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Post by Master Claramae St. Laurence on Aug 22, 2010 23:14:37 GMT -6
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Post by Master Claramae St. Laurence on Aug 28, 2010 9:15:20 GMT -6
The Beginning of the End - III
Duchess Claramae Vincere St. Laurence
Talk of escape was matched by its lack of motion; it was but a little ways to the coast from Canterbury, a little ways wherein even if they sailed a ship 'round the island back to Scotland for the advantage of safety in the IrishSea or even North, beside the North to see Scotland's border sooner, nothing was done. Jean-Claude had to leave the side of the woman he called sister because there were still a few that had come from the attack that needed his skill, or they'd die.So many were lost so soon that it must have felt compelling, redeeming, to mend them. For his good works, for all of those listening to the leaders hope was universal: That the Duchess, the Master, by whatever herald one called her..that she awoke. He brought in to a people that outside and inside of the place he used as his hospital, in the Canterbury streets, to their knees. The war was fading, winding down..her life now a candle in windstorm. To keep her from the sickshe lay on a table,made as comfortable as possible in a quiet hall (d)
Duke Michael Vincere St. Laurence
Michael remain quiet someways down the hall. He was walking to Claire with something steaming in his hands. The bowl was actually scalding hot, but his gloves helped protect his hands from substantial injury as he navigated through a small crowd. When he arrived, he set the bowl down and turned the contents softly with a spoon, stirring the ingrediants. His expression was a blank one, but anyone who knew him could tell he was deep in thought. After a few moments, he glanced up to look at Clare's face and lightly nudged her. "Hey sleepy head, I have something for you to eat." [d]
Servant
It'd been hour after hour since the internal bleeding was deemed not to be, her bandages had been soaked with red. She was redressed then, yet barely conscious enough to utter her own name. Would she wake up for him? A servant peered round the door in curiosity "Need anything your grace," he asked, licking his lips to keep them moist. He was anxious, they all were. "A better chair to sit with the lady?" The steam rose from the food, yet she didn't stir. (d)
Duke Michael Vincere
There was a glimmer of hope for a moment, but she didn't stir and his shoulders sagged a bit. He turned to look toward the servant and shook his head no, silently. Turning back to look at Clare, he sighed softly and stuck the spoon back into the bowl. "Well, if you're not going to wake up to eat this delicious soup.. I'll have to eat it." He frowned and watched the motion of the soup as he stirred it. He didn't look entirely too happy.-- Breaking his thought, he did lightly touch the side of her face with his hand, dragging the tips of his fingers along her cheek.[d]
Duchess Claramae Vincere St. Laurence
"I will still send for one, m'lord. We are praying for you, and for her, you both. God bless you sir," The door was shut again for a time, leaving him with her yet almost alone. She looked so tired, was it a wonder it would take death to pull her down to a single night of restful sleep? It went on like this for several more moments- even to the point where breathing stilled enough - low enough -...God no. For several moments chest neither rose or fell, her face turned to the side with no muscle to force it back. Ease was settling in on the form. Some prayed for her not to be taken, others prayed for her peace. Which set occurred now? (d)
Duke Michael Vincere St. Laurence
Michael remained calm, call it war reserve or a detached sense of stability, but he viewed this rationally in his head. He had considered the possibilities of his wife passing, and what might become of him. He swore his sword would be stored for the rest of his life, and he'd find a small cottage to live out the rest of his days. -- As he watched her start to relax, and the tell-tale signs of death curling its fingers around her, he sank back into the darknessof the room.[d]
Duchess Claramae Vincere St. Laurence
The pair was hallmarked for their strange calm, detached way of being. To look at them overlong would be death by a gaze! Yet, in England..yet...by war to unify with those around them the Vincere-St. Laurences' cracked open the rib cage to show the things that beat blood, that breathed. Service was not done by unfeeling individuals but rather those whose love was expressed in what the Duchess oft called 'thy perfect love,thy perfect service' meaning that one would do anything, be anything, to preserve what was worthy. As he slipped back into the darkness of the room, it seemed the fire too went lower. With little fanfare, as she preferred all things in life, did she go to death? Orwas it that in his preperations, in a place where his heart screamed out despite his silence..a memory could be fueled. While England made the woman within viewable, it did not detract from some base traits..such as her breathing. As she lived, you could rarely tell she breathed at all. Use of air for control of muscle was tadamount to what she did (d)
