to center upon her. Its tone rumbled an eddied like a softened version the thunder that had roared just a short while earlier. "Can I help ye?" (d)
Julian Monroe
There was an expression that could have rivaled a child that no doubt they all compared him, but the dry overly icy look within the startling blue of his eyes seemed to watch for the light to dim in the tower like a longing. Eagerness, Julian displayed such impatience to see Jean-Claude that even his stance was incomplete--bracing for the wind. Ice met coal as their eyes connected, and the tin pull of his lips would take the package extended to him."You got it?" The question hardly able to be heard as it was asked in English, for he knew the company they kept could understand either. The shape of a book of course held to his chest, with a strange small cracking of a small and a very very very brief pleased smile.
Jean Claude d'Aquitaine
"Of course Mon Keune apprenti...Ne doutez pas de moi." A hand extended from the dark to touch that of the boy's shoulder as he turned wayward from the street. There was a break in the darkness for so very few, the light of the youth's eyes so very dear to one who had once been in his shoes. How many times had the Scientist waited so patiently in the dark understudy of his own Masters; even now he felt as if he waited on baited breath for the return of Claramae to her study. The hall was dreadfully dull without either of them circling outside his door waiting for conclusion, and the halls were too vacant at night. If possible France had aged him, destroyed what youth had been purchased form black markets, and the little glass vials were all empty--waiting to be filled. The fight with Adelaide had pushed him over the edge of reason, and with the return to Skye Jean-Claude had forced himself inward. "I can not wait to see the shop, I have heard of your success Julian, I do not know how you.." His attention turned towards the heavens as they looked down on him for once, but she was rather tall upon that horse. It struck him, as if he had been submerged into ice the only cure for such a fever as she, "Mer et étoiles.." An expression stolen from Ada, but somehow it seemed to fit. His hand came to his chest to provoke his heart to beat again, as a smile warmed his face, "Mon Cher Ange. Look how lovely you are." Dear God had he been away that long? She seemed to have grown so much over night, and of course he would open her arms to take her if she so saw it fit. (d
Janice de'Brabant
"The music from your box, and the contents, are wonderful. I pray you would open it again, sir. It gives a melody to the evening." She canted her head in the direction of Jack, causing the tumble forward of the bound golden hair across her shoulder. Nothing could ever compete with the hair of the Queen, but it seemed her earth inspired wheat hair held its own quality of luster. "My name is Janice, Janice de'Brabant. God keep you." Conversation could have ensued beyond a few words, but he stole her attention. It could be said that the Masters of Ebony Hall were always rewarded reverance yet each was different from the other. Without a second thought, she descended from the back of her horse to meet the earth on a plane he remembered. Except, when was it that peach colored gowns cut in fashion's favor ever approached him? Beneath the riding cloak kicked up the shades, coming up to him were hands gloved with ermine lining. Instead of the bun, her hair was in a wrapped ponytail that came across her shoulder, and instead of naked ears, small diamond tear drops rested there. By the time her arms locked about him in warm embrace he could have been dreaming were it not for the voice hadn't changed. "Master Jean-Claude, welcome home! You've been away for far too long!" (d)
Jean-Claude
He squeezed her tight as always one should when greeting the well versed Angel, it was reassurance she was in fact real, and not a lie of his exhaustion. Though this was very how his madness ran through his mind, and often the best work came from a world so few could enter. She was so warm, like one would envision the sun after a cold winter or the steady ground after a long journey at sea. "Oh, ma petite, how I have missed you." He could have laughed simply for the pure joy of the moment to have something real to hold onto, and indeed return him to the ground that had been spinning for weeks now. "Forgive me for not coming to see you sooner, I had heard your husband had gone home, and I figured you with him." He did not want to release her, but proper manners were already broken--let the rumors not start now, Jesus she was wearing earrings, tart. Was it Saturday? Was he missing some sort of event? She didn't wear such things..and her hair was down. Lord Mercy, was she trying to send him to hell?
