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Post by Janice Olivia Monroe on May 3, 2010 23:21:48 GMT -6
Deus Ex Machina (god from the machine) - A Chapter of Trade Wars continued from Secrets and Maps
The events that led to the moment where three travelers embark on two ships toward one destination started in the middle of winter when Spring in Skye was a dream in the mind's of the citizens. One moment of awakening is another instance of discovery. Of the first, the resut was a flower that opened to find promised sun omitted for cold air. Of the second, the flower blooms best in adversity to color better the petals and thicken the stalk. It crept through a trellace laden with vines, poison, and intrigue to come to the next course. Youth is strange in this way.
One night Youth uncovered the secrets of old orders banished from the civilized, God-fearing portions of Europe. France had expelled the Knight's Templar some twenty years prior. Before their expulsion, as if sensing the inevitable falling of the star over the holy enterprsie, the Knight's Templar began to influence the waters of Scottish history. Ultimately, the Isle of Skye would be the holding remnant of goodly presitge in a handful of men who continued the work promised to fall on no generation, but did. What also came with them was a bastian of secrets, none held better than in a sprinkling of the most prominent among them.
Years move by with survival's agenda relinquished for duty; on Skye they continued their holy vocations, knighthoods, or moved toward a life of scholarly persuits to keep with the collections put aside in the islands over many years. Of late, Sir William Sable and Sir Richard Burns held a mutual fondness for the bookseller on the row who became the Court's authority on language and archives. Long letters spelled out longer days when she haunted their stores until her presence as as elementary there as dust in a beam of light. It settled on shelves while her fingers settled there, too. None ever ceased her from the time she merely trolled the archives as a student of ages until the moment she found the key to the bedrock.
Legend
At the time of the expulsion of the Knights Templar, twenty-one ships are said to have set sail from the coast of France for parts unknown. The legend says the ships went as close as England to as far away as The Cape of Good Hope, and beyond. The treasure on these ships is said that one could last a kingdom the reign of a king's life from birth until his near death, and combined they were worth nations. Mists swallow fable and so the story was forgotten.
Fact
One evening by lantern light in the darkness of old rooms, the Lady of Letters and a companion read a map of the city, and the process is repeated several times by the Lady who finds the place rich in contemplative silence. Joined here on one occasion by Sir Richard, she suggests to him that the legend of the treasure ships is not legend at all, but filled with truth. It is then that he tells her indeed twenty-one ships did set sail from the French Coast, but only a select few made it to any journey they set out upon. He had heard that some were beset by sea raids, while others were taken down in storms. Suffice to say, at least no less than three of the twenty one treasure ships made landfall.
During this time, the Lady, her Austrian companion, and the most prominent figures of the hall are suddenly beset upon by assasins of Spanish origin. Between the accents of Aragon and Castille, a tale unfolds of involving the Mo'r Triath's need of a translation to the Amir of Morroco in one of the Berber lanaguges and the Lady's ability to not only speak, but write the lanague in its clarity enables her to relay the Mo'r Triath's desires to the page. It is not long after that her business is ransacked, searching for this page. Suddenly the world is awash in red stains that no amount of strong soap can wash from the floor. For a pair of months it seems while the city prepares for the coming of spring, the Ebony Talons are embroiled in a war with Spain while only predictions seed the gossip of the prominent. There is even talk of Papal intrigues as far off as Rome, disproval at the Mo'r Triath's seeking of trade through collaborative means with the same heathen race that beseiged Christendom. While the world waits for slumbering buds to open, for those who are aware the fields of disdain have opened to turn an eye of no less than Holy Crusade if the displeasure continues.
At it's most minimal stage, it is evident that the Spanish awareness of Scottish events is relayed through the eyes of keen observers to local politics. Isabella Plantagenet and Roger Mortimer have made it possible for King Alfonso IV to not only gain a sought after bride from France, but to posistion himself for the acquiring of land in England. Roger Mortimer has taken a posistion the equivalent of his Chamberlain, despite the knowledge that Mortimer was formerly her lover, and may continue to be. The potent combination of old bloodlines with the coaxing of excersised power looms like a cloud over the isles in a sea of little consequence - save influence.
Sought after by Spanish infidel despisers, royal assasins, and the likes of papal dignatries the Lady of Letters continues work as any other agent. The Masters of the Hall do battle with the enemy while she conquers the emblems in their language by finding the root of their local power.
This discovery is as spell-binding as it is shocking:
In the Templar Halls exist two Spaniards, who control various outside individuals both large and small in meaning. Their meaning, however, prove sto be the greatest. Not only are these Spaniards living among the Templar with welcome ease, but are seeking to reform the knighthood's holy vocations as were once ordained in the eyes of God and his Holiness, the descendant of St. Peter, the Pope. To do this, they have emassed great wealth and applied it to similiar, but smaller stages of a knighthood origin. One is in Spain, the other in the Moroccan desert. In the event that one should fall, the other would continue. In the event of greater success, one would feed the other. They have watched or turned the hand of events for years, and even now are unknown allies of Queen Isabella. She has promised that for their part in restoring the Godhead to the throne of England as they have assisted in the unification of Spain, they will be revealed to His Majesty. Once proven to be of use, they will write a forward to His Holiness seeking the removal of the decree issued unto France, the forgivness of all old debt to be paid if necessary, and the calling of the order's assembly on Spanish soil.
This is revealed by the finding of the original map that accounts for the launching of twenty one treasure ships, where in three are showd to come to Scotland, and two had gone to Spain. Further evidence shows that the wealth emassed from the ships and further excurtion is enough to finance a war machine that could obliterate what it desired. Be it by King's desire or absent of it, the Reconquista of the Peninsula has long been underway. The Knights also give money unto as much as they begin to cause smite to the Amir of Morroco. Worse yet, in the eye of the world it is beginning to be done in the Templar name. It is bad enough that some have evidently escaped the burnings in France, but worse yet the success of their survival.
The Mo'r Triath and the Order are at once enformed, and plans move in motion to make action but other things call attention such as the crowning of a new King and Queen, the succession of Lewis and Haris isles, and the quagmire of England.
Left with little time and a choice to make, it is sealed when no less than the two Templar knights who have been most kind in allowing her presence aer joined by Sir Jacques Armand and Sir Robert Frail to tell that the priestly figure of Peter DeVareaux had been sent to the continent when the discovery was first told to them only to have sent no letter of his findings. They fear for his life - as they do their own - these woes can be proof that the distant order of their lost brothers wants no one alive to counter them, let alone the order of death would only be rescinded for those surrounding the Spanish Court. They fear the stake, much as they did when they saw their brothers burned as false sodomites.
The Objective
Deus Ex Machina , to pull god from the machine, only with the miracle of human skill instead of the mystic. Intervention may come in additional assistance, but they will be in the same dilema to figure the same problem: how to pull god from a spanish beast of war.
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Post by Julian Luke Monroe on May 4, 2010 20:47:09 GMT -6
I may be numberless, I may be innocent I may know many things, I may be ignorant Or I could ride with kings, And conquer many lands Or win this world at cards, And let it slip my hands I could be cannon food, Destroyed a thousand times Reborn as fortune's child, To judge another's crimes Or wear this pilgrim's cloak, Or be a common thief I've kept this single faith, I have but one belief.
A [/b]dark and dismal sky, with the fog rolling high was spread out before the bow of the ship. In favor of the voyage the night seemed dreadfully eerie, yet remarkable enchanting. Through the sails of the ship she moved, like fingers through his hair, this captivating wind of change, and he longed to commit this memory to page. His way was not of words, however, but now he knew that again if he ever read of such a night a poor farmer's son would know just how it felt. How had there even been any denial he wanted to go. Julian could taste it on the back of his tongue, a pleasant sensation like one of Jean-Claude's finest wines, or Rose's cherry pies. In his childhood he had longed for the fulfillment of a good hearty meal, and now found himself longing to not feel so full. His cup did runeth over down the sides of the ship, and out into the sea. The days did not seem long enough, while the nights passed in a single breath as the moon captivated the affection, and soon turned into the sun. "He is bewitched.." "The scientist made him, from the flesh of humans.""Too thin…""Too tall.."" "And the Lord FORMED MAN of the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and man became a living being.” (Genesis 2:7)" Convinced Jean-Claude had fashioned him, from the flesh and bone; a lonely soul who would dwell only in his tower making a man, Julian found this historical. "He has little reason, fools." Harsh sounds a hiss against pale but full lips, "I am very much real, born of the same soil as you." Narrowed blue eyes the color of ice could freeze the entire ship with a single sharp stare. "Then why not tell us where ye' are from, Pretty Boy?" A member of the crew, taunting in his ways, a cut throat pirate who had once flown under the very black flag that was now tucked away upon the Rebecca Lee. This battle had raged on since the poke of the subject had startled him from his thoughts, while he watched the sea in silence. He would never tell, never once would it fall from his lips he came from the flooded farms, and a stubborn mother who refused to leave where she had been brought up. In place he gave always the same answer, the same cold shoulder, and his back to the men of little mind. They were fools, and as their laughter spilt out across the deck it silenced only with the cry of coming shadow in the distance. Land-ho“And the Lord God caused a deep sleep to fall on Adam, and he slept; and He took one of his ribs, and closed up the flesh in its place. Then the rib which the Lord God had taken from the man HE MADE INTO A WOMAN, and He brought her to the man.” (Genesis 2:21) She was Espania, Spain, and the very sight before the ship even in the dismal view of the night. "If you treat her right, she'll love you right back." Peregrine had said somewhere in his waking dream, watching the lights of the city port flourish, and flicker like fireflies; a flaming beacon in the night. "There is nothing like her..wild, exotic, yet completely..right." The pirate had fallen in love with her while Rosalind was being crowned, but even he had the animal turn upon him--the bite still with scars around his wrists where he hung in the holding for nearly a week. Peregrine, gave his hand to the mathematician's shoulder, the youth now not so much as he was when they had first met, seemed at peace even though he clutched his book to his chest. His bag there at his side, crossed over one shoulder, and ready he felt-as ever he will be. "I do not speak their language." A defiant moment of protest, there as a narrow chest took a deep breath. "You do not have to," The pirate smiled, Peregrine as proud as ever to send a stuck up thorn into a bed of wild Spanish Roses. Oh, how humbled he would be by this, and already he could not wait to hear the spider spin it's tales of holding his life at the edge of his fingers, "You'll have Janice." "If I ever find her." Even at night, the streets were busy of the port-side city, and had it not been for the plank that came to a billowing end at the dock's side, perhaps he would have never stepped foot upon the land. “This is now bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh …” (Genesis 2:22) Julian, did not believe in God, but if he had he would have wondered what it was like for God to watch in moments as this. He created them from dust, one breath--but did he hold it like the serpent in the garden of eden did now when he first looked at Spain?[/font] ------ Lyrics, Sting-A Thousand Years
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Post by Julian Luke Monroe on May 9, 2010 22:07:38 GMT -6
I'm on the road To who knows where? Look ahead, not behind I keep saying There's no place to go Where you're not there On your rope, I hold tight But it's freeing
And I take everything from you But you'll take anything Won't you?
Run away, run away Like a prodigal Don't you wait for me Don't you wait for me So ashamed, so ashamed But I need you so And you wait for me *** Janice deBrabantThe wind was not cold off the coast of these shores; hot gusts were tempered by the open mouth of the Mediterranean instantly ready to sooth a fitful salt spun child. When one would think the ship would have gone the country round to reach Aragonese shores, it instead settled just off the coast of Seville. So, too, would any ship that sought to follow favor route the same if hope they had to trace her steps. Was it mere hours ahead of one ship or days head start she had? "Will we be moving along?" A man in formal clothes found the coast a relief, not looking forward to the thought of moving inland. Would they still be by the seaside? Even those that guarded the source of knowledge weren't priven to a steady font. "We will pass through Granda, to Malaga. That is the last place that was known to be where Father Devareaux would have gone." Her Spanish was as light as a hint of vapor, slipping through the dockside collective with ease, picking up no ears other than those it was meant for. The manipulation of sound was what set the true practicioner of the esoteric arts away from the false players. The ships that bore the small part to Espania had changed their livery to that of a Belgian court that carried hence the woman who took in language like it was wine: Danielle d'Avignon. Janice lived under and inside of Danielle, her wit against Danielle's sense of finery. The traveling attire was the most opulent thing she had ever owned, and if seen in spy glass? What would they say? (d) Julian Monroe There boy..there. The winds warm against his face pressed against an angled cheek one way to the other. Danielle. The name somehow seemed to fit, rolling in rustic sounds of a heritage not of their own. He was to search for a Danielle, this much he knew. The new day had started out with him watching the heavens pass; they were the same stars, but somehow seemed so very different. It would be so easily to get lost here, survive by way of contacts connected to the Lady Avalle alone, but Julian stuck out. His skin too light, and even in a more muted attire the pallet was too drool. The weather so warm here, he felt the heat rise against the small of his back snaking it's wayThe entire voyage he read the letters from his benefactor, in French the documents were signed With love, Jean-Claude, followed by Bonne Chance--Good-Luck. Through the root of the politics he absorbed the information of names to learn, phrases of common use in Spanish should he be lost; all proof the Scientist worried too much. However, in the careful motion of his steps along the walk it all fell away, drowning in his nerves, suddenly it all disappeared. For a first assignment he worried of the next the most. This was to be easy they said, tracking a woman by following the white feathers of her wings."Perdón," In nerves, the Scottish brogue seemed to outfit his voice in heavy tones--the Spanish sounding like the clatter of feet through the mud. "Donde está...Cielo?" He thought that to be the word, but from the blank looks upon the Spaniards face's--their laughter to follow made it clear he asked for something strange. A woman would even point and laugh to the heavens above, and leave the Mathematician fumbling through the letters once more. (d Janice deBrabant "Lady, ask them for directions an inn, to make arrangements for the next part of the journey. We are advised to take great care, the location be so close as it is to.." "Demise?" The conversation went tit-for-tat in English behind the cowl of her hood and the lowered portion of his head. They looked nearly as two more who might be whispering about the abhorrid Spanish language murderering foreigner just down yonder way. She smiled after the word, causing the man to laugh. The sound of wagon wheels carrying goods to and fro from the docks mixed with the scents only a place by the Strait could enjoy; intoxicating, thick spices mixed with fresh cut flowers. Sea-salt massaged the inclination of the mind to wander awhile. If this were only the outside of Seville, what remained of the inside? This was the ground to either prove her or kill her - no middle ground existed. Still, she could not help but let fear turn to excitement! It took every ounce of ability to remain as composed. In the distance, though, the plight of the pale paper toting man pulled on a heart that was still belonging to Janice. With the cant of her head, one of the guardsmen would move towards the lost soul to offer a litte direction. "Madame wondered if you needed assistance.." Madame as of no was busy favoringa wandering man's tale of a saint's journey through Leon, all that could be seen of her thus far were the garnet jewel tones of her cloak (d) Julian MonroeThere was such a man behind his eyes, that could tell stories of lives undone, and whispered again of darker intent. Julian waged a war between the day and the night, and this was told from the lines around his eyes; the pull of the skin over his well defined cheekbones. He turned upon the english like a viper poised with it's attack, his words sharp and deliberate--to the point, and dry. "Yes. I need something to eat that is not covered in pig fat, a good hot bath, and sleep." There was not a tone of jest, nor a spiral of any light air to his manners. "You can tell your, Madame this." Meeting the man's eye, he held nothing against his strength though so rarely did any think him weak. Julian was known through the courtyard for his mark, the style of his sword influenced by the French, who in their own right stole it from this land. His eyes narrowed upon the jewel toned cloak, the fashions familiar savoring the style of a beloved master, but he had never seen it before. He was the devil to her saint, the demon to her angel--if there was anything left of it in her. Where had that little, plain, big-nosed bookkeeper gone? Her smile though still the same seemed to be painted more in the art of politics, did it still reach her eyes? His heart stopped for relief, and if he believed in God he would have thanked him. She could have been his exhale, as eyes went about the land once more; over the countryside waiting just in the distance. He would follow the guard to stand just an arms length away from the Lady of Letters, and count the beats of his heart. One...........Just one. Well? Eyes told the story for him, he waited for her to speak as always. (d Janice deBrabant The angel stood covered in earth's finest offerings but hadn't lost sight of the goal, for afterall was she not seeking a man of God in a place so alive with holiness it burst in to flame? The guard deflected viper sting with a wry jab to consider, "My eyes didn't decieve me. Interesting candidate for Madame but you will do, no?" Elitist? Hardly. Practical? Always. He expected that someone would send subsequent resource before the party could venture too far into the heart of Evil, but Monroe? He did business with the young man himself in matters of sword, the Order's taste for thin, quick steel demanded that he keep his snakebite behind a mongooses' speed. "I could tell her, or you could yourself. Amusement so early in the enterprise.." He could say that, being a veteran in Skye meant he'd lived through the first hard storm that nearly took them out before it began. The saint in the tale being told passed through Leon in a fit of tongues. All around them several wagged in a lush orchestra for the ear. Gingerly tilting her head, she expected a lost soul but not one whom was so white hemade snow ashamed of itself. Curious smile reached her eyes as did a question, unasked. "The minstrel tells me that a find inn stands on Sevillian outskirts just there, see our things begin the journey." She spoke this last phrase in French, so that her impromptu 'companion' had the luxury denied him most everywhere else. Understanding what in God's name was going on! "Buenos tardes, Senor Monre. What compelled..." Left unfished, she had only but look to ocean that carried him hence for it to be finished. Tiny diamond clung to the earlobe, dropping a petite piece of gold down. A braid of hair was maneuvered to serve as the coronet, the thick gold coil of it falling across her back beneath the hood, under a thin layer of white material, for the jewel toned gown was equal parts white and color. Indeed the dress itself was white with garnet accent, garnet ribbon lacing up the garnet bodice inset. (d) Julian Monroe"Then something in common, for I share that same opinion." Interesting indeed, but the surprise on the other's face did wear into him, even if it was shared. It reminded him of when the church filled the chapel with the tongue of their God, all of them spoke so many different languages, and none made sense. This was the figure of the youth to someday replace the old masters, and though there was nothing much to be impressed with now--it would show...maybe. In all his years of knowing her, he had very little to say, and the subjects now at hand needed very little comment. Yet, their eyes bore heavy hot embers into his back, and the shadows of the day seemed compelled to shake with the breeze. Speak son.."I was asked." Small white lie, "Asked without given a choice in the answer. A General of a mighty army would have crossed his arms to shield away the world, but Julian folded his hands behind his back to close himself up. "He longed for the French, it was a comfort, an accomplishment. When he was a child he marveled in the day reading clicked, like a bolt of lightning it had struck him to understand, and so too did the foreign language. Many meals were spent in studies where he could only ask questions in French, and listen to the answers much the same. He found likeness to the old spider who sat across from him, the candle light flickering in eyes so blue they seemed black. This was what the language was to him, and now he searched for the same recognition in this Spanish. "I'm here to.." He wanted to roll his eyes, and the last word would drag across his lips not wanting to be released, "Help." (d Janice deBrabantYou want to help me...her eyes spoke when her mouth didn't. The player talking of saints could not have found a better story: The woman in garnet, at ease with the language, found her help in a man who cleaved unto French as a babeat mother's tit. They abhorred each other while finding like cause in the tale. Like Julian, she was reared in a small place of modest means before being set into an even more modest place. God's sense of humor settled the mixed woman of European heritage next to the Scott who wished he was anything but Scottish. Oh holy mother, pray for us.. her mind worked before she turned her entire body to regard him while the guards split themselves up to guard the two of them or see to he belongings. "You are an interesting being, Monroe. You can't tolerate my presence, and you wish to help me. Still, you are a bit of home in a foreign place, that is good. Spanish or French?" She maneuvered to speaking on English, waiting for him to pick a language of business. His Spanish was abysmal, but he wasn't expected to be a linguist, he was expected to be cultured. French fufilled that requirement."We aren't at official business yet so we may speak the second, if you wish. I fear once we are entirely en route I could translate into French, but I will for no less than nine out of ten times be utliizing strictly Spanish." (d) Julian MonroeHe took in a deep breath rolling back on his heels, as his eyes met the heavens. It was everything in his power to not want to laugh, but even he knew the better of his manners sometimes. "I'm not here on my own accord, if that will settle things. I came because I was assigned to be. Trust me. If I were to travel anywhere it would not be here, and it most certainly would not be.." His attention spanned over her shoulder to the dawning of a figure who wore the very skulls of birds against her heart, and around her neck. The crowd seemed to split, like the Lord did the sea to make way for the woman who smelled of the very Spanish soil they stood, but her bare feet were covered in the deep rich deposits of a cave's floor. "Bruja"..."Brujería"..Witch. In her hands the amulet, and the laugh of ages. It chilled his bones, and as she passed her eyes seemed to burn into his own. Julian found himself grounded, his stance in line with his shoulders, and his bare hand coming to touch Janice's shoulder, speaking where no words could have been found. Not today witch. When she passed he could breath again, and the heat rising from the other's flesh startled him--the sun was so warm here, and he pulled his hand back if burnt. Narrowed eyes to the Lady of Letters, would have him turn away from them to find his dinner--this much he could do on his own, and it damn near killed him to think of how he would depend on her for the future. (d Janice deBrabantExasperation was signature Monroe behavior. If they were in private, Janice might have laughed at the overwhelming fact that Monroe was here to assist her. God had a sense of humor in how he played out chosen paths of destiny. This was not an objective of free will? It didn't surprise her in the least. Yet she wondered did he have any youthful zeal for where they were, in a place so drenched in culture, so seasoned by age? They would see the remnants of mosques alongside cathedrals. Alcoves of Arabic script making symmetry with spires. Language was the first wine she drank - the Spanish of Castille moved with the occasional smattering of foreign diatribe as negotiations on various matters rose and fell. It wasn't pertinent to smile at Julian, so she didn't. No other words could be uttered however as attention turned to a relic of heathen culture. The advance of the woman inspired hands to lift in holy trinity across one person to the next. Soil scented skin burned Janice's nostrils as sudden visions of rituals in red clay caused fear where there was no reason to do so - only - the Brujeria looked like her nightmares personified. Dead animals were used to curse the living people who became bleach white remnants in bone. She merely lowered her eyes as the woman passed, only to find the most shocking thing was not the passing of the witch, but her effect on Monroe! Julian's hand was felt as heavy, as firm as any guardian that ever sought to mark their position on her. He deflected the effects of her blood curdling laughter in his stern silence. All too soon, however, the effect faded as if melting in the warm Spanish sun. His depature was her return to the necessities of reality. "Take all of our things toward the Inn, including Master Monroe's. One of you shadow his motions to see he remains well, let him not know your presence unless it is a matter of life. His social navigation, if interrupted would be a matter of ego only. " Gone, too, was the sense of security in his gesture for the return of the war between them for unknown reasons. It could be that his master's idolatry spun out to those not of is l personal taste or liking, such as Adelaide of the herb lore and free spirited beauty., or included objectified presences, such as the one he'd called Mon Ange. Whatever the reason, his first kindness turned toward years of snide commentary that wished for the most part deBrabant would fade into pretty obscurity. She would allow him his pride and tolerate his presence, recognizing unspoken command and challenge from the Masters when she saw it. Also? Julian would flounder like a land shod fish without her knowledge of Spanish. Lyrics, Prodigal by One Republic
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Post by Julian Luke Monroe on May 9, 2010 22:17:34 GMT -6
I'm writing you to catch you up on places I've been And you have this letter you probably got excited, but there's nothing else inside it didn't have a camera by my side this time hoping I would see the world through both my eyes maybe I will tell you all about it when I'm in the mood to lose my way with words TODAY skies are painted colors of a cowboy cliche' And its strange how clouds that look like mountains in the sky are next to mountains anyway Didn't have a camera by my side this time Hoping I would see the world through both my eyes Maybe I will tell you all about it when I'm in the mood to lose my way but let me say You should have seen that sunrise with your own eyes it brought me back to life You'll be with me next time I go outside NO more 3x5's I Guess you had to be there I Guess you had to be with me Today I finally overcame tryin' to fit the world inside a picture frame Maybe I will tell you all about it when I'm in the mood to lose my way but let me say You should have seen that sunrise with your own eyes it brought me back to life You'll be with me next time I go outside no more 3x5's just no more 3x5's
"You've nothing to worry over, Julian, please do not give me that look." Jean-Claude had spoke at the end of the table across from his apprentice. He had taken such deliberate care into the packing of what he knew was to needed on a quest as this.