Duke Michael Vincere St. Laurence
Michael's unnerving calm could have been misinterpreted as apathy, but the way he watched and studied her proved otherwise. He loved Claramae more than anything in his life, material or not. She was the strength behind a beating heart and the drive in his step. He came back under the light and gently touched the inner portion of her hand with his fingers. Typically, if she was alive, this sudden touch would make her flinch, then she close her fingers aroundhis own. His other hand gently brushed through her hair, his thumb gently touching her forehead.[d]
Duchess Claramae Vincere St. Laurence
The candle looked to be extinguished as it burned too long from both ends. A flat, unyielding expression lends itself to belief of a sterile interior .This wasn't the case for either of them.Claramae loved what she loved with a furyas accurate as her aim, as precise as her equations, and as poignant as her word. It was the purest motive she ever possessed, calling it the 'never solved, yet ever brilliant case' she could wander in all her days with him. The man who touched her hair had been the only man that took her to wife, doing what no other could. He loved her for years before, and the wedding was only a new chapter in that love. She fought with him, bled with him, and broke body that sought to harm him. Why, she even stiched him together when he should have died, so it stood to reason he had likepower. It was cruel, the waiting. He was rewarded, finally, the fingers of her hand flinched, moving inward, slow while the rest of her did nothing until they closed around his. After abit more, her head turned until it nuzzled in his other should he bring it forward."I dreamed...of you." She said, stifled and dry, a ghost of a smile as she viewed him through still focusing eyes (d)
Duke Michael Vincere St. Laurence
"I dream of you all the time." He admitted, leaning forward a bit to kiss her lips softly. "Was it a good dream?" He smiled, lingering close enough to her she could probably smell him. His eyes drifted from her own as he looked up to watch her nuzzle into his hand's grasp. A sense of relief spread over his conscience that seemed to have a physical effect over him; he felt as if a weight had been cast from his shoulders and he could stand without the strain of loss bearing down upon him.[d]
Duchess Claramae Vincere St. Laurence
"In part...but you were so worried, and would not let..me go. I see why." She laughed, wincing as the process of contracting muscles of the abdomen upset sore ribs, still it was good to chuckle. She took the kiss to nourish dry lips, watching him now with full eyes, "I loved,yet did not understand..how loved I was in return..I have some memory. Slivers. Prayers, tears. The sound of your worry,of Jean-Claudes. No..I didn't..understand." She turned a still slight trembling head to kiss his hand, "Even a master may learn one more lesson." (d)
Duke Michael Vincere St. Laurence
"I think you've learned enough.." Michael said, shifting closer with his body if only for comfort. "I think it's time for us to go home.." His hand raked softly back through her hair, and he smiled softly. "No more of you getting hurt, or needing mending. It's time for you to be a woman." Instead of a weapon. He kissed her forehead and looked into her full eyes with a hidden drive of determination. Perhaps she wasn't winning this debate.[d]
Duchess Claramae Vincere St. Laurence
"So you are telling me my lord that I should allow my noviates and journeymen to go out so that I might mend them instead,of their hurts?" She had never countered determination with humor, but she had never been so suspended that returning would be near impossible. She put her arms around him, and yes, it was forced to move up at all. The pain was considerable, the strain pulled at at attempting to make lines in her face, but somehow she ended up with her arms around him, sitting up to some degree. Analytical mind new what Jean-Claude had mended, even stiched, for her back head felt strung somewhere. "What if...I told you...on going home I wished only to be an advisor...the local one?" she grinned, "Even a master must groom what is beyond." She knew that this was the fullest extent, the apex of everything in her life. The deed was done, but with a price he said couldn't be paid (d)
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Post by Master Claramae St. Laurence on Sept 7, 2010 1:07:34 GMT -6
Interlude
The battle's waged, the war is done. The battle's waged, the war is won. We prepare to leave and make our fare wells but take the time to understand that well in advance we must remember how to be, how to accept a friend to good company. To see that we may leave something better in our wake..