Julian Monroe
From behind them a small sound escaped him that could have been a gasp, had he not moved his hand to cover up his pale lips. "Jean.." He whispered, his heart in his throat for worry of what the elder had said. He didn't know, how could he have known her husband had left. His heart actually broke, the very same For in Whoville they say, the Grinch's small heart grew three sizes that day. It ached at Jean's error, as even he could have some sort of compassion.How he would have lived in the moment of the embarrassing of the little angel, and some young brat would have laughed. Yet, behind those blue eyes there was indeed a well groomed gentleman, even if the common manners were often lost to him. He winced for the pretty peach flower, even if her nose was too big for her face any man on the Isle would be a fool to not think her beautiful. "Forgive him." Finally he spoke, folding his hands behind his back and looking down at her off the shoulder of the Frenchman. "He's not heard."
Jean Claude d'Aquitaine
"Not heard what?" Suddenly he asked looking up with questioning eyes, and wondering himself what she was doing out at such an hour dressed as she was and with...Jack Trades of all people. The toymaker would get nothing from the man but a look down the bridge of his nose at the very one who broke Shaden's heart, thankfully he was there to mend it for that stubborn fool, Nic. "What a web we weave, Dear Jack, Spiders they shall call us no less." His stance was tall, and a broad chest did roll back his shoulders. There would be a throw down, if the toymaker said but one wrong thing. "Are you her escort tonight?" Oh buttons were gonna fly now, and they would be such fine ones--feed a small country for a week. (d
Janice de Brabant
To merely embrace him was to embrace a piece of a dream cemented now into reality. She laughed, a precious sound with a rarity these days. No, it was not endangered. It lacked use, though. As the conversation ensued she would have flushed an awkward shade of scarlet shame were it not for worry for the toymaker who did nothing but hold a music box! "Non, Monsieur, I passed by him upon my horse..only. When I did he was most cordial. My escort are present." The last was lowered when spoken of, and as the tone rose? "and they are seeing to a permanent, more public escort of couse. As for my husband's return to Austria, he is there, I am not. Nor shall I ever be. It seems that for all one's love Austrian parchment with commands and promise of reward hold more charm. He grew displeased of the Isle, and on that note we parted ways." It was a gentler rendition of the truth. She was shocked at Julian's pardon of the master's ignorance. finding that normally only ice lived in him in reference to her. "It is alright, thank you." For this she meant it. The pain at first was much, but now it was a private half open wound. More an irratation than a thing to cripple. Still, it was what it was that she now elevated more of her standing through battling self pity with greater volumes of work to take presidence. (d)
Jack Trades
A calloused hand reached up to tug at the still-wet brim in Jean's direction. The hearty voice rumbled casually, but the burly figure made no other rmotion as the hand disappeared again. "Evenin'...As the lady says, we've just met. Labels tossed about in common gossip do nae concern me. More truth can be found upon a man's hands. Do ye nae agree? I apologize fer meetin' ye at a strange hour, though I come tae express gratitude fer what ye've done fer Shaden, and offer recompense fer yer efforts." (d)
Jean Claude d'Aquitaine
He stood there silent, his mind having lost it's train of thought; quickly it came crashing down. He did not have to look over his shoulder to know Julian stood there exhaling slowly at how Janice had bounced back, but more importantly there was in fact someone solid who could indeed catch his body continued with what his mind had started. Leave it to Jean-Claude to only hear the melody of the music box then his own stopped heart. This was a moment when all the world passed before his eyes, and the feeling of his heart ache could have emptied out upon the street. His composure however was found with a deep seeded anger, one that was so very rare for him but seeming more present behind his eyes as he grew older. Suddenly, the fight he and his own fiancee were in mattered very little and was easily forgotten about. How could he be so selfish to not offer Janice all of his thoughts in her time of healing. A careful inhale of his breath grounded him again as he dare not leave her eyes, though that dry monotone pompous voice of his rose to Jack then. It was the same voice he used when speaking to the public, or another politician--a voice of reason that bent around business only, "You've nothing to thank me for, Jack." Take note he didn't use a