"Have you ever been to Spain?"
"Many times," A voice from the door broke the intimate setting of a formal dinner with a smile, "JC used to be my right hand remember? Or have we left that out of his teachings." Peregrine took a seat putting out on display the rolled maps waiting to be tucked away into the sack so carefully packed by a master's hands. "You should be excited, child."
"He is," Jean-Claude leaned against his elbows, still seated head at the table when he spoke he commanded the floor, "It is only nerves, but I can see the excitement--feel it like rain across my face. A first assignment, is a step towards a great legacy. Be proud." Gloved hands came to place the maps inside the shoulder bag closing the flap over what was known not by experience only, but by heart. He knew this boy, like the back of his own hand, even covered by silk he could navigate the veins that like the rest lead to his heart.
***
Present Day
Outward, heavens where lost lives passed through dock and street; and the sky seemed to only present the truth. Spain, held thousands of stars, and each one seemed so close. New names, for the same old constellations learned their way into his memory from the old map the pirate had given him. We can all trace back to the Mediterranean somewhere in our line. Words recalled from a conversation he had overheard once in a pub while gathering his Master's lunch. He felt as much alive here as he did in Scotland, though he could hardly draw the line between he and this new land.
Spain, seemed so warm despite the night, he could still feel the sun on the stones as he made his way down the street, and the idea that each block contained millions of grains of sand seemed at least intriguing. Where had they all come from to fit together so perfectly? Everything about Scotland was cold, and the dreary color of the stone only added forth his misery. However, even for a slightest second, with the light from the lanterns spilling out into the streets, and the laughter from the lane rushing the night--he could almost feel at home.
Julian, dressed in a more modest suit with the jacket left back in his room, something Jean-Claude would have held his heart by his hands trying to force it back inside his chest. The state of his young apprentice was in shambles, but after the long travel who would have such energy to realign his attire. It seemed to fit, add age behind a man well studied, but far too late. Too thin, the white shirt that buttoned all the way seemed to add weight where it was needed, and the up turned collar a bit of attitude where it was not. The leather braces that doubled in duty held both his weapon of choice, and went over each shoulder; made of fine leather they looped with the hem of his pants to hold them where they should, and conceal well the small throwing daggers. His sleeves rolled back over his forearms he looked the part of any other scholar, but where Jean dressed mostly in black, Julian suited best in modest browns. He kept his hair well combed, one of the few on the Isle that did not rejoice at the length or see any reason for it. However, he would never forgive Jean-Claude if he ever cut away what was now a staple in the man's image..Ada wouldn't either. He seemed to fit in here, the Mediterranean flavor seemed to go well with his carelessness.
"Write it all down, these are important times in your life, and I wish to know everything I missed"
Jean-Claude had always supplied him with endless blank books, where the pages were filled often with his thoughts, or wry feelings on certain subjects. It brought closer to the day, and always he kept a clean leather bound pad in the backside of his trousers. The pages could be recalled later in the larger text, but for now the palm size pamphlet worked it's wonders. It was a trade many sought after, though so few had the proper education to commit it all on paper--Janice had fueled that, in a twisted way. Never a free spirit, Julian Monroe, could have rivaled any story of happily ever after as he wondered through the streets of one of Spain's coastal cities, and let a small side of his curiosity get the better of him. Tonight, he was looking--hunting a witch as so often they are, and the word Brujeria stuck in his mind. He felt simply wild, combing through the streets listening to words he knew nothing of their meanings, for that one single familiar title.
"It is funny to think my first Spanish word submitted to memory could have me burned at stake with the single idea of wanting to know more. Jean-Claude would have a fit if he knew where I was now, what I was searching for, but she was so intriguing. I'd never felt so medieval in all my life, like a feral hound wishing to protect while follow her down the lane. Baffled."
He was baffled at how it felt so right to be so wrong. Was this what it was like to read those maps? To be looking at a secret that should have never been told? Perhaps, the young master Monroe had a career in reporting(a gossip). He certainly had the right attitude.
Lyrics, 3x5 by John Mayer
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Post by Janice Olivia Monroe on May 9, 2010 23:39:29 GMT -6
It doesn't mean much It doesn't mean anything at all The life I've left behind me is a cold room
I've crossed the last line From where I can't return Where every step I took in faith betrayed me And led me from my home ---------------------------------------------------------------- Seville. It wasn't so far inland that it wasn't blessed by the swell of moist, cool breath turning white in the night air. Cold enough to induce a case of frost but warm enough to self-melt, Janice was fascinated by the stories the landscape sang. In spite of the unification, Espania was still a place of distinct regions. Each old Kingdom was still one in its own self-important way. Castille and Leon as states was elegant in a way that the world thrown into a Renaissance, no matter how deep it took, could never be. It was old with culture's clash leaving the Arab-Spanish hymn singing on winds. How many places in Spain had Moorish plazas, minarets, and mosques? How many while denying the prophet Muhammed had any place in Seville still found his culture's doorways and arches aesthetic enough to survive? She couldn't lie... it was loved by her with all she could give to material things. She was still amazed, in fact, that at certain periods of the day she heard calls to prayer from minarets in the far distance that hadn't fallen subject to destruction's whim. They moved in tandem with church bells calling for vespers or compline. From the window of the inn she could look backwards in one direction at a thriving epicenter while toward the others she could imagine what lay out towards mountains, or down at the sea. If only business didn't create such a haunting refrain, she might have lost herself, indulged in youthful folly for but a little. The voyage to Spain was marked with eventless happenings on the outside. The sea was never too much of one thing, and the sails were never lacking wind. Like all great happenings, inside was where one found the berth of the ship teeming with cargo more than the belongings of one linguist-archivist, and her guardians who kept a good portin of the world below in two rooms. Cut timber from the cold reaches of Europe joined Scottish wools and leather goods. The scent of the hold was comprised of hide, salt water, and earthy things. In the rooms below deck, where one was given wholly to the young woman, she wrote her musings down on paper. In the tradition established since she was but seventeen years of age, a journal was given her at a certain point each year to take the place of the old one. Peacoke feathers fanned out on the page, deep copper bent to be brown, inlaid pieces of abalone shell to be the colorful shifts of green and indigo. Of the pages only a few were touched, and she began: The men are beside me in the other room. I can hear them through the walls, at times more vividly than others. They speak of where we are going and I am sad that I can not yet participate in their experiences. My eyes are virgin to a great much of the world while my mind understands the tongues of Spain better than they do. It is funny to me.
When we make landfall our first place shall be to Seville. I hope that we do not tarry long before arrival in Aragon at the seat of the court, and yet wish to understand the people as to better understand what they are ruled by. Is it wrong to feel the same sense of urgency,the same nerves as I did before I was wed? The same feeling of expectation and expecting joining was the same as when I looked out from the boat to the shores of Turas Lan, while still mourning the France that was behind me.
What I will not tell them is this, to me, feels as though it is the true beginning of myself. Not a self to be guarded or sold, a self desired for vindictive purposes or satisfaction of another's absence. Not governed by another's rules.....but the self that was forged of my own desire to learn and to be of use. Is it suffice to say that in the years of my residence that my beloveds know of me but not the true me, because I have only just met her?
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Post by Janice Olivia Monroe on May 17, 2010 9:54:37 GMT -6
Out of Ink, Part 1 of 2 Janice deBrabant Night fell - but not in the usual way once the sun surrendered to the moon's inevitable ascent up to where it had been. Oh no! A riot had broken out on this, the end of the second day in Espania for Julian and the fifth for the party that left before him. From the open window of the procured high room she watched as the heavens went into full, formal riot. Which color would have dominance, could they all share a place just over this mountain just breathing on the sea? She gasped, watching greens shenever knew existed cavort with pinks, purples, and scarlets that only lived in Celtic blood moons. Stars cut literal holes in black places but couldn't perch just yet in sunset's dance that wasn't finished. Catherdral bells tolled, and to her suprise horns from a distant minaret announced the new Reconquista had not cleared all Moors from the plazas they designed. "Oh God, that I am here to work but my sojourn all the more.." Romance had a place in the head of a woman still young enough to dream like a girl. As the hour chimed for both Christian and Muslim alike, she wondered how it tolled for Monroe. Despite her daydreams building as high as a minaret, the reality of the evening's work kept her feet to the ground. "In less than an hour we set off to follow more of Father Devareux's trail, has Master Monroe returned?" No one knew that was supposed to know, so she only shook her head. He'd either find something of use because it was his wayor he'd come when the lack of Spanish got in his way. (d) Julian Monroe Either way his timing seemed relentlessly on par, and his presence knowing best when the very core of his voice could conjure up enough dry humor to see all of the hairs stand upon their neck. "They all look like heathens to me." He spoke from behind the shadow of the drawing room not seeming so seamless anymore, as he made way into the night. Startling blue eyes that seemed so bored rolled over the first guard to take him in, questioning him already by silent expressions as to where the youth had been, "I have not been far." Came his dry remark, as he placed his hands in the pockets of his trousers to stand beside his Master's angel. "You look as though you wish to join them." He was almost surprised had he not known her nature, but being steadfast with her own training she wouldn't be caught--though the music of any celebration no doubt had at least one of her feet tapping along.The bells were enchanting, captivating enough to pull his attention to the tall tower in which they sounded, Jean-Claude loved to hear the sounds of bells, they were Julian's favorite part of church--it meant it was over. "This is not a celebration I take it." It had been a riot, and that brought a smirk to pull on thin pale lips, "You can tell the difference between them." He questioned her quietly as they stood there with the sun fading in it's raging sky. He would never understand the reason wars went on, who so saw it their stance on the subject was the only one correct, and perhaps this very reason alone kept his business mind running over the possibilities of keeping the fire alive. (d Janice deBrabantEnter the silent figure throwing shadow beside the restless Angel, stage left. Her back made a perfect line with the angle of the wall, her legs tucked under her leaving no chance for even a suggestion as to the shade of the shoes on her feet. Ah well, the gown she wore was a sunset's flame bent orange with sienna suggestions. Did they match? "To one another, each different sect is the heathen. To the Christians the Muslims are heathen, to the Muslims the Christions are infedels destroying their ways, worshipping a hanged man. Muslims have the prophet receiving wisdom from the angel Gabriel himself, so between the lot all seem fools. It is a matter of which fools have more means, towhich it is the Christians, the Muslims are being driven out of Espania. While some sit pretty as this, it is not what the sunset is like all over. " In Grenada ,there could be outbreaks of violence at any day. Castille and Leon were still civil, but Aragron's spender was the brewding point of contention that made the whole country quake. "No celebration, Julian. Only calls to prayer in any tongue it is said. They say that fires burn, to the North and west of here, Muslims and Jews are on their stakes, 'proven' heretics." (d) Julian Monroe He had not been a fool, knowing well fine suits would be ruined in the travel, but Julian did still keep himself together. However, he kept himself in more earth tones, deep chestnut browns, and off white was the extent of his pallet on the evening. Yet, somehow he found the color to suit her very well, it brought out the blush in her skin, and the light in her eyes. Still she had a big nose, or so he told himself finding flaw in everything. He gave her a half regarded nod feeling the back of his throat fight away sickness that came from the talk of religion. "It really is ridiculous, over and over again Jean-Claude provides proof of Science over such nonsense. Think of the world without gods and their..angels. Yet.." His voice fell quiet, smart enough this one to know when heretics could be killed."..even he still believes. Hypocrite sometimes that man, but he would love to be here." Out again upon the matter at hand he let his gaze fall watching as the prayers sounded with the bells. "Tell me at least you have enough common sense to not back their wars. This better not be the reason we are here, because I'll go home right now. I'll not risk my life to see one side win over the other because some god told one the other was wrong. Nor, will I see you killed for such..foolishness." His eyes rolled over to the watchmen, "Or you." He seemed to chid the man forward, with a forced flash of a smile. He hated to stand so close to someone who could very much force his life from him, and suddenly felt the night air drawing him out. "I'm out of ink." His very none-romantic way of asking her to walk with him. (d Janice deBrabant "I believe that the world would be better if swords turned to plowshares, Mr Monroe. No, I do not back such wars of agression, but freedom to chose. Yes, to not believe or to believe. To worship or to abstain. My practice is notwhat should be expected of all, and in some sense even that is a falacy. I had to correct my own baptism, make true old record. Even now my lineage could stand to tie me to the stake as fast as any that are cinders now. I am not here to fight in any war of a superior God-head." She listened to his hypocrisy mix with scientfic beauty, and for some science meant the world was perfection. Arabic and Spanish prayers flooded plazas. while deBrabant stood to take a fashionable coat from her watchman instead of a cloak, in what else but the Spanish style. With litle world she preceded to follow him, and no doubt it would serve that their walk would match with a bit of agenda. "I am here only to cease the Templars that are horrid from making a horrible posistions for the ones that aren't,and to undo here what our King can not from foreign shores. Danielle d'Avignon has access to many places that would call deBrabant. (d) Julian Monroe He could question it all had he the reason, but the number one that he even asked himself seemed to call forward on the night. Why was he here then? "That is good to hear, but it would have been a good excuse to go home." The night air seemed to relive each moment again and again as it all felt so brand new. The air was not nearly as wet here, yet it was not dry either, it was not cold, but it was not hot. Spain was so unique to his limited knowledge of the outside world, as it was only in books or stories of the master's drunken laughter did he even know such a place could exist. "And you will gain what?" His point of view shifted as their steps went down the row, "You are here because some king asked you to? A god perhaps?" He wouldn't offer her his arm, nor anything of the matter, though he would keep side by side with her through the streets.He held up his hand to still her lips, wanting to guess once more, "Or is it the intrigue? You deBrabant, love to discover something new. Go places you've never been." For an instance there was a crack at him, as sarcasm placed it's hold on the man's features. "Fearlessly the little bookkeeper moves off into the unknown, by service of the King, and her courage on her sleeve." Was he mocking her? "Prove to them all you can recover from heartache, or is that why you are here?" He turned to face her then, to let her through the shop's door first, but of course not opening it. "To forget." Conviction there behind those words, as he stared at her in silence then reading into her gaze for any sign of truth behind it all."Forgive me as I try to figure your place out so I can find my own. You no doubt feel the same way as I...what reason did they force me to go?" He was convinced it was his pride they wanted to ruin, for every moment he felt the fool she had to do something for him. (d Janice deBrabant By the time they came into contact with the outside world Janice had already pledged some part of her soul to always loving what was beautiful in this part of the world no matter if blood made the flowers grow. When the wind blew, it was almost good enough to suckle on; the spices, the sea, and the moisture all were like a potent wine that marinated the mana youth supped from. Jaded Julian and Heartbroken Little Janice couldn't help but be taken in by the magic, could they? After all both of them were only past twenty by a year or two. Janice's marriage was long enough to educate the flesh but little good for educating one on the strength of bonds, so it would not marr her forever."I.." No answer. No pip. Her mouth was shut by his finger as he guessed at any reason for the likes of her to come to a place like this. When would they grow tired of asking why she was anywhere? Surely no person could have endured as many questions going here or there one foot, let alone leagues, as deBrabant. "His majesty is fortunate enough to find place purchased in my work by what is done for the Templars, for they are in league with his majesty and one thing depends upon the other. During my marriage I was offered the most glittering traps, so this one had to be carefully refashioned lest it snap prematurely. Marriage to the Austrian at least surved to procure my own advancement. It is he who grew tired of his vows, not I. I have no time to cry in a cup of tea when there was work to be done, and work that needs doing now. I imagine your place is equal parts your master wishing you to explore the world as much as it is equal parts no one believes that I could live without assistance. I can defend myself, and kill, though I am not a trained killer. " So she told herself. You didn't need to raise a hand to kill a soul these days. "You have excellent rapier skills, and only the esteemed excentric or the industrialists we are around whom see the advantage of light European arms utilize them, while they are becoming the standard in Espania. I am a linguist, you are a mathematician. I am an apothecary, you are a chemist . Elect your favorite reason for I have gone through them many times." She smiled, removing his finger before pressing it to his own mouth with pressure applied from her own. "You live quite understated in emotion and over-announced in sarcasm, but even you find this thrilling. You loathe me, yet as I loathe you we are equally fascianted and thereby in skill make goodpartners. It is a classic formula, one even you wish to see repeated. The tales they tell you of Sorschal and St. Laurence boggle the mind, even of Vizharen, and the old exploits of Master Voltaire." They walked down the row a few more steps before the instinct born in her took root, making her as motionless as the heroes they both admired. Her eyes began to move across a thin, invisible line (d) Julian Monroe"They've been the standard in Espania." He corrected her, no doubt his very reason for not having very many friends growing up. Though she caught him there, with the talk of the rapier and his thrill--he did indeed find it thrilling. Thin leather bracers went over his shoulders to keep his arms close, as thin fingers had deadly aim. "Jean-Claude would be heartbroken to hear you talk about your marriage so. He to this day still walks with a deepening limp from protecting your virtue, risked it all to see it he came out on top as none would have held you at such high regard. He had such good faith in your husband, that I'm certain we'd see a very sore side of the Master should he ever return." Julian shuttered at the thought having only on very few occasions ever seeing Jean-Claude break his true character. It was a leap in faith to see a man as that descend the stairs with blood on his hands, madness that many times made Julian suddenly question if there was a god for he was certain the Frenchman to be the devil. Master Sorchal was legendary in his right, and even Julian could not find any flaw in the man, Claramae however had only acted as the silent partner to his own master in the few times they had met, but he was certain she must have seen something in him. Julian kept his hair brushed back, with flaxseed oil and rosemary, perhaps the only gift he had ever gotten from Ada other then the right hook, but still the Spanish winds could rustle strands across his forehead to tickle his brow. Laughter came from him thinking of Voltaire, though it was a joyful not once to place ill manner on the man. "Master Voltaire is delightful, and perhaps one of the best swordsmen I've ever seen."Her motions brought his steps to stop, though he did not once show alarm as he stood now just beyond her shoulder keeping his eyes on the line of the rooftops, and fingers idly placing themselves behind his back and on the hilt of the daggers there that went along their row. "His majesty is fortunate enough indeed, the Templars are legendary. Though I have fashioned them all dead from the stories I've been told." He kept with the conversation, finding little reason to make anyone think any other of the possible danger ahead, though his voice did fall to whisper. "Perhaps we should go back." A practiced manner of