Sir Martin lePower
He will come without Aurilla. One elderly man too dignified and prayful to be denied entrance to the hall. Martin had inhaled the scent of dying, suffering and had hope they came into this room with their sister, Recovery. He doffed his soft dark blue cap and held it in both hands, like a clasp during benediction. His bald dome gleamed refelctions of candlight and bright blue eyes sharp especially in distance, looked to see his dear friend, "Gracie". Ah yes, he nicknamed Claramae in is thoughts and in affection for her strength of character and bravery. Her, he admired. And he went to see her once again, if that be possible. (d)
Duchess Claramae Vincere St. Laurence
The dying and the dead had lent their mouths to move for her sake. No one spoke of the Duchess' beauty, nor her Grace but only the stalwart fidelity she showed even unto the moment she was laid low. The tears she'd shed over members of the service, the plans she laid as others had laid theirs for all the glory that was England. LePower was admitted entrance without delay. "The architect, the architect and engineer" Whispers of his fortifications in the battles that'd been fought were the legends that fed zealous young minds. Tonight, prayerful concern would be his master as he was at least greeted to the sight of her cognative after a long, long sleep. Once a hall for dining, now it was her private chamber. The talbe was pushed along a far wall, curtains erected around it, pillows, blankets put about it. A maid was fetched from the Archbishop's palace to attend her beside de Aquitaine's capable young nun, Mistress Mouse. (d)
Sir Martin LePower
LePower nodded in acknowledge of the little nun, moving about in this space with confidence and skills. "Might have made a good healer with my own traveling company, eh?" he cracked a bitter little smile to the young woman and to Claramae, he inclined his head, more of a gesture of respect combined with a chance to observe how the flooring blocks were set, in this former dining hall. "Your Grace. We were concerned when we heard of you, ah, incidnet. By the grace of God, come you to good health once more? If prayer can aid, this thing will b e accomplished. Build health on blocks set in good river clay, yes that is it. Remember, no matter what they say, do not stand until you are steady enough, eh?" In a quieter tone he stated," Would I have been at your side my good Grace, to take the injury in your stead. The world needs not old men; and that you be a rare blossom on this branch of humanity, too dear to lose. " Martin babbled on, for the very idea of Claramae in pain caused him distress. "I felt the pain stab in my heart, to hear of you in this place. Then thinking better of it. You are safe here. When you are ready, I can show you drawings to cheer your mood. I have parchaments folded in my jacket.: Mart tapped the chest of his dark blue robes. "Let me know if I tire you, your Grace. Old man that I am, I talk ov er much." There he was, reserved and still loquious at the same time. "Ask me what you will, and I will do my best to answer, concering the recent project." (d)
Duchess Claramae Vincere St. Laurence
She was propped against the wall with cushions at her back; a sharp mine could not be laid to rest forever. Her mouth, not sweetened with honey anecdotes in wine no longer tasted the dry clutch of Death. Oh, she looked it in part, no roses bloomed in her cheeks. The peach of her skin had been sullied with white-wash, yet her voice was strong. It indicated she too might be soon. Occasionally it fell in to a deep crack only to rise again. "Thank you, Mistress Mouse, will you see to it that a report of the conflict comes to me? In this way, I hope to tell young Edward that my husband and I are in sound form." Good health would be a lie she wouldn't put to paper for it was uphill yet. Her title called, she looked beyond pulled curtain to see Lepower, "Ah, my lord, I did not know you were still here. I thought you had gone away with the Lady O'Cathasaigh and Sir Faolan O'Connor. You are a brave soul, and determined." She looked him over as he peered downward to ascertain how stone locked in place. His passion for angles and construction, his exactness drew her to him as moths to flames. A like mine, a good mind. With he came the sun as she actually paid him the advantage of a smile! "Why, sir, please, sit you down. Show me what you have done!" (d)
Sir Martin le Power
Ah yes, good to rest my old dogs." He relaxed onto a straight backed former dining chair and reached into his jacket. Those old dogs, his aching feet he propped upon a packing case. Her face was pale, but to an Irishman, pale was good health. It was alive, was it not. "Now, this is a map of the London area, near to the best location for crossing the Thames. See? River clay for the base; one of the better stable locations I have found for a state house is here..." he held the chart so that Claramae might view it without moving from her current position. "...and here; the second will require a pit for runoff, as the rains in season are heavy - which I know from Jenks' studies for the four most recent years. The water we will drain off into the river." Close up, he smelled of clean lye soap and new parchment. Little ink spatters dotted his hands and his sleeves, but it was the ink on the drawings that meant anything to Mart. "I have the general shape of buildings on this page, see? The lines not copied form any one place in the world, but of many styles of the classics." Another parchment, he drew put from his long full sleeve. " Look and see what can b e done with domed ceilings!" Le Power was in the zone, he forgot the chest pains, the swollen feet and that stabbing pain when he walked too much. This was about building and he was talking with one who understood. (d)
Duchess Claramae Vincere St. Laurence
He showed her things that extended the vision to points of transcendence from the mortal plain. "God keep you long in this world sir," She looked at him with a warmth, a comeraderie. Everyone spoke to her mind in different ways. Jean-Claude resumed Sorschal's place in a sense yet was everything of culture and science. LePower was coming to the fore, appealing to her sense of symmetry, love of mathematics and architecture. "But a day or so ago, I was dying, after several days of dying. Now that life is restored there are some ways, behind shut doors, that shall differ of how I live infront of them. You did make well during the skirmish? You were no where near the road?" Concern laced her tones as she cleared her throat, one of the servants passing her a cup of a tea now to break between the wines so she was not given over to being drunk on the medicinal brew. "I was worried for that, when I recovered..enough of myself" One shift, one wrong breath could hurt. Her ribs were bruised to the point of near breaking, her side still so tender, on fire after being shot (d)