formal title for the man, "I've done a lot to help this Isle, I do not expect anything in return from every last thankful man. I'm sure there will be a time when they'll call me crazy, hang me from the streets, and perhaps then I'll count on those favors. I just hope.." He turned to face the man then, and every verse in the bible : that spoke of death could have been spouted from any onlooker. "It does not happen again." Was that a threat? Yes. Yes it was. However, it was an open ended emotion that extended to field in which he now held Marius on. That man ever walked on this Isle again, he'd find his outcry too late as various organs would be spun about Jean's lab like decorations at Yule. "You've a brilliant mind, Jack, let us not think of loosing it shall we?" His hand came to Janice's own and he brought it his lips to kiss the back of her knuckles before brushing his thumb across her skin, "And how is your shop?" Day and night, he switched from one to the other so easy. (d
Janice de Brabant
She read her initial reaction on his body, memorizing the language in the ballet of suspense that had drawn out her limbs in anguish, in rage. One was taught the faithful prevailed in these matters but God is granted his own sense humor by challenging his most pious. Nothing could change the course of the Austrian whom seemed to hold part of her life direction in same hands holding the reigns of his horse. Her home was bereft of people; Dora Lynch had gone to the small estate her husband won in the last jousting season, taking her children. Marius was gone, which left only the need to find suitable workers to fill the home of one whom was a Lady, by her own merits, as well as by a marriage gone fickle. "Tis good to meet you, Master Jack. Your countenance favors a description of a man in the archives, and one that I have heard the Lord Guardian speak highly of. Again, tis good to meet you." An awkward conversation. His thanks against her loss. His brilliance against her hour of need. "The shop fairs far better since the coming and now absence of Marius, and all of the intrigue. Since I keep his majesty's archives and books for the court, now, this also helps. Soon I will go track a few rare volumes myself on the continent." In Spain. He needn't know that lest he faint. She was already wearing diamond earings, and the color peach. (d)
Jack Trades
Allowing the more tender moment its time, the hulking frame still stood without motion while Jean's words sloughed off like the rain water that dripped from the oilskin poncho. The wrinkled brim dipped toward Janice and the voice rumbled again. "Thank ye, Lady Janice. 'Tis warming tae meet a ray of sunshine such as yerself. I may trouble ye fer a look at that particular archive some time if'n there be the possibility." The brim made the short swivel to center on Jean again. There was no change in the baritone that rumbled and eddied form the shade. "Me mind perhaps be the one thing I have nae lost. Though ye may nae expect anything in return, ye have earned it none the less. Would ye have use fer a brilliant mind - perhaps a better use than merely evading torches and pitchforks?" (d)
Julian Monroe
Clair de Lune, came to mind then as the silence could have broken away from the world so easy as he felt himself drifting; his memory pulling a melody played over strings. It had been his beacon when he came to finally live with Jean-Claude, and worried it would all end. Julian hurt for Janice only because her innocence as not unknown in any of the city's. Even on the small starving farm he was raised on, stories were told of the Angel in the court whose womanhood was on the market. She could have been a mule with a sack over her head for all that mattered, but the sick idea of someone taking away such a token was enough to gain the right attention of anybody. Those were his first memories of her, and she held onto that until him. However, just like that the dinner cloth was pulled from the table and the glass of wine spilled with his laughter. He tried to hide it behind white knuckles as the curled against his lips at Jack's comment about her being the everlasting sun--a sweet little ray she was no longer. It was a snide comment, so he kept it to himself, but it could have been very well spoken as he turned his back on the rest of them making his way down the street with what he came for.
Jean Claude d'Aquitaine
"Torches and pitchforks have been my one companion my some 40 years of life." And after Paris he would start to go gray no doubt, "But thank you." He offered Jack a bow of his head, the jet black strands of his own falling just so to shadow a face that held so many mixed emotions. A man of proper manners would have simply pressed on with fake smiles and laughter. However, he was a mad man to the core--let it be known now. "Janice..I shall wait for you in the study." (d