his tongue could hide any dialect but when he lowered his voice his heritage could not be denied. (d) Janice deBrabant "Are becoming. Not all of Espania is espoused to the Rapier. The Aragonese prefer it, and Leon. It bleeds into Castille thereafter. It is however becoming a fixure in Italia states." Correction again The two no doubt could quarrel all night over the origin of dirt until the new sun rose up in the sky but it was only for a walk hey went, wasn't it? If Master Sorschal knew that Janice was out in Espania on such a venture he would have gone balistic. The Lady Laurence had a unique way of coming him in her appeared subservience, in reality a way of testing. Constant testing for Sorschal was her apprentice, as was Percival. Madness and illusionists did vile as well as awe inspiring deed. Story still celebrated the brilliance in every angle, the deduction in every trap. Monroe and deBrabant were inducted into a lineage of elegance covering the hard work each exuded to be a master. She moved from the range following what the undercurrent of distant prayers tride to disguise: a current of pain. Sharp gusts of air blew, holding gasps of a man's breath on them. "No.." There work was to have taken them beyond Seville, not beneath or above Seville. "Listen...we are coming closer to the grates in the plaza buildings..we must listen." Obsessed, she tilted her ear at an odd degree in the air, picking up the sound. No sense should be that keen - but if lore was right - she was the daughter of the man who'd mentored both Sorschal, St. Laurence, and their nemsis Gottschalk. (d) Julian Monroe Whispers seemed to throw themselves from one corner to the other, over one side of the street to the other, and his heart started to pound. She could not have heard the same voice, the witches laughter for it couldn't be that heavy in the night that she did not take notice. Pulled away from her in his confusion he tilted his eyes towards the heavens as the night seemed to push them further. He moved with her as close as they could get pulling in place the dagger from his belt, but the pad of paper protected in leather. He could not make out the words nor knew the spelling but he would offer her the tablet if she so wished, or make a guess. "Tell me what they are saying.." He finally put the two together, "Is it Spanish?" Julian had a hard time separating the two without the General's heavy voice to make up the difference. "Do they talk of the war? The templars?" There was curiosity in him like a child, and made him almost tolerable. Yet, this was his proof he was excited to be here, and eager to learn--even from her. Going silent then he poised the charcoal pencil over the paper and waited, his eyes not on the people before them, but her--waiting. Dear God. Don't tell anybody. (d Janice deBrabant "They were praying, a moment ago...yes..Allah be merciful. In the name of Allah the benevolent...Peace be upon your servant Devareux..Quick..quick!" She whispered low in frantic hiss for him to pen because she would become the phonograph spewing out the music of translated tongues for him. She lowered along the wall, down on the grate, pulling her body in to the shadow so it swallowed up her brilliant ball-of-fire gown. "They say...that they are not successful in bargaining for his life...he was..in Grenada...caught there...in a bad...way. Oh! Grenada, yes...that is is where we were to go Julian....they are saying that..the knights with red cross on their tunics...these must be the templar....betrayed..him. They sold his work..what work.to the enemy across the water and to the Church here! They are..saying that...he. is..in prison..Sevilla....Seville, he is here! He was too close to warning....and....they are also in danger these men...trapped..no way..out." the voices were moving, and the grates were fewer. What were they to do..but move to the next one? As she listened, she began to pull the glorious invention from her hair, reshaped it into a thin needle like point, and silently pried at the sides of the grate to great success. "Reconquista...it goes on. But not ..oh! Do not hush..go on!" She snarled at their silence, but suddenly..oh so suddenly the language became fragmented..French? "They will burn my master at the stake with sodomites" Other talk occurred that even Julian could fathom..creaking descriptions of things that would churn any stomach..skin pulling from bone with fire's kiss (d) Julian Monroe He hardly needed to look at the paper, his concentration only on the words he wrote--she spoke. "Wait. What?" The broken fragments was a temptation, as he followed in behind her. Dear God they were not going in there were they? Suddenly he cursed himself for not bringing his sword, hardly seeming appropriate for an evening stroll, but perhaps he should have taken lesson with her past. "Burn who?" He caught her arm to keep her from going too far ahead without him, but made it certain to stay at her pace still writing as they went. "These men will burn him?" And they go closer? "The ones that have him." He put it together on his own, folding the paper away for a moment he listened to the French. His heart went still as he listened, and he kept his back to one wall as they stopped to listen. "If he's here where would they hold him? We can't let them burn him." All would be lost would it not? The world was sick where fire was the only means of execution, "Why do they want to kill him?" So many questions came forward, and though he was briefed on the subject it never once collected enough for him to keep it all straight. He knew why they were there, but liked hearing it from her. Somehow she made it all seem so clear, and didn't try to soothe the subject. He would follow her, letting her take the lead, but soon enough his own pride wouldn't let her fall further into the blackness of the grates. "What if it's a trap?" Always the cynical ass, he believed in the good faith of very few. "How could he be here when you were told he wasn't?" Was this why they sent him? Julian had a way of making anyone feel grounded from their flight, and never let them down easy. (d Janice deBrabant "It would stand to reason that trap or no, Julian, without the rest of their words for your hand to write and my ear to here, we may be wandering in circles. We haven't the time for circles." She recounted for him the importance of what they were doing (breaking into strange grates in foreign plazas, him writing with charcoal, her listening to wind born voices) with an ease the betrayed the rush in both their hearts. "This is no trap. For it were they wouldhave set it in any other place but here. If it is a trap, we must prove our worth to our peers and escape it with what we seek. If Devareux is not here, we must trace that French voice do you not agree? I believe it to be an associate of the Father's. Either he or she will be good as to keep us to his way..or God forgive" She crossed herself, "One of the drams upon me will do the Moors a favor." She took hold of his other arm. His pride to her logic, settling on the ground as he stood there an anchor. "Come. In. I will follow behind you." Let man go before woman, for pride cometh before the fall (D) Julian Monroe "I think by now Danielle, we have nothing to prove to anyone." He moved forward, taking the hilt of the bayonet between thin fingers that were meant for precise aim, and the distinct hold of the world around them. Julian's thin frame made it easy to keep his steps quiet, though his height often acted as a problem. "I can not make out what side we are on." Though the French won him, even if it was their fault. How could he have not wanted to dive right in? He moved in through the workings of their destination where the words seemed to open back again."I do not think they have him." He whispered as they crouched there in the darkness, surrounded by the stone, "If they did they are poor at hiding it. This one seems nervous." The voice of one man seemed to shake when he spoke, and Julian went back to writing what was said. "What if they say this? To cover up? What if he did get away, and ran into the mountains?" He went quiet again waiting for her to draw her conclusion. "Shall I get one so we can question him our Master's way." Was that a joke? The dry manner of his voice would have argued otherwise, but he couldn't be serious could he? (d Janice deBrabant "Utlizing the name is good practice." She followed behind him, bent over at the back yet able to treck semi-standing through the half dry, half went interior. Dampness effected the stone enough to foster mold, causing the lady to lift the edge of her sleeve to her nose. "Well, we all are upon the side of some King, some country, some way. Let us say we are on the side of the Templar, whom comissioned this venture...that will be easier oui?" Janice felt the the pull in the dark as much as she felt the rush of her own blood. What she was put away from was where she was supposed to be: she was supposed to live and translate the meaning of situations like this. Around a corner, they crouched as Julian took diction. "You are right, he is very nervous. He is saying these moors are allies of Devareux, but for how long? They will kill him if he seeks to run away now. If the Father made it into the mountains.. there is indeed a God who makes miracles in this day, but listening to them..I do not think he did." She listened to the Spanish join the conversation now, and all parties immediately went to that tongue on behalf of the visitor. "They are discussing Aragon now, and how the King is allowing the Church's sanction for the Inquisition...what if Devareux is a prisoner of Inquisitors. Oh God, the things they will do to him. We have to find him, tonight, or he will be dead in the morning. As good as dead, if he still walks. Listen...the latin. ... quoniam punitio non refertur primo & per se in correctionem & bonum eius qui punitur, sed in bonum publicum ut alij terreantur, & a malis committendis avocentur. it means... for punishment does not take place primarily and per se for the correction and good of the person punished,but for the public good in order that others may become terrified and weaned away from the evils they would commit." She actually blanched even if her eyes did not betray the story her flesh was writing. "I believe that the Spanish Templars are trying to inspire the Inquisition while those in Skye are seeking to cease it. I think the Father came to stop more than the ressurection of the Templars in Europe..but from what happened to the brothers in France from happening..elsewhere. When I was married to Marius, he believed that the papal agents would insight a Crusade against Skye for its doings. They seek to become papal agents..and in that..I think he was right. " After this, from beyond the bend came the sound of screams, cries. (d) Julian MonroeThey were going for ink, the just night had pulled him out for ink, and this was what they found? He did not believe in the second thoughts of the unknown, but now he wondered if he did happen to serve a greater calling? "Then we should go back and get the guardians. " But then they would miss something? Vital information that raised it's reason behind the mixed Spanish and French. He tucked away the tablet once more, and put the charcoal stick wrapped in a thin paper like material back behind his ear. The screams caused both hands to flood with weapon, throwing points and star like objects held like a deck of cards ready to fly. "Stay here. Keep listening..and next time..wear a more practical dress." A chase of bitterness went unresolved under his breath as he made way for the cries, unsure of what he would find, but he would not let them close to her. If Devareux was a prisoner of Inquisitors, there should be a gathering of minds like none other. At the hand of greatness, and despite Julian's weakness to the sight of blood he watched Jean-Claude get answers out of even the most stubborn fools. He knew what bones broke easy, and what muscles made a rippling down the body. He was uncertain of what was ahead but ready, and could hardly believe it. Julian Monroe, son of a fallen farmer three years back would have simply chucked carrots at any who thought him weak, now stood poised and ready. (d
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Post by Janice Olivia Monroe on May 17, 2010 10:03:56 GMT -6
Around the corner, just at the bend we are coming to crossing swords again
Out of Ink, Part 2 of 2 Julian MonroeIt is God who arms me with strength and makes my way perfect. He makes my feet like the feet of a deer; he enables me to stand on the heights. He trains my hands for battle; my arms can bend a bow of bronze.(Psalm 18:32-34) It really was a shame he believed the earth and heaven to have no such thing as a superior, for in this moment he was certain there would have been a cry of mercy, forgiveness, or even a confession of his sins. A parallel spine slid against the walls of the caverns that had become their fortress, and in a brief shinning moment sanctuary. For what cry could be given, if not for the sake of the Lord? Julian certainly wished to believe in this moment. Long thin fingers started to roll back his sleeves, revealing the spring loaded daggers hidden against his wrist, as well the very few scars of where the trade had once not been mastered. Nerves fired through him like lightning, but the night did not show on his face. A cool calm collection of very little personality remained even in the faces of danger, as this came with little belief in an afterlife. What purpose had he to think of heaven, if he had never known it, the afterlife would be much like birth--who remembered what was before their life? Why would they remember what was to follow? One last look to the Angel, held upon her alabaster pedestal, Jean-Claude would mirror the night wishing only to protect her, but what use would she have been then? Air captured his breath, as he held it tightly inside his chest peering around the corner, and pulling over the well worn mask of a most hated youth. (d Janice deBrabant To him that made great lights: for his mercy endureth for ever, (Psalm 136:7) Weak flames wrought in old oil came through the bars, causing her to press her back against them. Unlike Julian, she had a belief in God despite the fact her life might be used as an argument against any sort of religious myth. He looked at her. He felt in her the recitation of silent psalms that animated her mouth. The pair were not alone, their first moments of Spanish combat were night. A guard had seen the opened grate. He went inside the Plaza, alerted his peers, and they began to fill the darkness like a disease. The sun to rule by day: for his mercy endureth for ever: The moon and stars to rule by night: for his mercy endureth for ever. (Psalm 136: 8,9) To what were Monroe and Debrabant parallel. Maybe youth embodied both aspects of sun and moon, wind and rain. The sound of breathing began to fill the chasm infront of Julian, but also to the side of Janice. Moving but a little ways, she looked down with fingers locked on the iron to see the priestly figure chained. Like them, he too thought in bible verses spilling out in Latin. His room was enclosed by a heavy door with its peeping mechanism shut. "Sir, Sir! Devareux.." She whispered hard as the little device used to secure her hair morphed again, becoming a thicker file to pry at the sides in the iron. It was a gamble, but one that was viable. This would give them ground to go on, and a way out. It would mean they would have to fight out onto the plaza again, but they stood no chance in the networks of darkness. The man looked up, hardly believing his eyes, reaching up with blood stained hands hidden in bandages. (d) Julian MonroeThe sun, moon, wind, and rain seemed little to do with the true light and dark of the pair. God it smelled so bad, and the bloody hands of the man could have sent the earth to connect with the unwilling mind to push the image from his sight. There, he had watched the world spin, feeling his heart flutter in his chest as his insides twisted in knots--blood. Through the darkness they spilled one by one until the sounds of their steps became the pattern of war drums, and the silence broke only by the departure of a blade held close against the long fingers of the scientist's apprentice. This was where space was measured with lines visible to a certain few who could explain the world through numbers instead of words. There were nearly 8 men, 16 feet from him, down a tunnel nearly 8 feet tall. The first would fall have to fall within that range of his hand. The heart was nearly 7 inches from the neck, and two inches over--it would be precise. Julian thought in equations; moved through the world in steps counted from the last, and if he could have wrote a letter home in moments like this there would be so much he could say. It had been a sickness, as a child living through mathematics in place of imagination; for he didn't dream, and this was what kept him together at the seams. The first sound of a heart exploded through the pierced edge of the throwing spike, and the silence remained as through the darkness they could not see the icy blue eyes that stared them down. Braces that ran over his shoulders kept close the small spiked flat blades, that soon started to filter through the dark lit by the small light of the grate, and landing upon their target. Had she wanted him to kill them? Was she aware this was his first kill? The theatrics of it seemed so useless, but she needed time. (d Janice deBrabant The pain of the man who gave his life to God through a heretic's order was moving; blood soaked hands reached up for salvation from pale ones. Beneath the bandages, one could imagine the stigmata his torchure manifested. Stained, too, were the soles of feet only wanting to make pilgrimate to holy sites. "The Lord punishes me, he casts me among unbelievers. We are wrong in what we do!" White hot madness peppered his religious fervor, and she would have weptfor him if time allowed it so. Above her head in a space only eight feet in height a man with less stature than the whole of the wall went after as many men as their were combined feet. "What they wish to do as things fall..a..apart...Jesu, Jesu!" His wailings caused no stir. They were used to his ranting, his weeping. He was chained for he had gnashed out at them, bound at the feet for he kicked. Those who 'kept' him from himself were no more than an enemy to him, for they hadn't done this? The building held many entities, some not even aware of one another. Or if they were, ignored it. Did he know that she had spilled blood before? After cutting his binds and picking his locks, she would prove it in the emergence of a guard who came with supper to force-feed down the man's throat. "Hey!" He cried out in Spanish his shock at drawing his sword, and finding the woman pushed the priest behind her. His steel met her thin additions: stilletos. Making an 'x' with them she blocked a swipe that would have cut her, pushing on the force from her stance. It didn't topple him over, but it was enough to make him lose footing for the benefit of her true gift: agility. With one hand she had no qualms with turning the knife so it sank into his side, nor using the other to enforce the damage by piercing the side of his throat. She didn't kill because she was not killer who could do it so many times life took on an absence of meaning, but it didn't mean that the temptation to see what hands could do didn't prove too much for any master of the house. It was evident she could defend herself quite well, if necessary. The impliments, blood stained, found way to rest in thin holds at her waist as free hands posistioned the priest. "Father, Sir Devareux! Tell me where they brought you in, it is this way that will set us out again..Julian!" She called to him through the grate to follow the sound of her voice. Already she was looking for, and found a stool. If he did not climb down, she would ascend once more. (d) Julian Monroe He felt a shiver rise as a pearl of water ran down his spine, the sweat of his brow embodied a figure who knew what true work could do to a body. His life spent in the shadow of his fallen father, pushed a plow until they could not afford the horse, and then it was with their hands did the ground get sewn with seed for a harvest to get washed away with the great floods. His baby sister had starved, the milk of their mother dried, and she too sick to realize that her own son's face sank in. Julian had grown up at the age many were just learning to ride, and that man was reflected in this moment--he knew how to fight for his life. With a press of his finger against the pulse of his wrist the blades that ran up his arm would find their way into his hands, and moved over the man's neck in the fashion one would use a scythe. The bodies on the floor motionless cried out for none, but the agony of those fallen from the Angel's hands could have turned his stomach. Did she do that? Startled he looked long and hard at her, judging, or at least trying to piece together the very fortitude of the conflict. It was not in him to watch something suffer, but he would not spend the time upon the bodies. Their hearts still beat--they would live. A quick motion to collect what few throwing daggers he could, Julian would be hot on the trail of the dark wings of the shades of grey angel. "Did you do that with a pen?" He asked her, coming along side to help her with the priest, his brow drawn together as even now he judged her openly. Devareux, would writhe with the contact of the youth, spouting words in Spanish of the horned man, and the blood on his hands would turn Julian white as small French nothings went whispered to keep his mind clear. Pale blue moved down the path, scanning each corner, counting each turn they made in case they made too many, and with this he laughed. Under the arm of a man of God Julian could not help how good it felt to clear the adrenaline from his veins with his laughter. Such a strange child. (d Janice deBrabantThe familiar tinge of guilt made her blood curdle as the sin of murder, of killing, was enacted to the rhythm she saved for her prayers. It was too late to rue what was done or what she might become of too many acts were done with no chance to confess. Was it not coincidence among their guardians were warrior-priests? "Father Devareux,..Father please!" She changed from English to a melodic, desperate French that made the old man cease his babbling, as he recognized at last what eyes he loooked in. Was not the other one...a sometimes companion? It was so hard to tell "My child, have you and your husband come to rescue me?" He slapped her unknowing, but she didn't even turn her head to give indication of the sting on her cheek. "No, but better have come. Hold on, we will get you to aid soon, but you must be our map, Father." The halls were such poor light. Left, right, and left again in wavering shadows past dominion of Lucifer. The old man recoiled, remembeing the injury a cry suggested. Bones stretched on rakes, body pierced by maids of iron. They were walking through a torchure block, the division between the moors who detaiend him for his madness they couldn't help and the Christians who would have killed all of them. "They broke...the altar boys that came with me, my students, on the rack..." He whispered in broken french. "They...believe." She pressed her fingers to his mouth as they all leaned into a wall to