Sir Martin Le Power
"Alas, I hestiate to say I was no where near the road at that time. For nature calls more often when a man is my age. I was in the underbrush, there being no privy." (d)
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Post by Master Claramae St. Laurence on Sept 7, 2010 1:18:41 GMT -6
A New Face for England; Designing the Public BuildingsBy the writers of Martin Le Power and Claramae Vincere St. Laurence"Martin?" her Irish accent heavy today, as it was when Aurilla wanted a favor, she shifted the inkpot for a fresh filled one and carefully changed the new drawn pages to the adjacent table. "Will we remain in this foreign country for life, then? I am weary of these little wars and skirmishes. This is going to get you killed, I think." LePower's wife served as his aide, once more as she did when they were younger. Young? Was Martin ever really "young" in his entire life? Rilla did not think so. "Her Grace has set me to this task, and I must say it suits" He gestured to a package on the entrance way table. "See? Go look I have you brought you something from my journey to Canterbury." Martin did not look up from his latest design, for there were so many more new designs hatching in his brain that it was hard to keep up the pace to let them see light on his drawing board, as if time was chasing at his heels. The old man was at his zenith and there was nothing stop him in this life. So long as he remained in it, Still a handsome woman, even as she neared forty, Aurilla has become caretaker as wife for the old man. She seems unaware that his talent for designing the new public buildings in England has come to its present production rate since the couple has reunited. "What is this? It smells." She gingerly undid the twine on the waxed linen packed and there sat a nice ripe Blue Stilton cheese. To say its aroma was strong is an understatement. "It is under a earthenware dish and eww!" Rilla picked off damp cabbage leaves covering it. "You know how I love blue cheese! We need to find a jar, so it does not rot. Although how one knows when that happens, Lord knows." she was laughing. There was nothing to do but take her table dagger and cut off a bit to nibble. "Mmm. But it has a distincly unique taste, something I cannot quite define, but good." A second taste and the odd taste was still not defined. Could it be that it was kept in a certain cheese curing cave wherein rested one late Bishop, on his way to his final interment? Martin was bound to keep that fact secret, from even his wife, who knew almost everything he did. Almost. "Aegraine should be here; I am almost ready to survey the sites and determine the final manner in which to shape the pit floors so that they will drain. I think when they dig the ponds to collect drain off, she ought to be on site. It does not take that much time to sail here does it?" Like an absent minded professor, Mart had it together when dealing with his projects but had no idea what was going on elsewhere. " She is not going to be here for a year or so. Imagine that! " Aurilla was busy getting some bread sliced to toast for their cheese at lunch in their room. "I missed two days work when she was born; it does not do a body good to slack off. A baby is resiliant. You just take them along. I did and it did not hurt her one bit." Rilla had just done that. Wrapped the one week old Ae into a blanket and tucked her into her jacket, riding along with the rest of the lePower Company when they moved from one work project to another. "I don't even recall what country she was born. Norge? Maybe there." "Are we digging diversion ditches?" She pointed to several points on a building base on his current drawing. "Rhupert has done a good survey of the rains, hasn't he? " She handed Martin his lunch, a slab of thick rye tasted bread with a slice of the blue cheese atop. " I wish he were our son-in-law, but oh well." "Weapons are good steady income; and she seems to like this one, the Weapons Master." Martin looked over the plan he had inked onto parchment and double checked that it reperented his thoughts faithfully. He munched the bread and muttered almost inaudible. "I would have picked the architect for her." There their talk went completely into their task and the formal, graceful buildings which borrowed elements from the classice Greek, ancient Rome, the proportions of great Egyptian edidifices,and even from the Holyland. Martin lePower had traveled as a young man, so the images were engraved into his mind early on, melding into the style he has begun to draw into plan form for England. He has written to all of his old co-workers and friends, from many lands. "There is work to be had.'he told stone masons and construction crews. "We are building a new look. Come and be a part of it."* The Duchess looked out from a window, for in the end of her sojourn they at last put her by one to look out. It wasn't done sooner for fear what peered in might be the death of her, or the people's aptitude for love might be too overwhelming. Why was it when she gazed out across flat grass she could smile? After visiting with LePower, Claramae believed that the vision she had while dying would manifest to life. An England of such beauty that its scars would heal as the man dug his trenches, raised his scaffolds, and ordered his stone. At the moment her hands were being seen to by a maid, cleaned, the nails clipped. "Ye look better today, madame," said the young woman as she finished one hand only to take up another. "Are you pleased to be going back to Skye? I hear it won't be too long now. The guard is being set to right, the Duke is most determined. We are so happy ye recover as quick as you have madame. That we might bid you farewell proper." Claramae ,however, was not thinking of farewell. She was thinking of a grandiose greeting as only LePower could make it. He had given her a peace that he could not fathom in his simple ink maps, in his designs that showed a time beyond the war ravaged place in which she'd been born.
{End Thread}
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