avoid being seen. Everyone was..busy. Too busy to worry for anything but what went on, for the word may not have spred to this quarter. Did the moors think them adversaries of Devareux? Eyes beheld Julian, "When you were as plagued with unwanted suit as I was, learning simple skills becomes necessary. I have been armed for years." She indicated her hair ornament, then touched the stilletos. "If close range is necessary. let us not talk on it now." As if it were embarrassing, instead of a skill to be celebrated. (d) Julian Monroe Believe. In. What?" Julian asked the man as his eyes locked within his own, and anger heated the icy pools. There was deeper root behind all of this, and he suddenly wished to be free from the aid to jot down the words that formed behind his mind. He hated to be the rookie, but never minded to prove them all wrong. "Armed for years, and you've not once pulled it on me. You're the first." He pressed the priest to the wall, wishing to be free from the man's weight if only for a moment as they regained their footing. The very sound of the tortured cries kept him silent, but there was as much reflection here. Those bodies had been his first kill out of profession, but there were a sorted amount lost his hand from here was a sudden fowl nature in his mood as he shook free from the priest. He was angry, but at what? What reason, did he have for being so cruel? He put the man's arm back over his shoulder to help him. "I'm not her husband. She can't keep one. And I'm not about to be put through that because I," He held up his hand to wiggle his fingers, "believe." Or not. His French was flawless as he bit into the priest by words seething with anger. The hit had not gone unnoticed, and perhaps this added fuel to the fire. However, as they walked the markings on the wall seemed to bleed from the stone, written in blood in Spanish? "Ja..Danielle, look." Funny how blood could not only turn him inside out, but pull him back down.A message there, for certain warning, but of what? The torture chamber no doubt had cracked the minds of the forgotten, but from outside the holding this had been written. Julian couldn't help but feel cold, for he was certain the Spanish told them to return to Skye. (d Janice deBrabant "Believe in what is a good question to ask...." What was the deep root other than a supposed allegation of religion when Julian saw no reason to pay God any heed? What God of mercy would condone places like this, in his name? What God, in his name, would call up wars, famines, and plagues? There was so much reason to dispute the true will of God! They moved down the walls at a pace slower than Janice would have liked because the cries of the 'damned'had a way of taking root inside the mind. What if the same they had seen speaking on behalf of Devareux still had a hand in this? I'm not her husband, she can't keep one.. more words that bit, claws that scratched. Expertise demanded she give no indication of how she wished like Julian to burst out at the pair of them. How did a Templar becomes so stupid as to find himself here, and couldn't Julian contain himself? Frenchretort was ready to clip their mouth when he alerted her to the stones. Warm blood dripped on her wrist, causing her to recoil as she said, "Say nothing, you both. I am reading." The weight of the Father was given unto Julian to be a burden. Taking a torch from the wall, she swallowed back bile as she slid the torch across the blood lines to see their letters. "No hope, no chance. If you are fleeing, do not stop. If you are seeking aid, find nothing here.. we are all lost.. we are all..lost." She looked down at the end of the phrase, picking up an item of it's writer. "The student of Devareux, I recognize the bracelet. We need to hurry. Whatever has befallen him, he is already..." Footsteps began to resound at the front of them, and she had to take shelter under the dripping letters to avoid being seen (d) Julian MonroeThe hot humid air pulled strands of his hair from their hold to mat against his forehead while sweeping over his eyes. "Not a clue, but a warning..wonderful." Here in the heart of a city, under the ground the very bowels of the streets could not have made him more sick. He feared not for his life, but certainly was not ready to leave this world. Clutching the man's mouth he pulled him against the stone to keep from the light as the footsteps passed. "Monsieur." He whispered, "If you want to live get us out of here." The Father would motion a bandaged hand forward for the tunnel that seemed to echo with the sea, or was it simply the wind? Commitment to memory those words on the stone, had to mean something. Already he could write an entire passage on simply this place alone, as it bothered him, but as would look over his shoulder to Janice, the blood that spilt upon her dress seemed to unnerve him completely. Imagination got the best of him, as images started to fill his mind of the select few he cared about stretched over those racks, and he wondered momentarily if he would have the will power to survive. "So answer it." He spoke to her, in a quiet voice needing her to fill the silence as they continued, "Believe in what?": He took a deep breath, as he shifted the man who remained quiet. He went quiet, knowing the answer, and feeling very versed in the subject. One could easily go insane down here. Perhaps he could have read into the hurt of his words and pulled his gaze from her pushing forward, "Be thankful I'm not your husband, Janice, and that you don't have one. You'd be some kept pet, on the arm of some foolish knight, and wouldn't be knee deep in mud right now on foreign land, learning to really appreciate life as I am now. Thrilling." He spoke in such a dry tone, that struggled with the weight of the man. (d Janice deBrabantOpression was the form of sweltering heat thick enough to taste. Blood and sweat flavored the air stinging nostrils, pricking at eyes. It was here, in the heart of the city that their elegant training did little good but help to keep them civilized. It was then Janice understood the necessity for the hard lessons in rigorous comportment, as rigorous as the weaponry. Peter Devareux waved his hand at the outlet, pulling his broken body in that direction, this meant that youth would follow. By the time she joined them she was covered in blood, the colors oddly blending in with the sunset nature of her gown. She shivered from it, the sacriligious idea of being covered in blood not her own, but of the known. The bracelety of the young man was slid on her wrist for safekeeping, no doubt needing to be studied. "Believed in the cause that the men who are on Skye were not damned, but wrongly accused, and the ones here are the lost ones. Look at him, Julian. He believes he is damned now. I have no doubt for traveling with the young boys, they convicted him as a sodomite." lackluster tone replied to his last statement as they came out to be kissed by the sea breeze. Had they gone that far outside of the plaza to the coastline? Seville did seem smaller, to the side. "How strange this is liberating. I spent half of my marriage arguing with the knight on who's arm I inhabited or being shot at. At least this I elected." She helped with the burden of the priest. Once upon his knees in the sand, he pulled them both down with him. He drew for them what they wanted from his head, that he wouldn't give. "Oh my God..Julian..watch him! Watch look, the lines..he is mapping Spain. His associates wanted the location of the treasure stores, the hide outs. He knew it because he has seen it, but came back to undo it. The Muslims need a place to invade, they are being driven off in droves again. Look here..just like the maps we have..and there..there must be Morroco..but what is this..this third? Is that Leon..Aragon. Wait..Toledo? Father?Father!" He gripped to his heart, falling back into their arms. Janice caught his face in her hand. So exhausted, so stricken, all he could do was whisper. "Toledo. The Butcher of Toledo." (d) Julian Monroe"This would be liberating only to you.." For he saw her as strange, awkward, and easily excited. Julian let the man fall, as he pulled the notepad from his back pocket and started to sketch out the map, though his charcoal crumbled in his hands, he would take the edge of the small throwing dagger and dip it in the man's blood--sick? Perhaps, but this map was important. The very life was stolen from the Father's soul, and in his blood he would offer the key to the stronghold. Kneeling down beside the man, he would continue to write down the name...Butcher of Toledo. Sounded promising. of hell? "Your sins are forgiven if you confess them. Did you deserve to be here?" Did Janice need to hear this? "Are you damned for hell? What other secrets are you harboring Father? Take them to hell with you?" He was so cynical crushed at the very mortality that this man displayed; their fight for nothing but a map? He wanted to shake the man, scream at him for falling here, after they had worked so hard to free him. It wasn't right, nor was it fair; and strangely enough he felt obligated to continue to pull him from the tunnel.Yet, if any knew how to squeeze information out of even the dead it was, Monroe. (d Janice deBrabant "Sarcasm is a rich skill, Monroe. You should invest in it." A barb from beneath the angels white-gray wing? Touche! She held him still in her arms as they pulled him out. Instinct formed fingers to pulse points, a head to his chest to listen for the faintest possibility of miracle, and finding it. "He's still alive. Faint, but alive. We put out a signal here, no doubt one of the others is waiting. There will be no way to bare him back to Seville on ourshoulders." She waited several moments after she ingested her own tantrum to be grasped in her tight hands, "The Templars are nothing but secrets. Do not be cruel. He isn't deaf, and we can't run the risk of him hearing anything that will frighten him. We need him to wake up --lucid. Do not judge him so, we are all a part of a secret, aren't we?" A secret crafted by elegant sycophants who pretended to be human. As Julian commended the map to blood keep, her slipper was used to wipe it all away. If the masters asked did they remember their first assignment, she would pale whiter than snow. Screams still racked the inside of her brain, even as she went to take up the bulk of the father's weight again. He was so thin, she slipped him across her back and maneuvered him a great many feet to a safe cave. Was Monroe coming? (d) Julian Monroe "I'm not being cruel, just disillusioned. They used to be so mighty, so revered like extensions of God's fingers, but now? Look at the mess." Julian would let her carry the man, continuing to jot down bits of information, as the screams of the torture chamber continued to splice the night. He like any good report, wanted the information fresh from his mind, but when he stumbled over a few words he pulled the bit of charcoal away, having found a piece suitable to write. "Would it be wise we pretend we're married?" Only he would ask a question like that, at a time so fragile, "They expect it of you. You were coming with your husband." He spoke on it like it were nothing special, simply a part of the game. It might even save them a lot of trouble down the road, and perhaps he could even be her 'brother'. Continuing on his recap, while she positioned the man, Julian would cast a look over his shoulder swearing to feel a tap against his shoulder he felt for certain he had leapt from his skin. All he wanted was some ink. That's it. Nothing could be so simple anymore could it? He felt as though eyes burned into his back, and finally moved to stand outside the cave a bit paler then before. (d
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Post by Janice Olivia Monroe on May 29, 2010 13:11:20 GMT -6
The Letters: Writings between King Alfonso IV and the Princess of Corsicawritten by the creators of Espania and FranceI. To Her Serene Highness, the Princess of Corsica::: He would find humor in this, the royal standard used to address a woman who was a princess only after a few days sojourn as a Queen. He smiled, remembering the way her face looked as they discussed a future of wants, finding their desires mutual only in that one wanted to complete what one wanted in their own way. Instead of commending this through the hand of another, he used his own hand. Literacy was a prized commodity in Europe, and he was happy to display it.:: Greetings from Aragon, and blessings of the Lord on you, sweet Lady Rosalind. I wonder how it is you fair in your world, so precious to you for what it yields. My own has changed, but not regretably so. You set sail with the crown of Aragon on your beautiful head. Were that I could send you another. If only one might have two queens instead of one, but the bible allows us a wife and man allows us a mistress. I did not suspect that there were two of you. England provided me what France yielded up in your arrangement. Fortunately, Isabella is French. A pedigree is a pedigree. A princess is a princess, but she? She is England's bygone Queen, and with her might come the opportunity to forge the alliance anew. A man does not discuss business with a woman in Espania, save for you. I will treat you no different. I find it amazing the resilence of my new Queen. She has endured the mistakes of her husband, the open contempt and power of a lover, and the loss of her children to a false regime. She could not make a way for herself in concordance with Salic Law when it was eradicated from the land, nor was a way left for her children. No marriages could be sought with the new, foundling crown. I commend her for trying. My diplomats tell me that the Aberdeenians are charasmatic. People flock to them for they offer chance, yet others take that chance and rue it, for it defies the order of what we know. We are all defiant, I think. We take the chance to go against the grain but it is how we do this, without throwing aside all tradition, that matters. When Isabelle came to me from Castille, she was to have been the wife of its King, and he the fool to divorce the wife he already scorned enough to cause Portugal to invade him in favor of a mistress with too much power. There would have been no way for the Church to allow him to wed his Elenore, when he so long cast aside the Infanta. But instead of sullying his posistion, says he to me through men come from him why do you not marry this Isabelle? We call her Isabelle of Castille, she has settled, a good virtuous woman, with quite an enviable dowry. Marry her, he says, and we shall talk of the merger of our crowns beneath you, beneath Aragon. Could you imagine, my dear Rosalind? In this time in the absence of you, I have gained a friend but no queen. Nor could one seek to gain a Queen with the prospect of a seat beside the upstarts you so adore. I would not invade Scotland on your behalf. You, my dear, are still too good to see undone. The people fascinate me. Exocommunicated a few years ago only to be brought back into the fold by heretics, allowable ones. How God must laugh at how we convey his will. She was brought to me as was proper for inspection, for I decided I would not marry her without seeing her first, nor ratify such an engagement. I could have entertained a bride of the Italian states to gain a better standing with them, perhaps with the Pope. Yet, to see her was not to be anything but taken. You both are an exceptional breed of your sex. Both of you are darkly featured, though yours are lighter still. She is coal dark in her hair, in her eyes. You have a more prominent sense of humor, but Isabelle has a wit that could stand with your own. If you were both not so mannerful, you would slice a man in half before he realized what had happened, just by the power of your words. She can negotiate well, was demure before the company of court and her soon to be lord for it was not long before I decided I would accept. It takes a certain breed of woman to have Castille between her thin shoulders when she was never born there. It takes a certain breed of woman to say she would gladly allow her lord prominence in England through her marriage, for it was still her throne to give by marriage to her former husband, and what was recognized. She even brought the man, the Earl of March, her lover. How plain spoken they both were of passions gone cool, and practicality still essential for both. Why, his wife is even the Queen's first choice among her ladies,and I would allow it so. Her children she has willingly abandoned for they were not brought to heel and have sinned, but she would allow them called taken in the wars with Scotland, and she a mother whom still prays for them. Was I moved? Not with emotion, but with pause to think on what matter of being survives all of this. She might also provide me with a better way toward France, at least in her pleasant speech to entertain the diplomats. Worry not. I do not seek your France, nor your King. I seek to reclaim a throne that is mine, and my bride's, for she might have some vindication that any should restore. What is your thought my dear? What we spoke of in theory is now true. Espania is Espania. Aragon, Castille, Grenada, Leon, we all refer to them as areas still, each with its own way but we are one nation now. Much like Philip was able to do with France. How stands the King? I have not heard of him spoken in long terms despite whom comes and goes between our nations. I hear more of your world enough to drown out the rest of Europe from across the sea. Yours in Faith, His Majesty the King* To His Majesty:My greetings to Your Majesty, and may this letter find Your Majesty in health as it leaves me. I do not forget what promises Your Majesty offered to make, but my life has also changed a very great deal since last we met. I do not believe I am suitable to be any man's, nor king's, mistress that Your Majesty might see two powerful women engaged upon your lands in God's work. Though I do believe very much Your Majesty has made a suitable match, and my blessings upon Your Majesty's union. May it be fruitful and long. The man I traded my crown for has become my husband, and between us are two children. My eldest, Aldric, now sits a horse, pulls a bow, and draws a sword better than any his age. He is wise and gentle, and his footsteps fall surely upon the long path I have forged for him. My youngest remind all who meet her of her father; she would pull down castle walls for the sheer thrill of it. Yet I am most reminded of myself, and of a road I did not travel by. It is good to have such children in your life, Sire, as I am reminded yet again that I find more joy in living in privacy. I am not aware of matters in France. I have not called it my home in very many years. News is slow to arrive so far north, though faster now that the ice has cleared. We have settled into these warmer months. The daylight hours are long, the heat makes us lazy, but never has God been so kind as to bless us with this land. I am afraid intrigues are difficult to concoct while there is honey to collect from the hives, and roses to resurrect after a great storm. Earlier in the season, I was present at the coronation of my sovereigns, but though I hold Auvergne, I must admit I have fallen out of politics, and the great world spins on without this shadow behind the throne. It is a disappointment to Your Majesty, but this woman's head is weary of crowns, and her place is in the home. From what little of which I am aware, I have only a mild warning for Your Majesty's bountiful kingdom. Pragmatism is not a virtue solely possessed by these proud Scots. Your lady queen and I are of the same blood. I returned your crown intact and unharmed, but it is clear my ambitions merely lay in returning to my rose garden. Your humble servant, Corsica
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Post by Janice Olivia Monroe on May 29, 2010 13:15:40 GMT -6
I was being called to surrender the very citadel of my self. I was completely in the dark. I did not really know what repentance was or what I was required to repent of. It was indeed the turning point of my life.
Bede Griffiths
The high tide licked with cold, sea-salt tongue on the porous rock at the mouth of the cave. Stone drank up the moisture and invented it as the sound of what must have been the belly of a stone whale. It pushed, pulled, and gurgled. It digested small creatures and exhaled little shells in tide pools. In a storm it must have eaten more than one man, and spit up his bones to become the glitter in the sand. Under a scimitar moon manufactured by the bobbing black clouds, the sky was as unsteady as the sea. Everything teemed before a recess like the waves that pushed the boat on the way to Spain. She wanted to become sick, but managed to swallow the hot, acidic bile back down her throat more than once.
"Toldeo. Toledo. Toledo." Devareux woke up from an exhaustion induced sleep, muttering again. "Toledo. Toledo.' He had been at it when they first pulled him inside, when he woke up to accept the shock of his freedom before silpping into maudlin rantings of what sounds the heavy thickness of his cell door couldn't hide. "Toledo." The word was by far more pleasent than the talk of thick iron spikes pressing in to bodies on either side during the Iron Maiden's use, or talk of bones snapping as bodies were stretched on the rack. His leg quivered like jelly. They already knew he was a partial victim of time spent with his leg in the wet leather,wool, and pull straps of The Boot. They understood all of this better than the mystery of Toledo. She watched with time as Julian's fingers moved with an admirable dexterity to record every single, solitary detail. Sometimes, the role would switch. She would record while he took turn soaking the man's fevered brow. Still, the wind whistled, the sea turned, and hours passed with no meaning to Toledo. They needed his story. He needed his lucidity. Neither party had what was most desired.
Her hands played with Julian's recreation of lines in the sand that formed a map. Toledo. Was it worth straying from the path set in the light of dawn toward Grenada? Devareux's splintered recollections were turning the path to Aragon in to a kalediscopic mess. Slivers of the light bends crashed on scenes that had nothing to do with the reason for being here - or did they? She neither wanted differentials or distraction, but it wouldn't be a test of her willingness to embrace all of the craft if there werent' any. Julian was very practical himself. For once, both of them find a like irratant. "Here, it is my turn," she offered, doing the dance again to sit at the side of the half gone older gentleman. "I've written some thoughts. Add your own." The margins of the map held little inklings. Was the butcher a man who killed systematicly or across the board? Was it an event that had a discriminate reason, or something that was going to happen? Whas there anything in Toledo that was worth investigating or avoiding? The mere mention of fire stakes in one hour of rambling had nearly rendered the conclusion that Devareux would be of no help at all, and they had completed one objective while burdening themselves with his care. Any other would have left him to Fate; the masters instilled a level of humanity in the apprentices that demanded attention. Where one would see a burden, they were to see opportunity. Where others saw a waste, they were to see a reason for the collection.
In time, the vigil was conducted by the little sand dollars on the base of the cave or the light on the ocea when the clouds pulled back. Sleep took them hostage. In some unknown hour when it was the last bastian of dark and the inevitable streak of gray before first light, Devareux's hand smacked the bent legs of deBrabant. Hardly tucked beneath her skirts any longer, he could grip on to the slender, mud caked ankle before creeping it up her calf. By the time his fingers reached her patella, the hand of she offered the ice-like grip of the priest knight a hard smack. Skirts were pulled up in her hands. What was he about?
In the dark, Peter Devareux was a thing caught in a nightmare that saw his eyes half awake. He was suspended between wakefulness and sleep, unable to tell the difference between the fiction his mind was making. He stumbled against the back of the cave. "I do not mean to offend you, I should not. My vows to God, and to poverty. You are neither God or poverty." Even his smile stayed maudlin as the edges frayed into sadness. He began to speak to her as if she were someone she weren't. "Who is neither God nor poverty," asked the living semblance of his dream, "Who?"
"Arcelia, we are too old to be coy. You are not a woman of poverty, and you challenge my chastity. I went to Toledo, on learning that you had settled there. I do not know why I allowed temptation to detract me from purpose, Arcelia. All I know..is that you..are the favorite of many men. I think you would have been better for Castile, than Elenore of Guzman, but you are the mistress of all of us. I miss you." He didn't advance anymore, but instead fell to his side, coiling in as his eyes shut. He twitched, a piece of his head set to bleeding on the jagged edge of stone that scratched fragile parchment pieces of skin. Blue veils were sliced, capillaries began to break as the stress of recollection made him sweat.
Janice moved from her side of the cave back to him, capturing one of his hands to keep it from flailing and doing damage to himself. He seemed to sense stability, and clutched it. To her credit she did nothing to show how he pained her. "Tell me, tell me more Sir Priest. What do you miss?" He found only a minor peace in the soft, feminine voice that made him sweep deeper in the brine. "You. I miss you. I miss even our argument unto the very hour of our taking, on how there would be no way to undo what had been done because there would be no way God would allow it. Oh, Arcelia. Your laugh as you chided me for following you. You didn't betray me,I endangered us both. You told me that there was a shadow over Toledo, and it stretched so far it found us in Grenada. You told me, that sin would be punished with sin. Didn't you? I..I can't...bring myself to tell them that in Grenada, there lay the arm of our old brothers in oppulence, not even hidden wealth! I...burned, to see them, in jewels and robes of wealthy fabrics plotting an unholy version of us..for even in our retirement do not the brothers of old in Scotland take to such displays! Ahhh. that Jacques Armand could see it, he would not believe! They fund it, that horrible machine of the Church...the Inquisistion. That my eyes once...thought such things God's work when it is all of Lucifer! Yet sin is sin, and for falling to your bed I was taken to Lucifer's bed. The Moors...the Plaza in Seville was split, Arcelia. Between the Moors who were fleeing for their lives and the Moors who held no allegiance. The Church had reached it in part, too, and there was a loose agreeance, people of sin for their freedom. Not all of the Muslim agreed with this, and they fell victim to this machine. I was imprisoned by the moors for my madness,. You are aghost and I talk to you now. They caught me, in Toledo. They..broke me there..and my prayers went unanswered by God! They wish to take all of the treasure to Aragon, to hide it as they offer some to the king, and reveal their disguised selves. Arcelia, they killed you.."
She felt as if she were listening to his confession. Whispering in hiss, she drew Monroe close with the summon of that sound, her hand on the air forming a solitary finger. "How did they kill me?" It was all so intrusive, but fascinating at the same time. Were the pair of them children hearing a bedtime story to scare them in to behaving as its moral decreed? At this question, he stiffened. The pulse in his wrist quickened, and he embraced her waist. "Please, please! Do not talk of it! I can't...see it anymore! The fires on ten stakes and you among the burning, screaming for release and I could give you none. They wouldn't burn me with you! They wouldn't let me die, Arcelia! You are not damned..I won't believe it..no. Soon they will move in great waves across the land, burning, expelling, burning. They will take it over the sea, and the only way to stop it is to remove the treasure..to destroy it! With no funds..none can do anything..and..if we are found among the world they will hunt us..my brothers. Did I damn them all for you, to see you again, for one more kiss of your breasts?" Her cheeks were a'fire. A man who lived by the cloth once had, and succumbed again, to a mistress? It was not unheard of, yet for a man who lived around splendor but took none for himself it seemed strange his riches would be in a woman's hands, in her features. "Promise me you will finish what you began, the cherade would ensure them his compliance, but her heart wept at the juncture. "Promise to finish, and to tell those who will help."
"What am I to tell them, Arcelia, how hopeless it is? That in one crown there is no where to hide..that the former King of Castille and his mistress are willing pawns of Alfonso, that the former King of Castille is arranging for the death of the King of Portugal? That the underpinnings of this 'unity' is bathed in death? I can't even..recount why...why I was to find Isabella, to..coherece her to a different way I can't..recall.."
He fell asleep again, clinging to the mortal waist as he imagined his now immortal beloved.
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Post by Janice Olivia Monroe on May 29, 2010 14:14:36 GMT -6
The Letters II For Corsica: Your letter came to me with far quickness than expected. I am in good health, and may you continue in the same course. It is a mark of the changing world that words move quick by land or by sea. We watch ships move with astounding speed, marked of new devices. We see man command beast, and one another. You are too modest. You are suitable to be on the arm of any man who is measured of power. You are suitable to be on the arm of a man with intellect that seeks to enjoy, not sequester, your own. I do hope your husband is such a man that he might make up for it in mind for what he lacks in giving a lady of your birth, deserving of all suitable accoutrements of the same. My thanks for your blessing of union. It is pleasing to see you are pleased of the match. The blood shared makes her a suitable replacement. I am pleased of her as a wife thus far. She is silent until asked, wherein she is demonstrative of what I enjoy between the both of you. There is at once some parallel, but not enough. It does wrong a hand to turn to see what unifies two distinct individuals. May your children be blessed, and grow to esteem. Your son sounds as if he is advancing well as a young man should, and a child born of the man who caused you to set sail upon a river is a child who fits better in the world of the brazen Scott than in reserved Spain. Take no offense, Corsica. I laugh at this. I laugh that what I expect of a woman of Spain and enjoy in a woman of the world are two different things. So it is you grow gentler in roses with smaller thorns, supping on honey and wine. It sounds so close unto paradise that it might make one grow of envy, but on the whole such life is not a token towards ambition. Despite my advanced age, I find I am still a man of too much ambition. Yet, this seems suitable for you, who is a woman who has endured a great many adventures. Of your advising, pragmatism is a trait practiced of a ruler out of necessity, not always want. I am certain the Scotts possess a mild pragmatism or England would not have retained of itself what custom it has, nor the other states who swear her allegiance. So strange it is to me, that it denotes a lack of historical attention paid to detail. If anything, the proud Scottsmen is a man who's violence is tempered by a want of fabricated illusion. It comes to my attention that the children of my wife, your relation, are still alive and kept in no imprisonment. The world would have done no less than annhilate generational threat to war won claim, but the Scott is again an illusionist. One might feed a person all matter of glorious treat in rhetoric but one still grows sick on too much marzipan. I believe that the living heirs prove as much of a threat, if not more, than anything the claim of an older, steady power could do. Age excersises restraint. Youth enacts passion. Both heirs and Griffin are as to youth. France and Spain are aged. You returned the crown to me unharmed and seek your garden of roses. I take the crown and replace the gems that had not enough gleam to them and follow instruction laid out. You seek a Garden of Roses. I seek a Garden in which Age might walk among the aesthetic without the bent of impassioned stupidity. I seek order, which in itself what this is all about is it not? We all wish to have our lives ordered, be it by your obscurity or my expansion. God keep you. Yours in Faith, His Majesty the King(More Forthcoming)
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Post by Janice Olivia Monroe on May 29, 2010 14:41:18 GMT -6
Thoughts: Musings by Persons of Principle
Isabelle and Joan: Scenes of Aragon
The warmer months even in the Northeastern coast of Spain were not as warm as the South, but warm enough. The air was balm-thick. It applied itself to her skin even with covered arm of silk to make a perfume of salt and touches of her sweat. It changed the chemistry of the solid concoction she kept inside of her palmander when it was applied, but not in unpleasent way. Change was constant. She sat in a backless chair high-backed, no assistance. Not even the stiff lacing style of Spanish fashion was needed to conjure a natural, aloof rigidity. It was not a formal day, but still she was dressed to the border of what was informal before it crossed the line. Dark hair was left to hang, unveiled, as the sun was said to heighten the gloss. A girl moved a fan with a lazy pace, women chattering around her of inconsequential things. Spanish circle talk was no different than English or French. Courts concerned themselves of fashion, progressus, hunts, and posistion. The world here since migration provided her enough semblance of common ground to be 'at home'. To her left, the Countess of March waited to be given a new title fit for her new home. She talked in French, exhibiting a skill that pleased her Queen. Joan found it strange to please her husband's 'former' lover, but smiled at her own breeding's display. "You are thinking of something, my lady, that is utterly against what we are to think about. Is it a decisive thing or a thing that is lacking?" A couple of the ladies turned when the pair went into intimate conversation, but had no right to intrude. The ones present also lacked the skill. It was imprudent to speak one's old language in one's new court of origin, but Isabelle lacked the scrutiny usually set aside for young foreign prides. She was a Queen given unto another kingdom, that was all.
"Decisive. On who should follow you to your new household when it is established, on what gift I should make you, and your husband. On the matter of what is to be done of parentage when matters of succession are settled in England. The King offered to take my lineage into his lineage, but I told him that would not do, for despite a mother's hope and prayers they will have been sullied by too much time among the heathens. I should like to secure a French posistion, but am lacking in the presence of French diplomats to court. I find I miss them. There is a severity to these Spanish women that is nearly laughable. I wonder what my kin thought when she sat herein, if even for a little."
Isabelle shared her thoughts with Joan, while each was aware of the ltitle empire of lies that seperated them in a great border despite the gesture of one hand to one another's knee. Joan could not deny Isabelle her place nor her husband his want of her, nor a man's taking of a mistress. She was still burdened by the years of his public showing of it on the English field and at once amused by its acceptance among the Spanish in a cozy triangle between Alfonso IV, Roger Mortimer the Chamberlain, and the one they refered to here as Isabella. Roger hadn't taken the Queen to his bed in well over a year, but she knew that the thick ice storm between them was beginning to thaw. He took her to his bed, but already the signs of affection wax or waned like the moon again. He was content with her baring him children over years but blamed her for their many losses. He needed her name to secure his fortune but had little love of her for it. He had even known of a pregnancy and a loss of it here in Espania, to which oddly his mistress comforted her of.
Isabella wasn't a fool. She lay in the King's bed as his want of her increased and was content in her aparments when the need decreased. He had enough children so needed no heirs, but often talked in amused speculation of what a child between them would look like. She entertained Roger's want of her company but did not try to seduce him. She had no need to bend one to her will or enchant another for her cause. She kept her wants as high as her head when she passed through the hallowed halls. By keeping a promised place of accepted obidience, Alfonso allowed her in his inner sanctums more times than naught to discuss matters of State even before the official betrothal. Now that she was Queen, the crown of Aragon sat atop her jet black head as the crown of all of Spain. She did nothing to show whether she was joyful or saddened by the matter, it merely was. Women were sent over borders to marry. Men accepted foreign brides for negotiations of peace or alliance. With her came the prospect of England. Already, word from the North spoke of the Spanish army at last taking the place of the Spanish royalists and the Englishmen who represented them. What some saw as only a place to Conquer in England was now a prospective colony of Spain. Soon, the country would be brought to heel, but she did not show pleasure or sorrow in this.
It simply was what it was.
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Post by Janice Olivia Monroe on May 29, 2010 15:17:16 GMT -6
Maria of Portugal, Scenes of Aragon The chapel was a cliche to Maria. She spent too much time here, on her kness before the sign of a hanging Christ. He was always silent, never giving direct answer to prayers despite what the clergy professed the Bible described of miracles. Why had she not joined the Church? She thought on what it would be like to be a woman entitled to marriage with the head of the Church, in the body of Christ, one of hundreds of women who professed to love only him. After the Eucharist was fed her, she still lingered, over a half an hour on her knees spent more in contemplation than in prayer. Her Father couldn't help her anymore. He couldn't raise armies to invade Castille to force her husband in to submission, to push his mistress in the shadows where she belonged. The royal chair was sullied by his actions. What King was so besot with a courtesan that he ran off to live with her unless she were a witch? Even now, Guzeman walked the halls with chambers never far from her husband's while she languished in a place near a woman who was what she couldn't be anymore. She couldn't stand the absolution of Castille to one crown with Aragon, because the sanctity of her posistion, the elevation of what she paid in maidenhead was all that was left. There would be no more invasions, and as it was her huband forbid any man of Portugal to speak with her. There were no Portugese women among her ladies, and she was a prisoner everywhere but inside of the Chapel. At first, anyhow. Now, she was inside of the Chapel with the knowledge that outside would be waiting the ladies that the King of Aragon bade her pick from among the courtiers. He said that a woman who was once a Queen would remain so in station's practice if not in word, for still did Castille belong in the line of succession. Still was it from the womb of Maria heirs for her husband had come forth, where the disgraced Constance had been sent back with none. How she recalled that, and how she vowed to do different with the aid of God. She did, but it still wasn't enough. She laughed at how one Alfonso gave her some comfort, her own disdained her, and the Alfonso that was her father was one of this triade who knew not what to do. His daughter was lost so far inside of this place called Spain it threatened to eat up where she had been born. Part of him wanted to demand to have the marriage undone, but part of him didn't want to bring for the Infanta for fear of a Spanish doctrine being driven in her. The Three Alfonsos, each one a side of the other though they loathed to admit it. Each represnting a moment of brilliance, pragmatism, stupidity, desire, fear, and power. Each side of them were at once her reason for being and the bane of her exsistance. She should have prayed on this, but instead wondered why Jesus allowed so many into his company when all acolytes did in this world was betray their master. Judas wore many faces in Aragon, and had far too many coffers of silver. She would pick a new entourage, and take it to presence with the new Queen an her entourage. She would befriend them, while having already taken one close to her confidence from the moment they met. It was on that now her thoughts turned, burning her cheeks scarlet as if indiscretion should not be but for repentance before the Christ. She was embarrased for she had none to offer him. "Senora de Geneville." The name of Joan as Maria knew it was applied to her tongue with tenderness. So much of Joan's story was Maria's, she wore she had been born twice in her life. Once in Portugal, and once in the English Marches. She listened to Joan spin the story against the misty, cold landscape while in the heat of Spain her own played out, and both still kept strange company to this very day. There were times when they sat together as women, sewing, or listening to readings. At other there were odd moments of laughter, making the Queen smile. She found both women exceptionally pleasing, but would not insult a Queen by marriage, an Infanta of blood by issuing her a place among her ladies but only as an equal of kept peerage. This was Maria's only comfort, and so she took it. She found Isabelle's story began the same, but could not wholly like her for how vengeful she'd become to rectifiy it. She, too, had gone too far public with corrective means but it was genius nonetheless. Joan and her spoke of it often, and one night, they spoke of it until the space between their chairs had lessened. The promised one another alleigance, they promised one another friendship... * "Your highness, our lots as women are to be silent, grievous things. But so as you are moved and I am moved, we shall stand together in this strange land. Let us be always friends, always together?" Joan ventured to place her hand against the Infanta's hand. Maria, for her part, captured Joan's fingers and with a girlish chortle watched as Joan smiled. Maria made solemn promise as her hand was applied to the woman's "Si, we will as you say...stand together in this strange land." She kissed the back of de Geneville's hand, resting her forehead against it. "You, senora, have been a friend to me when none stood. I can not offer you enough thanks already. I am glad then, your life has taken you here." Joan could not claim the want to look at Maria came from too much wine or too long of a day where her eyes could not but focus on one thing at a time. In her company, she could not understand the twisting knot formed when the Infanta sat beside her, nor ponder the meaning of why elbow innocently brushed below while they sewed. Joan was not a stupid woman, but she was not so overt to believe that intimate friendship translated to other intimate realms. God gave many passes on indiscretion, but would he overlook in women what men seemed to be so flagrant about? A woman might be taken as a mistress to a man, but the idea of a transgression in magnitude of a woman unto a woman had never crossed Joan's mind. Maria wore red cheeks, and so released Joan's hand. She lingered too long over the soft skin, playing among the fingers as though she were a child. In many ways, she felt a child all over again with her place reassigned in the world. All of the thoughts and feelings of lost were amplified as the crown upon her head merged with Aragon, making her no more than an Infanta of a land where she had been a Queen in her own right, the same as she was born in Portugal. "Forgive me," she muttered, laughing at her own silliness before moving to walk to the door. She lingered at it, watching the fire, only to find that Joan was now watching her in the same manner as she viewed Joan's hand. The Countess of March and the Infanta shared a space, and in timid silence, sealed their bonds with a kiss. It was the first of many. * It was silly to be in the Chapel, because Maria knew in some ways she was damned,Christ or no Christ. If ever the extent of their intimacy was known, they would be damned by opinion while the secrecy of man's desires would turn the wheels of governance. How strange, that she let it all as the world would will it be. Lighting a candle, she let it burn as testament to her one prayer of the day that find peace for what had been because she saw what might be.
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Post by Janice Olivia Monroe on May 29, 2010 16:07:12 GMT -6
Add'tl helpful readingsRoyal Figures and Explainations: SpainFor ToledoToledo: PrologueThe Sins of Peter Devareux"Peter, you shouldn't have answered. I shouldn't have sought you out. I knew you would be here though." Arcelia applied cosmetic to the apples of her cheeks, a powder to seal in the moisture common in the Spanish heat. It set of her face to shimmer, only mildly, by the light of the candle. Toledo was but a day or two away from oblivion. It would be just enough time to leave before the whispers of Vaasco Sanchiz became a roar as fire licked through the lines of her house. Still, here she sat, applying cosmetics. Peter Devareux wore neither the hood of his vocation nor the red cross over his chest, only a half open shirt tucked into pants, boots, and a vest. He fiddled with the carved wooden crucifix that had been a long ago gift when the world was new. Age had never been a terrible thing for Arcelia; men turned to younger flowers while she ripened on the vine to enjoy the fruits of her own harvests. She still commanded many a powerful arm to be on, could pour wine for company. Her body had not lost its allure, but she need not always use it to seal an agreement. It had only been her wine, her voice, her food that secured the knowledge of a man hired to be Armageddon. The Church was to come when Toledo was on its knees. Instead of help, it would offer up warning: Live like the damned, be burned like the damned. Still she applied cosmetic. Devareux pulled up her hair to smell it. It cascaded, twisting and sensual, between his fingers. To him, she was ageless. To him, she was the sin distracting him from his purpose and the faithful angel delivering God's message he could not uncover in Grenada alone. It was she who sent him word of the Templar men, come to Toledo, of their vices, and where they stored their treasure. It was she who's body pulled out how they intended to feed the fires raging through Spain. It was she who knew that her trade provided her no escape, nor would they let her live. Why did she do it? He pulled at her hair, tilting up her head. When he looked into her face, he all but forgot his anger ."You should not be here, this is an unholy charade, more unholy than anything we are. Leave Toledo, mi amor leave. You still have time...we..still have time. Wit hwhat you've told me I can easily find some authority to pass to men of the King, for surely he would not want to see the damned of the Church be found in good faith, let alone the danger they pose him.""Si, but it is also their weapons that create distraction and destruction for both the Amir of Morroco and the Kings of Spain. The Reconquista is more than a reclaimation of land in the name of God. That is the most unholy ruse, Peter. That is where the damned are. Still, If I die, it will not be without substance before the final hour. My patron is waiting, you know these men of Leon. No patience. Elegant. But no patience."“Death is nothing, but to live defeated and inglorious is to die daily.” Napoleon Bonaparte to be continued...
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Post by Julian Luke Monroe on Jun 2, 2010 15:19:18 GMT -6
I need another story Something to get off my chest My life gets kinda boring Need something that I can confess Til' all my sleeves are stained red From all the truth that I've said Come by it honestly I swear Thought you saw wink, no I've been on the brink, so
Tell me what you want to hear Something that were like those years Sick of all the insincere So I'm gonna give all my secrets away This time, don't need another perfect line Don't care if critics never jump in line I'm gonna give all my secrets away
There was some stir in the man's chest as he heard the man talk of his lover in the open so freely, but when the father would run his hand up Janice's leg there was fire. Such a heartless bastard, even he could not have been comfortable with the invasion though she handled it like a soldier. He would smirk back laughter, a wicked sound that was vindicated! What a man came from the cloth, of 'devoted' faith. Was it his own doing his mistress did die? Jean-Claude spoke so little of the fires, but he could never forget the pain. It was when his eyes darkened the most, seeming so distant and forgotten did Julian know his master thought of that day. For this he found a hatred for the fallen priest knight, for what kind of coward did not throw themselves on the flames with his beloved--should he not love her enough.
"He's sick.." Sick in the head, sick of the body it mattered little difference the words were written down, and a map was drawn in the conclusion of the priest's words. The secrets held on the tip of his maddened tongue hated the realization that secrets would be in the end. Of all the things to say.
In his moments alone before the exchange between priest and angel, had rewarded him enough time to wash in the waves. Dark chestnut brown hair had been rolled from his face with fingers soaked with the sea, and he had moments to wash the blood from his hands. The thin yet determined nature of his upper body revealed with only the undershirt left, the rest hanging to dry. Broad shoulders unmarked save for thin cuts in sets of three, now healed, but the silver of the scars remained. They were self inflicted, to prove a point.
"I'm never surprised to see corruption in the church, but to hear this…" He spoke from covering the man up, starting to strip his pockets of worldly possessions--his reason that of the key. There was nothing.
And yet..and yet I wonder.
Thin fingers started over the man's shirt, rolling the fabric over the vile crusted chest, to press back the thin layer of the priests under shirt. The blood was still fresh from the wound, the marking of men who sat against the backs of the templar or against..it depended upon the reason; and there it was. Burned into his flesh the priest held a marking that made up of small circles inside the other, the templar dug deeper into their faith then they ever realized. Playing with fire.
"I have seen this before." Eyes the color of ice turned up to Janice, the sweat rolling off his brow. He closed his eyes shutting himself inside his mind, to comb through the ideas run wild. "It was a nightmare, I had. This eagle.." Closing his arms over his ears he tried to shut out the image, "Fire." Finally he shook himself from the realization and looked back to the bookie. "It was a phoenix, and before she burned under her wing I saw this. I felt betrayed." Standing he started to pace, "In the dream of course. The overwhelming sense of betrayal and death. He's part of it..or was marked for it." What did they mean..what did they mean!? "If I believed in the nonsense, Janice, I would have taken it as a sign, from God that I should not have come." Over the paper he would start to sketch only to realize, again where he had seen it once before. "Now I see why.." He shook his head closing his eyes to let his neck roll back. Let it go Monroe.
"I'll take the first watch." He whispered, rolling his fingers over the flesh of his neck to release the tension, "Get some rest." That overly dry tone seemed so very uncaring, but if any did understand him…he was offering to let her sleep first, that was an approvement of his personality; or a moment of weakness.
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Post by Janice Olivia Monroe on Jun 12, 2010 12:52:00 GMT -6
Toledo: The StoryI. Arcelia put her hands against the face of the priest-knight. He shivered with only the brush of her palms only to melt with the side of her left hand grazing his jaw. "Arcelia, do not be a fool! God damn you, do not be a fool! Toledo is going to burn.." The older man shook the shoulders of a woman who only grew more beautiful with her own age's exploration across so fine a canvas as her body. Did God create this creature to tax the son's of Adam, or in his life of warrior's Christian poverty did he forget that from the rib of Adam came Eve? All men then are missing a part of themselves; Arcelia was his living bone that for years he thrust away so he walked about, incomplete. He would always be incomplete by choice. He couldnt' stand the thought of incompletion by death. To know she at least breathed,spoke, and enchanted had kept him going for many yearss when thought of sin pinkened his cheeks. For her part, Arcelia already saw the carriages carrying the Leonese to her estate. In he spokes of the wheels she swore there were butterfly wings and embers. "If I do not finish what was begone, Peter, than far more will pay for it. Even you. It should have been finished years ago, but the French did a poor job at it. Not that it was your end I wished, mi amor, nor your good brothers. But had that end been finished, Espania would not be as she is now. The Reconquista, Peter, listen to me! The Reconquista threatens Portugal. The Castillian is not a fool, and with the merger of the crown what he does is alleged on behalf of the Aragon! All of Portugal, mi amor, and with the machines and men and beasts your old brothers have traded...what if the North of Africa is taken, and beyond, what of the Italians? Peter we are not the devil, si? They, they are the hand of Lucifer in all of his light soaked glory fooling any man in their path. But I am not fooled. No. Listen closely. Even Luiza.." Peter pushed her away at the mention of that name. What were they doing together, had they been speaking? Luiza de la Segovia belonged in Madrid, not Toledo. The woman was the only courtesan of merit to match Arcelia in substance and perhaps in beauty, too. What drew the pair of them together instead of apart? Oil and water was supposed to be the lot. Peter detested a world were known factions of incompatible elements began to mix together. "What do you mean, Luiza? de la Segovia would throw everything on the pyre in the name of her lord and master. Earthly treasures adorn her throat, but she has no substance of soul." Arcelia sneered, drapping a beautiful emerald necklace around her throat. No less than ten fine stones were arranged, set in gold. All their lives like emeralds suspended. all their lives in someone elses hands. "I understand Luiza better than you, and our rivalry is of no contempt, like your hatred. We have things we can never be. People we may never touch. A land that we lose under our feet. Excuse me, Devarauex, the Leonese is waiting." In the dining hall, a sumptious feast had been put out on plates of shining, gleaming pewter. Goblets jewel studded shone in soft light under candle chandeliers. Arcelia had ordered the crystal collections brought out to be hung on them for the effect of prisms. The Leonese were men of science. So was set below the last supper of Toledo. So set below would be the last dance, the last affair. Peter demanded his beloved run, though it was she who called him here to see the men of Leon, to here the plan set unto them by the former King of Castille, now reclining a lesser man in Aragon. The supposed thought of his diminished influence was allowing him to maneuver untold stores of men with the King's permission to keep the Castillian region safe in Aragon's name, yet what it did was play out countless vendettas with Portugal. Once, the King of Portugal attacked Castile under the order of the Pople himself when the King would not cease in defaming the Infanta who'd become his wife. Now, Castile was free to persue a campaign of knocking violently against the border door. Fed by the Templars, a game of doubles was being played as expertly as cards on a table. Entertain the whim of both Kings, gain everything. Lose one King, gain all his realm. What of the incoporation of a third? Worse yet, he would be witness to the undercurrent of religious fever that swept from mountains down to the plains. Priests of the church followed the armies, either inspiring the men to join the cause or seeking to be done of the truth seekers in their wake. Seville was one foot while in Grenada another foot was put. Madrid and Toledo served as the hands, coming to thunderclap that would shake Aragon to notice what all of them had self created. "What of Saanchiz? What of him waiting, Arcelia. Arcelia de la Coronado! Arcelia! He is behind the Leonese, listen!"She was already gone.
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Post by Janice Olivia Monroe on Jun 12, 2010 23:38:22 GMT -6
Toledo: The StoryII. Peter found the inside of his hand wasn't without a small portion of weight. The absence of her hand still pressed a certain amount of gravity that bore the small, folded cut of paper in to the center. Closing the fingers, he opened them again to find the tiny sensation it afforded wasn't a figment of his imagination at all. He was disgusted with himself for coming here, thinking that anything of merit was important to his cause. How much time could he hope to make of sense from a woman who manifested a living on being elusive? Just as he was going to rue the day he ever answered her summons, he opened the paper. It was old, almost like cloth, no doubt part of a book once far older than him. Arcelia could feed the appetite of any man, whet any palet with a distinct flair for leaving the want of more no matter how satiated one claimed to be. For Peter? It had always been knowledge. Carefully, he opened the page. What he saw baffled him while it sucked in every ounce of attention the mind could muster. He leaned back against the white wall of the room, and as he breathed in the fading scent of jasmine and ginger, he read a work of pagan proportion. Symbols one within the other reminded him of a labryinth he walked just beyond the Templar Chapel in Turas Lan. Endless rings mingled with writing in latin; discussion of immortal birds of fire consuming the Tree of Knowledge, feeding fire to the Angel with the sword in the East, while to the West, the tree of Life, was fed unto the same. The eagle was not strong enough to withstand the eternal rebirth and sacrifice of this bird. Biblical figures mixed with anciet treatise. He became sick on his own curiosity. He wanted to burn the page, but couldn't. This is what he had come here for. This was what she could not tell him with words, why she entertained the Leonese as to retrive the missing pages of some esoteric plan. Did the man from Leon carry with him others of this old, supposed sacred text? He saw the seal of his brethren in the corner of the page and bawked at the heathenry used to explain the will of God. What madnss was this, discussing the trees of Life and Knowledge, firebirds, eagles, and ritual? He heard Arcelia's voice in his head, clear as day: "The French brethren were made to appear pagan, do you not think it was more than debt to relieve to see them killed? Oh, Peter. Look further. Poor men mad on desert sun see strange things when made to go so far. They brought with them from the Holy Lands strange ways, but the Spanish? So much closer to the Muslim, so much closer to what came before them, understand better what elsewhere is smote out. The Spanish have held these things to heart, and their Order is ringed in rituals strange, frightening. Beyond the altars are other altars. Beyond the cross, more to bare. Look hard at where they stand, Peter. Even beyond the order of Castillian men in Aragon's debt, even beyond Vaasco Sanchiz, it is the Templar who command them all in reality. They are the reason that Toledo will burn, why all is hot on the end of a poker. So many think they hold the true power, those whom ally with them are mere puppets unless they are that much further a head of them. All of them steeped in elegance, but no patience." What had Arcelia done to take hold of this possession, and why had she been so foolish as to tell the Leonese she had it? That must have been why a man of Leon came here this evening, knowing full well that Toledo was set to be consumed by the so called wrath of God. Suddenly, he knew he had to get to Grenada, he had to share this with his party! He had to make it then to the court of a King that would kill him because if he returned to Turas Lan without having done so, what would take place on Espania would haunt them all: William Sable, Robert Frail, Jacques Armand, Richard Burns. DeVareaux was all that stood between his brothers on the Isle of Skye and complete oblivion. What would happen here would be connected with the Templar, and if all went awry, they would be in danger all over again. There would be no place to flee. He knew in one instant that all of them understood the aspects of divine ritual, for they themselves kept records of the world's ancient tradition. He understood that while not meaning to have rite corrupted, the taint would be too much to be ignored. If the King did not give up the Templar, the known world would come for him. A crusade the likes of Armageddon was at hand, and it was all played out as God's will in Espania. How many were tied to this country that resided on the rock ridden craig in cold mists where all had reformed their lives? How many would fall to forfeit to save the lives of many if ever the King was forced to make that choice? In Espania he thought too of the choices to make, of what would be easier to keep, and easier to let go. With what he had in hand, and what he could already prove, he could cease this machine. Deus Ex Machina, God from the Machine, written at the top of the page. It burned like a brand on the mind. He didn't know that after this night, not long from it infact,he'd be scarred by this page's ritual by brand. He didn't think he too would wear circles or firebirds, but for now they swirled in space as he struggled to find answers. He could save them all, or he could vye for Arcelia one last time. * In Aragon "Word has reached us, your majesty, that Toledo shall soon come under the sword and fire for what is said to be the seat of heathen actions."
"It is the will of God, and the will of the King. Blessed even by the former King, whom the land still follows."
"Are you certain it is not another's will?"The counselor looked from his missive over to the form of Roger Mortimer. The man was passing two pieces of Spanish gold over his fingertips while eyeing how the same color looked spectacular across French skin. The Queen turned on dainty feet and with a voice of soft elegance relayed no less than threat of death to him who asked so bold a question. "Are you certain you will obey the will of your Master, or shall you join them in Toledo?" She moved with the blessing of her King and the understanding of his Chamberlain. She graced the presence of the chamber floors in the law of the land to execute the will of the thrown. Still, she was not drunk on the power. To be drunk would be to have no control over actions, and each action was quintessential to posistion and promise. "His Majesty wishes for those in Toledo to pay. The prisoners shall be gathered up and given to the Inquistors, then they shall be put upon the stakes and given to God's judgement. It is his will, and I obey in its conveyance."The man would bow, leaving in this posistion but not before noticing the smug smile on Mortimer's face. How much did he have to do with this? How was it the consort of a bride could bend the ear of a man on his own native soil better than its inhabitants? In another portion of the castle, two women sat with needles in the hands feigning at needle point. It was as if they winced, feeling the heat of the hearth agains their backs despite what both swore was a chilly night. It wasn't winter, nor were they made. Whispers of the court set the mind ill at ease. Maria's mind was too far gone. "My husband is in the clutches of something more than his own desire. It frightens me to think of it. He is allowing of one thing, yet disavowing of another. I fear him more now that he puts his eye on me than rue when he cast me aside." Her fingers were Portuguese, and often it was of some debate which women of the pennisula had better hands. They shook, only to be stilled by those of De Genville. "I, too, am afeared of these times. They talk of many things, Maria. Of what will become of lands even across the seas, like what they say of Toledo." "Portugal, my father. Yet there is nothing we can do, Senora?" "Shh...we will sew. That is what we shall do, we will sew and we will meditate upon the matter. It is like these stiches. Firm, yet take practice. We may be so practiced at court."* Arcelia's descent down the staircase was timed to the heartbeat of many people and many scenes across Espania. Before she left the landing, she informed a servant of the following: "Tell Luiza that I may not see her as we had planned. I do not know. Tell her that she must leave Toledo, and take to the court of the united King. Tell her all that you know, and all that she does not. Tell her that our rivalry was bred of respect, and even a love. All sisters are rivals."
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Post by Janice Olivia Monroe on Jun 12, 2010 23:49:46 GMT -6
Toledo: The StoryIII (Written by the Creator of Vaasco Sanchiz) The Man Vaasco Sanchiz, is five foot 10 inches tall, approximately 195 pounds. He has brown hair and whiskey brown eyes. He is 36 years old, born sometime in the deepest of winter in the year 1297 to a peasant mother and father, somewhere in the rich valleys of Algarve region, Portugal. The battlefields of Portugal and Spain are nothing compared to the cutting tongues of polite society, but Vaasco has never been very “polite.” His personality now an outlet for the horror he witnessed at war, it’s now his fortune. His personality speaks for itself… He never shied away from womanly affection, but never accepted close friends… he is very restless, dissatisfied, and irritable… he automatically engages in general communication only to prevent others from being suspicious of his behavior… he considers requests from people as impositions… he continually sets himself apart from others… he is enamored with living a life of excitement, at whatever expense… he habitually experiences anger as a way of life… he lacks empathy… and he feels no obligation to anyone except his own interests… The Reason Though the Christian Reconquista officially began in 718, it didn’t accelerate until the 11th century, when King Fernando I united Castilla and León, which provided a strong base from which to reclaim the territory for the Christians. Portugal was fighting for its own sovereignty and the groundwork for this sovereignty was laid in the Battle of São Mamede in 1128, when Dom Afonso Henriques (Afonso I) declared independence from Castilla and León. The following year, after the victory over the Muslims in Ourique, Afonso named himself the first king of Portugal. With the help of the Knights Templar, the new monarchy battled Muslim forces, until 1249, when the forces of the Reconquista under Afonso III had defeated the last remnants of Muslim power with campaigns in the Alentejo and the Algarve. The Christian kings, led by Dinis I (1279-1325), promoted the Portuguese language above Spanish, and, with the Treaty of Alcañices (1297), settled border disputes with neighboring Castilla, asserting Portugal’s identity as the first unified and independent nation in Europe. But the border disputes rose from the ashes of agreements. Intense diplomatic relations maintained between the Portuguese and Castilian-Leonese monarchies were blood-stained with a series of agreements relating to the internal problems of each kingdom, the mutual relations and the general political situation on the Iberian Peninsula. The occurrence of frictions resulting from dynastic rebellions of the nobility in which both monarchies usually collaborated closely. Castilian expansion and the resulting imbalance of power in its favour, was the cause of the gravest tensions. The bourgeoisie of Lisbon, enriched by commerce in peace, decided to support a military effort of independence and donated large sums for war expenses. The majority of the nobility, among whom national sentiment was not well developed and feudal customs based on oaths of vassalage were still obeyed, took the side of the Castile. A few nobles, however, were more attuned to national sentiment and sided with the King of Portugal. Though history would speak of the frictions and tensions of politics and religion, of nobles, and kings, none spoke of the farmers... the peasants...the lower classes... the backbone of the nation. Portugal had fought for decades a religiously justified war of liberation ….In situations of constant conflict, warfare and daily life were strongly interlinked. Small, lightly equipped armies reflected how the society had to be on the alert at all times; these forces, capable of moving long distances in short allotments of time, allowing a quick return home after sacking a target. Battles which took place were mainly between clans, expelling intruder armies or sacking expeditions. Not all out war, but battles that would disrupt lives... destroy families... rape the nation of its youth. This is the life Vaasco was accustom to… and the only thing he knew besides farming… which he hated with such passion. All his life he had watched his father work for the nobles, only to watch his family nearly starve. He watched both parents die needlessly in a squabble over land. It was from simple beginnings that Vaasco Sanchiz rose to become the villainous brigand. Since Afonso IV, King of Portugal, had been in negotiations with Kings, Alfonso IX of Castile, and Alfonso IV of Aragon... In Royal communiqués, King Afonso strictly prohibited any further actions against the Castilians... but Toledo lay ahead of the army... the expanse to the Castilian plateau... and Madrid. The army on the eastern plateau had not received the King’s decree. Now with the stage set, this is the beginning of a story long untold. The story of a man, forged in the blood of a nation... a man betrayed by his own country... a man that would become infamous... TOLEDO, the former capital of the Spanish kingdom, lay on the river Tagus. The grand city occupies a rugged promontory of granite, washed on all sides except the north by the Tagus, which flows swiftly through a deep and precipitous gorge. Towards the north, the city overlooks the desolate Castilian plateau... beyond the river it is confronted by an amphitheater of bare mountains, the Montes de Toledo. From a distance, the city appears to be a vast fortress, built of granite, defended by the river and by a double wall on the north, and dominated by the towers of its cathedral and alcazar. The absence of people in its maze of dark and winding alleys, creates a silence uncommon... Many ancient buildings had been destroyed to make room for churches, convents and seminaries. Upon the Castilian plateau, two armies faced one another. Vaasco was in charge of light cavalry, the Soldados de Ventosa (Soldiers of Ventosa), as the army of Portugal faced the Castilians. The Castilians thought the poorly armed Portuguese army would not withstand their cavalry charge. They were so sure of this that they advanced without a plan. Upon the first impact, the Castilian horses were impaled upon the row of lances. Then the Portuguese rained arrows on the Castilian troops that were behind the stalled cavalry. Confusion, and then terror, spread through the Castilian ranks. The Castilian soldiers saw many of their leaders dead and began to flee. Against orders of the King and his General, Vaasco ordered the cavalry to give chase. Without the protection of their own cavalry, the Castilian soldiers did not stand a chance. The rest was sheer murderous acts on behalf of Vaasco and his lieutenants. The remaining Castilian army retreated behind Toledo walls. Now the General was faced with a dilemma... retreat in the face of an enemy, or take the city on the King’s behalf. When the Portuguese’s General gave the order to storm the city, it was late night… The soldiers would climb ladders set against the walls to get into the city. The first soldiers to scale the walls were called a “forlorn hope” and were all volunteers. If they succeeded, they would earn promotions for their bravery, but, being the first, their chances of survival were very slim. Behind the walls, the Spanish sentries sounded the alarm and soon the walls were lined with soldiers raining hell from above as the Soldiers of Ventosa tried to climb. The dead and wounded began to pile up at the bottom of the ditches and men had to climb over their fallen comrades to reach the ladders. One can imagine the terror of scrambling over bodies, and climbing ladders in the night while arrows, oil, and boulders rained down from the walls. The General was about to stop the siege when the wall was finally breached. Soon Portuguese soldiers were pouring into the city and the Spanish general ordered a retreat, his forces leaving the city and eventually surrendering… only to be slaughtered as they lay down their arms by Vaasco’s light cavalry. In some ways, though, the horror was just beginning. A rumor flew through the Soldados de Ventosa that the Commanding General authorized three hours of looting. The rumor was false; the General never allowed looting, but the damage was done. Sanchiz had planted the seed...and his men fueled revenge for the bloody battle upon the city’s innocent citizenry… the looting, pillaging, killing, and raping lasted not three hours, but three days. As the General withdrew his forces from the city, Sanchiz ordered the slaughter of all the inhabitants of Toledo... sparing none... not women, not children, the aged, nor the infirmed. As many as three thousand were killed, and the streets ran red with the blood of innocence. Then he razed the town. These actions earned Vaasco Sanchiz the title of “ Butcher of Toledo...” But with the slaughter and destruction of Toledo, Vaasco and his three lieutenants were arrested, charged with treason, and sentenced by the King to be beheaded; but it was a long way back to Lisbon... the four men escaped and fled Portugal, seeking death and destruction further into Spain. Considered an outlaw by Portugal and the kingdoms of Spain, Vaasco and his lieutenants seek out lives elsewhere to pay for their king’s treachery. The Outlaw For the heart of Vaasco was neither dark nor golden, neither bestial nor angelic. Instead, he had at its core, a profound sense of unassuming nature —never hesitated to go elsewhere to seek what he lacked. ‘Brigandage’ was never so important that it won out over a primordial desire for what is nothing but shadows and darkness. “A runaway from righteousness, a robber, a committer of sacrilege, an arsonist and a murderer, more cruel than Herod and more debauched in his insanity than Nero." Fellow Briganders, and townsfolk alike, whose boast it was that the Butcher of Toledo had personally killed 455 persons with the greatest refinements of cruelty, and who wore at his belt the skull of one of them, out of which he used to drink human blood at mealtime; he drank his own blood as well; indeed, he “never dined without having a bleeding human heart on the table.” This was the man whom Kings loaded with gifts and decorations, and addressed as “Our good Friend and faithful Support of the Throne.” …As long as there was coin and power to bestow… for Vaasco would never aid one, lest he was able to profit.
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Post by Janice Olivia Monroe on Jun 13, 2010 0:19:31 GMT -6
IV. Luiza and Arcelia In the hours before the wheels turned to bring a man of Leon to Toledo, before the fires burned and the Butcher's name would spread with the same pace as the fires he lit, two women came out to the square of the old capital to admire the lights of the palace that no longer housed the King and Queen. Alfonso of Castille and his wife Queen Maria now resided for a time in the shadow of Aragon. When they returned, to what end would it be? Both women could laugh at the idea of them returning at all. "It is his will that the castle be sacked, it will make him appear victimized, do you not agree? How horrible the Portuguese army, how poor the Castilian people. Even the seat of the king shall be split in two." Arcelia spoke first, Luiza second. Each woman was beyond the age of thirty, her rose pale in comparison to younger blooms but still the world around them did orbit. Luiza still made Madrid crave her, while Arcelia was the jewel of the capital. It was hard to distern which one of them was the true courtesan extraordinaire in Castile. Together, the stratosphere seemed to pale in comparison to the heights they reached. Tonight, they stood together under the silence descended just after sunset to see the last night of Toledo. "Mm. That is the way of all men, isn't it sister? To do away with what they are finished with. It is a pity we could not toss them aside first." Both of them were mirrors, dark hair, glittering eyes, sublime skin. Figures cut from a mold that rivaled what created Eve. God had been good to them both despite what they had done, yet even the Pope could forgive a courtesan. It was them, after all, who relieved men of their vices to leave the virgin unspoiled. Toledo and Madrid reminded them of those virgins, still blushing in the cheeks after all of the exploits the years had fashioned in both cities. Toledo and Madrid. Arcelia la Coronado and Luiza de la Segovia "When I fetch what is desired, you must send one to come hence to collect it, I may be occupied." Casual indifference to the reckless decision to meet her fate in make-up was met with the same sense of ease from her counterpart. "I will do that. Will all still be in order to recieve it?" Arcelia gave a soft snort, opening up her fan to disturb the air gone still, "To the last. Do not mock me at such an hour, Luiza. There is no need to be as a cat. Conceal your claws, save them for your Portugese." The language around them was an excersise in grace. Their accents were the epitome of how they lived: elegant. It was as if instead of courtesans they were two Castillian courtiers arguing over a passing fancy. Luiza opened her green eyes to a wide width, taken aback by the tone of Arcelia, "You do wrong to mock him." "You do wrong to bed him, or we would not stand beneath an empty palace." "This is not my fault!" Luiza hissed at her sister, and despite it all, Arcelia only sighed, "So theatrical. You could stand to have more ease in your emotions. So hot of the blood, it will age you quicker." The way the sisters made peace was a sigh and exchange of some commentary regarding age. Indeed, age brought them together as much as a simple fact that many over looked. "No, it is not your fault, Luiza. You can not help whom you are bound to in the world. I believe as much as a priest says we are damned, God still moves even the lowest man or woman. Why else would a priest-knight love me?" Peter DeVarauex warmed her soul no matter what patron called for her in the night. He was her every waking thought, no matter what wasn't expressed in her face. "He will be coming soon. I hope he will listen, my Peter. He is more of hot blood than you." At this she smiled, and Luiza would take the hand offered her. It would be the last time they stood like this beneath the palace, meeting for exchanges as they had for many years. Luiza and Arcelia had been rivals for years; beauty, patrons, and status all spurred their discussions. Each one strove to have a greater collection of art, literature, and intellectual companions in as much as issued challenges for what ought have been unattainable. In their lands lay all that was Castile save for a man of Leon, Arcelia's greatest contributor who would prove to her her last. He was nameless, but too powerful to ignore. He threatened her beloved, and so she lay down in the den of lions on his behalf. Would not have Luiza have done the same? Even if the man she loved would be the one to lay waste to everything they knew. In his own way, Sanchiz would be responsible for Arcelia's sentence and the loss of what he didn't know Luiza possessed: a fraternal twin. Arcelia. They looked alike yet there were differences in stature, in the eyes, in some form of hand to seperate them.
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Post by Janice Olivia Monroe on Jun 13, 2010 0:33:37 GMT -6
V. Luiza and Vaasco {Reserved}
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Post by Janice Olivia Monroe on Jun 13, 2010 0:57:30 GMT -6
Toledo's Tale Told, The Time After“We cling to our own point of view, as though everything depended on it. Yet our opinions have no permanence; like autumn and winter, they gradually pass away.” - Chuang TzuJanice realized they stayed in the caves more than one night, but no less than three days. They survived off of the bounty of the sea; clams, oysters, and fish were the fair to feed the belly, boiled salt water, cleansed and cooled, satiated the thirst. The intellectuals in them were not at want to starve for they listened to the crazed priest leave his delirium behind. As reason settled in on the space between his ears, old Peter retold his story without imagining Arcelia before him. The fires that consumed her stake as Toledo smoldered from earlier attack lived only in the mind of the young who now sat at his feet like two children. As the man Janice knew returned, she pitied him even more while ruing his stupidity for the lot it placed them in. He'd defected from the agenda with terrible results. He was no master yet he was no fool, either, and the star she pinned on him set a little to a lower grade. Yet, the fact that he revealed to them the paper tadamount to Julian's dreams gave her renewed respect for his Christianity under seige. In the afternoon of the third day, the sound of horses on the neighboring shore was marked by the sound of the guardians desperate to retrieve lost, albeit living, treasures. With no where else to go for safety, it was all they could think the pair had chosen. All had been seperated for days, and in a way, they all 'deviated from the agenda'. Now the results were not as horrid as the priest's, but the puzzle pieces they would all put together excited her. She wanted Julian's hands to fly, her own to go ink stained and cut from book paper. She wante to speak with Julian in the way of their masters, but in a civilized bastian. God knew another day living as water nymphs ad they would all take a cold enough to kill them. That would be a horrid way to die after so much adventure. "Let's take him up, here, I will get his side here. I am not sure what the guardians will think, but they will tell us what they know post haste. We need several things, of them a place to bathe, eat, and rest..but only for a little. We must push through Grenada and not come up the coast, ye through the heart of Spain to Aragon, do you not think Monroe? What we will hear along the way is to valuable. We need as much leverage as we can possibly gather. I fear our means are changing by the minute.." No doubt the quick wit of the man thought much the same. They were going to have to pull multiple agendas, deviating from the single, original objective if they were going to quell this tinderbox and ever think of seeing home again. * "They have gotten past us, and with the priest.." "Let them. The King's Man will know what to do with them once the messages reach Aragon." "Do you think they are both..." "Of the priests' Order? No. Of a differing one in league with him, yes. We have lost our means of keeping things silent. At the very least, our neighboring Moor friends are without a bargaining chip. We needn't follow nor keep them anymore." "Of course.."Beneath the plaza of Seville, the old Moor's plaza, descendants of its creators were taken by suprise. No amount of begging spared their lives as they died at the hands of The Spanish Templar Senor Eliseo De Garza and his man, an unnamed slave born of a woman from the Sudan and a general from Seville. Senor Eliseo De Garza was but one of the two Spaniards responsible for the orchestration of so much mystery and practical application of force at the same time. The other? Senor Ricardo de Lugo, who at that very moment was leaving instructions with his men in Morroco before embarking to Aragon. Of the two, de Garza was currently the finger on the pulse of Espania. He gravitated between homage to the King of Aragon, and taking the careful advice of his lady wife, The Queen from England. What both failed to realize was the need for redemption on the continent was greater than any King on Earth....
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Post by Janice Olivia Monroe on Jul 18, 2010 8:58:03 GMT -6
Scenes of the Road - To Aragon, by way first of Grenada
Julian Monroe
The return of their safety had let the guardians breathe with ease, and the light of the new dawn seem all that more promising. However, it would be along the country roads would Julian find himself no longer in the clothes of his author's attire, the mathematician's common worth now on the same level as a penniless foot-soldier, assigned to the Lady's care. Danielle. The Lady of imaginations wealth, who had ruined her dress in the caverns of their holding. Outfitted as one of the guards, he found himself strangely humble, fitting into boots made for a knight was any lost boy's dream; no matter how rude they were. The time with the priest had captivated his attention, his mind working around the logic of it all. 'Don't complicate things' had been the last part of the theory he read from Friar William, one of the many books that had been a second home in the study of his Master. As the days passed Julian kept his conversation at first no further then that of the necessary, but he soon found himself inthralled with the stories of the older guardian whose first assignment had been long before the legendary Master Sorchel. "They are my favorite." He smiled lightly, catching the distance of the strange countryside, "Stories of the Master." Really this kid wasn't so bad, just strange and awkward, it was clear no one had ever corrected him as a child. "But tell me.." That dry tone of voice remained quiet as he passed a look to where the Lady traveled along, "It was all myth right? His 'Magic'?" The question would remain unanswered as even the Guardian knew best to keep youth in wonderment, for when it had been stolen from Janice he had never recovered. (d
Janice deBrabant
It would have been a disaster if the two of them had died before the venture was even weeks underway. Of all the deaths, what would have been, death from the chill in spanish sea cliffs? Murdered by the crazed priest that now accompanied them with restored senses. He would play the part of spiritual advisor for the party moving on the road to where glory lay. Unfathomable consquence was not enough to detere them from completing the mission. Maybe in the young adults lay a child lulled to submissive awe by the stories of predecessors. Maybe it was indignation at returning empty handed, or the importance of the cause? Let us not forget that. The penniless soldier would move to be her bodyguard in later days, but for now enjoyed a boyhood fantasy. What little girl does not dream of being a woman fine? A night with the guardians mended the broken world so that she appeared in proper gown astride a noble steed. "Stories of the master..legend in their own right. Master Sorschal's magic is the finest magical of all: science, wit, and architecture. His illusions are steeped in only the most comprehensive study. They say that Sorschal could replicate a person simply by knowing a light angle. His shows were fantastic. Once, he made both the Lady Ranger and Master Laurence vanish during a masquerade at Blue Castle. By the time I met him, his 'magic' was resigned tothe fantastic design of the house! Oh, the rooms alone. When we get back you must have a proper tour.." Delicate intonations secreted their excitement in monotone expression left best to adjectives. The Guardian didn't explain, but left it to Janice with a gentle touch to her leg, otherwise she would have said nothing. Once, he said to give her a journal with all his secrets, but it only expressed his love. The closest one to understanding even a hint of it all was the Lady Claramae, "You should ask Master Laurence once we are home again, she has a marvelous command of the sciences, especially of mathematics." Language described how the act looked, not how it functioned. "Yet his many assistants, the ladies, how come you will not weave tales of them?" The guardian didn't find them of consequence, nor did he think their ears needed it. Ha! Guarding their ears was silly. Up the coast they wove well into the heart of Grenada. "The priest has information to obtain here again, madame, and then we progress to court?" "Yes, Thank God." Otherwise they might segway toward Toledo. It was insane to do so - yet so..tempting. What first hand accounts could be obtained in the ash, what talk of Portguese court, and Castiallian truth? But the truth in its entirity sat in Aragon. (d)
Julian Monroe
"If my Master wishes it. I will." He kept his attention forward, playing into the role well as the terrain would not be left without a single stone turned over in the midst of his eyes the color of ice, and a personality to match, "I'm an obedient student unlike many." His sarcasm as fruitful as the knowledge obtained, and just as eager to be pocketed away. There was an underlying hatred for her, that no fool could miss, but even the jaded knew best when to be professional. Alendral had been a mystery even to Jean-Claude, who admits freely even he had been surprised the night of the show. It had marveled him, and inspired him all at the same time. "I will never get to see that Hall, Jean-Claude does not trust me." He admitted so freely, but that would turn a look to the Lady of Letters, "I learn uncommonly fast..visual. 'As if my mind paints a picture to hang in my memory' he said." Julian gave a small snort, "He would be afraid I would remember the secrets all at once, and later sell them on market. Jean-Claude, lives too much in his dreams..his secrets. He knows very little on how to turn a profit." A mastermind of math did, and indeed there were many who would pay many coins to even hear of the inside. Going silent once again, he was thankful to hear of the court knowing full and well he could shed away this heavy suit of leather arms, and trade in for what had always been so natural. There had been a larger part of him that had wanted to hear of the Lady Assistants though like them all their secrets were always kept, but would a good reporter be without a bit of gossip? From the saddle bag Julian would pull the thick frames of glass that sat a bit too low on his nose as he would jot down bits of information--really looking ridiculous and out of place the guardian would have to correct him, and the pad of paper to be put away, "Ah yes..that is right." He closed his eyes and let his head fall back, "No brained soldier..I forgot." Straightening, he would raise a brow at the man, "Forgive me." Didn't sound very convincing. (d
Janice deBrabant
"Indeed, it is at their will." She looked forward, head lifted, chin high. The Lady of Letters was not alien to the propriety of the class, nor expectations of the same. Riding dress of delightful French fabric came over the side of a beautiful Andalusian (the mystery of obtaining the beautiful steed or how its owner was not listed was not something they were privy too, nor did they ask.) let alone how it was they rode under a French banner (of what now? Something of Avignon, of some..what?) it was all a part of the illusion. Elders knew best, and yet the Guardians took orders from them. If you were not a part of the entourage, it would appear very backwards. "Some things are sacred, and that house is among them." Now she didn't tell him that obvioulsy she knew house secrets, and that if things were too figured they often changed. What remained steadfast she was swore unto secrecy never to reveal. Not even on the marriage bed was it forfeit! Did he hate her for that too? That because of her 'priveleged' (If being the daughter of a spymaster with over sixteen years of lies before was priveleged) place in life, she received attention without the requisite brow beating? No, Janice was thoroughly brow beaten. It was only that unlike Julian, she'd never been treated like an outsider. In that way, she felt for him. "Father Devaraux, is that the building, just yon?" The old man sat erect in the saddle despite his age, giving a nod, "Oui, Madame, just there. It shan't be a long excursion. We have lost much ground, for which I apologize.." "No, Father, don't be. I am only sorry we could not be with you earlier." They had already missed quite an extravaganza complete with a 'Butcher' attached to a fabled city of old Castile. (d)
Julian Monroe
He wanted to laugh at her, but he knew her pride ran too deep in the actions once lost..she had gone against their will. She had worried a hole in Jean's heart, one that even Adelaide could not fill. He did not hate her for the privilege, but the envy was indeed there. She could sin a thousand times, and be forgiven; but he only once and condemned to hell. It was a game he knew well, a part well played. There would be little forgiveness if he crossed the wrong path on this trip, and knew it to be a test. "I will escort him." Happily, Julian would pass. The guards would look worried, or perhaps even surprised at the volunteer come from Monroe. However, they had nearly lost their souls when even he came to assist the old priest down off the horse. To the lady they would look then, waiting for the order in which she would give. Did they follow? Julian had been without affection as a child, nourishment, but he had not been so cross that he was in fact an evil soul. There was a side to him that was as rare as the ruby that rest atop his Master's cane. He was eager to prove himself, or eager to get the entire ordeal over. Yet, there was a hint of restraint only when the tides shifted. His parents were not cruel just neglectful, it true to the meaning simply made him..awkward. (d)
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Post by Janice Olivia Monroe on Jul 18, 2010 13:41:12 GMT -6
Arrival Outside of Aragon, and Onward
Janice de Brabant
Introductions. The time to introduce Danielle of Avignon loomed as the sea breeze carried their party that much faster over the main road. They rounded the Eastern seaboard of Spain from its southerly to near northern tips. Was the wind coming to them from Italy, perhaps? Could they dream that Corsica overlooked them, spinning webs of sage advice to temper the wonder asthe new crown jewel of Spain was a heartwrenching minutes away? No more hours, no more circumstance. The coastal roads had been solemn, humerous, and not without intrigue. By now they were laden with a priest with recovered sanity who was marked by a strange bird on his body, all of his stories, and the knowledge that in Grenada the Templars might either side with them or leave them to die entirely. Now was the truth of the assignment! To be debuted was ont to appear tired, so they pulled away to a seaside place of rest to wash, to change. Leaving men waiting was a woman's right. A guardian's breath was slow to usher up, stolen by what preceeded him down the stairs. It was abown suitable for a woman of station, a woman summoned on intelligence and beauty to make waves among the Spainards. Rose tones swirled around her body in soft silk to contradict the spanish love of black, her sleeves ordained with sheer gold nettings. So daring (so Jean-Claude). A crucifix of solid gold hung about her throat, a bracelet of ruby glitter against her wrist. Coronet of station? Ah yes, marriage would elevate her place forever and a day, no matterhow it had gone, so the coronet was for once settled on her brow. (d)
Julian Monroe
Time had changed him, matured him into the right full ages of what was to pass; this was the future. The sunlight had turned him well ripening flesh that had long been without it, and painting a smooth bronze across his skin. For the first week there had been little reflection of it over his face, but it was when he laughed or when he smiled did the darkening wash show present. This was for show was it not? He did not know his place, among them all or within his own mind, but the coat of arms did justice to the solid yet thin frame beneath it. Rose oil smoothed chestnut strands of lengthy hair back from his eyes, and placed it well beneath the bicorne. So daring (so Jean-Claude). If only they knew what was happening upon English soil.Though the steel of the arms was tiresome across his back, his was the back of a farmer it only grew lighter over time, and Julian made little notion of his discomfort. Through the weeks that had passed the captain had taken pity on the youth, keeping him under his wing, and refusing to speak French. This man would learn Spanish if it killed him, and Julian felt for certain his death was not far behind that crown--but he knew it now. It was not flawless, nor was it poor as he absorbed this world around him committing it with all it's intrigue to memory. He stood with the guardians who were spellbound by the little bookkeeper, and perhaps he was the only who kept a cool calm collected face. The sight was devoted no doubt, but where women were concerned Julian felt them all the same. Was it any wonder nearly half of Skye thought him to fancy men? She had struck him once, like a wave the night she wore the peach dress, but perhaps he was a bit more attracted to the torment she carried deep in her eyes then. Forgetting his place, one of the guardian's would step on the son's foot and Julian would break from his thoughts to offer her a small bow. (d
Janice de Brabant
"Good day, Guardians, good day, Monroe. You bow to me, but only here. They should have told you.." they didn't, did they? No, maybe it was to take him down a peg or to condition him more in the physical, but she set him free of his lesser place, "it has been decided, for the sake of good form a lady needs a companion. Is it favorable to you to stand as my brother, Justin Cunnigham, of England, whom resides in France on business?" A name and a change of clothes couldn't hide all of the sin of old. Her heart? Ache betrayed itself in her eyes which to others looked as nerves, perhaps. True occasions arose where stationed was called to the fore, yet here, all of their lessons were imporant lest all be lost. In Aragon was the secret to the priest's mark, the story of Arcelia and Luiza, the spanish war machine. Inside was English motivation and Spanish destiny. Inside was more than they'd ever want to know and far too much to thempt them. The coronet upon her head ached under the weight of whom commisioned it, whom made it, but it served it's place. You see, Janice had never commisioned nor sought to have a coronet made to reflect title after Marius had left. (d)
Julian Monroe
He straightened while giving the men a long look, with eyes so cold they could not hold fire, but electricity burned with the sort of storms that only the sea could understand. "We keep changing out stories then it will not be enough to keep that pretty decoration atop your head." This ached. He hurt for her then, was that when pigs flew? Hell as cold as his eyes? His was the spirit of winter, turned in a land of summer, but could any not see this was torture? It was not nerves, no she had lost that years ago; Julian had noticed it when her print became more bold. It took nerve to auction your body, and if she had any fear remaining why would it be now? He had been a bit blind, by his jaded nature, and there under the cloth covered arms did he extend his own. "It would not matter what my name is, Danielle. I have a Master who would remove the most inner workings for not showing you proper dedication. Let this King think that, and I'll happily correct him. He knows Jean-Claude, they had dinner together many times while Lady Avalle was here." His tone was dry, flat against pale lips, but this was the way of, Monroe. He had so little personality to the outside world. Words lost on the wind caught him then, of England. Rumors that spread like wild wicked lies seemed enough to chill him, but he was not ready to realize the truth behind it. He hated wars, that had stolen his father, and already he worried of the higher ups, mainly Aquitaine. "But it would defeat the purpose hmm?" Intrigue perhaps, but this was not their mission. "You look..nice." Nearly killed him to say it, but there it was. (d
Janice de Brabant
"Indeed, but the Guardians can not be spared their post to do the requisite escorting, and as it is my 'escort' is responsible for more than myself. I have assigned him to the priest." Devareux was rid of his robes; in the distance he moved an enigmatic shadow in Spanish black, making arrangements for the procession of their horses. Indeed, he would be something of a 'holy warrior' instead of a homely poor man. Gently her hand came to rest upon his "Then we must turn the King's head, both of them, from our masters all. Let them be entranced by a worldly brother and his sister, let them have access to the archives of ages. We are going to touch the authentic writings of old Empires, Monroe. Our masters..in this, are proud." England. It was the ghost licking at their heels, even now the Guardians spoke as if they couldn't hear (to test them, for earnestly, they could hear when nothing was said, these two) of the state of things. The Govenor herself had written of England to the King, and some had claimed it held final wishes should she not survive. "We are running out of time. Let us make quick processional. What should take months we will have only a short matter of weeks, if not..days. I am deterined we will get what their majesties require. The Guardians treat us at times as if we are small children, but we are not deaf." They understood worry and death, better than most. In this they were not too different from a brother or sister. (d)
Julian Monroe
"Nor are we children. I'm sorry, we grew out of that many years ago." Now at the age where most of who he grew up with were married with children, working humble jobs to keep the taxes, and waiting for the next war. "Cunningham." He corrected her wrinkling at the name, having known an old farm hand with that name, but if it was decided. "You can speak for yours." He couldn't catch himself from keeping it in, as he had not told her Ada came to visit, or any of the midnight drama that had unfolded. "If mine is still alive, he will be proud if I make it home."It was embarrassing really, but now was not the time. Yet, he could not keep it any further without taking her arm and placing his words against her ears. Julian didn't know how to listen to his instincts when it came to feelings. He didn't understand how the heart worked, or when it was in fear; he was afraid, and very much so. Perhaps she did not have the nerves as he,"Keep your ears open for what is happening in England, more so then anything." Empires came and fell, but what they were about to embark on was truly a treasure. He couldn't even explain in writing what this felt like, for he was not a man of great words, but slowly learning that if he could simply replace it all with numbers life would be so much easier. Old empires had nothing on the new, but he would do anything to keep it all well protected. Julian simply didn't understand that they were doing was love, and it was in the name of their country. *d
Janice deBrabant
The reality of life was juxtaposed with what was told her while in hiding, until she decided to wear color, embrace flesh, and sell her skin. Did God punish or did the path of man hold heaven's inspiration somewhere in the twists? The talk of masters made her gently sigh, nothing indiscrete. A role, a role. So good at it! "Yours may have, so strangely enough, more liklihood thanmine. When the threat on the order exsisted, the Master left her final orders in place across many realms. If what they say is true, that she is upon the front lines, there is a real possibility we may never see her again. I shall pray against this, and work for it." To the horses! To ride, side by side as equals instead of one as the lesser. Truly they were no greater no rmore than what occupaion created. No matter the story in the blood, she was the children of physicians, apothecaries, french country women, catholics, and jews. He was a farmer's son with grander sight that made the rest of the family lack vision all together. Love of the country moved them beyond borders, forit was indeed an act of love. All things began and ended in some form of agape, didn't they?
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Post by Janice Olivia Monroe on Aug 1, 2010 17:24:34 GMT -6
So much work to come to Aragon, yet none of what has been found is yet discussed. So many adventures besides Aragon, yet the mystery remains. Steeped in secrecy Espania is a call that is best ignored yet can not be resisted. Steeped in secrecy, men and women die for what it holds. Ages and ages they do it. A game of constant wins, losses, and holds.. A Game of Crowns, Part I Julian MonroeThere is nothing wrong with change, if it is the right direction (Churchill) Julian had not known the world of regret, for fear had driven it into him at an early age, but he was lost in the state of his desperation. Everything felt so wrong, that he had even taken to the church for answers; blinded by visions of fire from the sun, and a the earth splitting beneath his feet--he felt himself sane enough to know better. However, in this moment of weakness the mathematician came in at the early hour in hope of not being caught. There is a war on. You'll not find many swords drawn or cannon shot, but many have died before, and many more will die 'ere the war is finished. You wade into it blindly. The old fool had made him feel ignorant, but it was in his comment of how his faith had been backwards that had set his heart in motion, The child does not believe particularly in the miracles of the Mighty, but I suspect he sees the devil's work in common motives. Atypical for a scientist, to subscribe supernatural explanations to the purely natural, and a tragedy. It was all he knew, and all he cared to ever learn. However, this moment of wakeful mourning for the night he moved down the halls in search of his party, ready to get his mind back into the spiderwebs they did hang like a banner in the hall. (d Janice deBrabant If you can't have faith in what is held up to you for faith, you must find things to believe in yourself, for a life without faith in something is too narrow a space to live. (George E. Woodberry) Janice had known a world crafted on things to believe. In the absence of one man's fantasy came another man's reality, wherein beside that came the principles that a woman makes after being led by the nose for far too many years. If one relied upon the sight of mankind, this Espania, to make testament for or against, they would be married either way The court of Aragon was ancient opulence of two with the beauty of each fighting for recognition. Castile was not meant to be swallowed, yethere the King sat with his new lord over feasts of swan while his wife sat in sad, reserved grace. Here each Alfonso wondered over the whim of the Third in Portugal, while the wife of the Aragonese never bowed her head. No more than was necessary for a woman. Maria of Portgual, wife of the Castillian, had none of the fire of the pennisula yet Isabelle had it in spades. The obvious Frenchness of her presentation, appeal, and intelligence left the Spanish curious, contemptful. All of them moved like living paintings for the observation of the party who now lived under false pretense of Avignon affiliation. Janice did not pray on her knees tonight, no. She was content to do it within inner monologue, standing. In other halls Roger Mortimer stalked, awaiting confirmation of his plan's completion through the man who's legend was a nightmare in every telling. Saanchiz. Drinker of blood and wine from a human skull at his belt. Killer of all, old or young, infirm and able. The man who left Toledo only a point on a map to shudder at. Hurry, Monroe, for the little bird wished to sing you a song. A song of terror, of truths, of nightmares soaked in the visions of the phoenix fire and eagle feather shrouds. Aragon.....how it tempted the young, and how it damned every player here. Against her breast lay the first key, one of many things they looked for. What had he found? (d) Julian Monroe In the halls there would be their dance, of spades and clubs with cards numbered from 1-10. Kings and Queens of hearts, had nothing on the way the sharp pointed edge of the blades easily mistaken for diamonds, but still there was a humbling darkness that kept him quiet as he moved through the hall. She had found her womanhood in the arms of the Ebony Hall, but this place..this place would find him his adulthood. The courts were alive here in Aragon, with rumors so spread of the widow maker in the tower that for all the reason he shouldn't--he found delight in it for it took if only for a moment the questions of their coming away. The Guardian's had sought to make a man out of him, and in their attempts a man there was indeed formed over the back of a horse, under the heavy armor. Julian felt for certain if he could carry that over rock and mountain, he could carry the fate of the nation on his shoulders with ease. Face to face in winding shadow did he come with the Lady DeBrabant, but in the moment of his desperation he would would inhale his relief at finding her. "Janice.." He whispered, how strange it was to call her by her real name, and not the mask they wore. None could hear them here, and this one little mistake could be forgiven as he had played his part perfectly, "I've been looking for you." Something was wrong, and he touched her arm gently to lead her from the light of the hall. (d Janice deBrabant Oh deck of cards, deck of cards, deal thyself out upon the table round! Show up your suits! Let us wager, let us see what fate will decree of thy dual persons of hearts, spades, diamonds, and clubs. What did the walls look like? Dark stone lit by occasional torch made only fading, faint pools of light that would be extinguished by the hard wind. Did summer sound so dastardly so often in Aragon, or was it God bemoaning the circumstances? The Guardians listened to the pair as much as giving them the tools to make them capable. What of Janice's training? The priest who was rescued seemed a willing teacher as his knowledge of Spain was older than the elder between the two. He 'pulled' things from the library, replaced them with false copies, and opened up secrets masquerading as books. While the Guardians excersised strenght, the priest warrior sought to stretch their minds. Restored of all faculty, it was he who sought to fix Julian's faulty Spanish despite the many discussions against the idea. Monroe didn't like him. Monroe had a reason. There would be times when the mark emblazened on his back terrified them both to pale white, when his talk of what else loomed...this would be tonight's adventure, and so much more. To hear her name on his lips felt redeeming. Danielle was privy to things that harrowed even the soul of Janice . "Oui, and I you."From the fickle light to a room meticulous in its arrangement, in its sheer lack of transmitting sound through door or window. Even the Spanish had their esboniage artists. "There is much wrong. Tell me of you, first. Are you well, and what have you known? " The intensity of the masked fear flickered up in the reflection of the crystal ornaments against her hair, the diamond holding fire in her ears. Face remained placid even as the heart raced while not betraying the action on the skin (d) Julian Monroe Where was he to begin? Nightmares in the daylight that had made him ache, and had him sit in on the mass. Julian had listened to the priest, frantically searching behind his cool hard demeanor for an answer that he could have never found on his own. There were not rooms dark enough to tell her the truth, nor a place ever safe enough to not be once again accused of moving blindly towards a much darker fate. "He is part of another war." The words fell like the rains that were so rare here, hissing as they hit the hot stone in their secrecy. "The mark. I've gone too far." Of what meaning was this? The games of Spain went further then he would ever think, but for a soul that had not once believed in fate--Julian knew it to be nothing else. Julian..when had you first become a man.."In the tavern when we first arrived a met a man who goes by the name Arno Falco, whose manuscript spoke of the symbol." So started the story of the secrets of Monroe, what would have him killed, "I have studied them until even I fear of fire. I.." He ran a hand through his hair, clearly opening to her as if only she would understand, but still it bothered him to think of what life would have beenlike had they not started on this path. "He signed my name to a letter, and Jean-Claude in his fit of sickness sent Adelaide." Eyes narrowed, knowing full well the story only started from there, but the small flush that formed over his cheeks would make her aware he was ashamed to even admit this mistake. It was embarrassing, though it would be his corpse to ever admit it. "I tricked her to think I left, but on my way back to Aragon there was a woman.." So starts every story, Boy meets Girl, Girl turns out to be some wrongly accused political figure who was being hunted by wolves."They keep her now in the tower until they get her back to France. Janice..they'll kill her." The missive that had once touched his palm like fire was tucked into his breast pocket. "They mean to kill her, men in robes like your priest with marks on their shoulders, and it was clear the young master had no fear of death. "I fear it is all connected." He said at last, looking at her nearly begging her not to judge him, but he was swept into this world beneath. "They know nothing of me, think me to be attending church only for the improper thoughts, and acts of sin." (d Janice deBrabant Begin at the beginning, Monroe. Let your tale escalate from the simple to the ongoing strange with the proper level of necessary transcendence. In the room, Janice leaned her back against the wall as he spoke of esoteric men with sacrifice to be had; a woman within a tower. Little bird bit her lip enough to draw a scarlet spot of blood on the plush pillow. This should be for kissing a man, for making fantasy, not for divulging heresy. Such was life. Why had he not told her this before? Her head swam in a momentary fit of rage yet it dissolved. Would she, without knowing all of the puzzle pieces. Would she, without knowing connection? They'd been advised against such unless their masters decreed it. Partners died with incomplete pictures. She wanted to weep! Her eyes glittered with unshed tears for she too, was guilty of the same self sacrificing sin of trying to completed the blasted image. At hisembarrasment she merely reached out to place a hand against his shoulder. "They will kill Father Devaraeux as well, then, for what he has done." She turned for modesty's sake to withdraw something from the bodice of her gown. Each with a wager? Gently, she pulled him with her to a table, laying out the paper there on. "The Father went missing to finish a long ago business, to which I believe you are right...the rituals, the sigil, are all connected. What makes it worse, is it means those men who were sworn to God during the battles of the Holy land, the charges brought against them were not all false. This is why even long before they were expelled from France, the Order was already fractured. There were many pagan rituals, many...things deviating from God's commandments, those who objected were the ones offered up by their own brothers on the charges of withcraft and sodomy...look.." In circles depicting ranks,crossng with one another, like the trinity. Men who died, their names feeing the twisting loops, as if commited by pen..."The ink Julian..is..thickened by their..blood. years of the dead. The true end of the Crusades I am told was designated when a deal between the Templar and the Eastern desert kings was reached, and the stage was set thusly. Inside this inner circle...the truth. You see, the desert, the sun, the sky...the battle of your birds ..the symbols and the reality they explain it with its maddening but...the heart of the order, they are heathenists, pagans, it would matter little to me...truly, as God is offended let him deal with it yet..they do it, all in the name of the Black Sabbath, a pact they say is made with lucifer, some of them see this in the body of the desert gods..others say it is madness, even those who were not of God's way. For in an order like this, it is the way to hide many things many other orders, other agendas. I believe....that Master Devarauex in his youth, commited himself to knowledge, and though this the path.The others disillusioned..all of them must have touched something, followed someone. It is what you have found that is perhaps the more dominant. He returned, as spain grew in power, believing that his other brothers would surface again. He stayed, longer than he should..knowing it could kill him. There is more. The scroll goes on. Each set of years represented by a circle in the form of the trinity, for the numbers three, six, nine, they appear in all traditions. The three fold principles...each event set in these circles, each pertinent name as if sealing it, by name or drawing in blood. There is another set of papers, undrawn, only the circles...I believe these happenings are meant to fill them. The names of the girl you found..perhaps...might join the blood of those who's bodies weve found but could not save...I also believe the phoenix and eagle, represent two factions at war.. The eagle, flying, scouting is here in Spain...touches the desert yet can not lay down true foundations. This is why the templar's had even spread the treasure ships These different factions, these different ideals, all fooling one another. What is here...oh Julian. I have more to tell you, but do you see a connection? I have more butin understanding this...we understand the practical next" Oh how she forgave him, her eyes begging the same. Next she would speak of the people, but first, let them fathom what was above the spheres (d) Julian Monroe He had listened with the intensity that had so fallen upon the matter of the world, as if she were reading from the book of revelations and told of the future. How was it a man that measured invisible space, felt able to understand the mass between objects could give life to an idea of physics, but could not simply put his faith into a single object. "What if it is more then that? What if its not just the Eagle and Phoenix..Janice, think of it." Somewhere in her tale he had propped against the table, but now he pushed from it unfolding his arms. His hands trembled, but was it nerves? Quickly they moved to undo his ascot as he felt himself suffocating. "What if this is all over. China..Africa..In the Middle East they have been at war for centuries." His step carried him forward in the matter of moments he had turned once over the room, but still kept his voice quiet. He would scoff, leave it to the truly powerful to squabble over the material wealth in the world. It was easy for him to understand, having gone from missing meals to eating upon Jean-Claude's silver place settings. "After Spain, will they turn to France? Skye? Its already happening in England." Perhaps insanity had struck him. However, in the heat of the moment he had lived enough to fashion himself a deep understanding of what was written word, but what if..Suddenly he stopped, as if made of stone his hands fell away from the scarf now undone hanging over his neck, the first few buttons of his shirt undone. "Its a game of kings." He spoke as if something had possessed his body, the realization hit him a hundred times over. He looked a bit wild when he turned upon her, though his manner slow and haunting. This was what his master had loved about him, from the moment of their first meeting. "A total domination, is this the connection we are missing?" He asked her, rolling his cuffs from his wrists looking more the part of rogue then of scholar. "She was married to a Spanish Lord, who was killed along with many other men that night. It was an act upon the very government of this nation. Is the King next? Claramae?" She had to have known the rumors that spread of the war back home. "A new world order. I have heard your argument, I have seen it myself..but until now have not been clear of a motive." He would close the distance between them with a heavy breath, knowing they couldn't go home now if he wanted, but the crystals she kept in her hair would be touched if only lightly as if afraid they were falling out. His concentration was clear across his pale lips, but when he let his hand fall from her pins he brushed his thumb over her cheek before it fell again to his side. "Does that sound crazy? Because I feel it." She would have no clue, how much he was simply moving through that cursed fate of his. (d Janice deBrabant "Yes..yes!" She whispered to hide the enthusiasm ring of the voice despite the room's alleged abilities. No risk taken, nothing gained...but too far had they come to lose limb or life now. The moon rose vivid to piece the stained glass, to decorate her body in a thousand splintered shades of red, green, blue, and brown across the canvas of a yellow gown. Her fingers gripped the tables edge as she listened to him speak the very thoughts in her head. His inertia made gravity an impossible force to reckon as it seemed they floated in the delierium of their discoveries. She leaned over the table as he spoke further, intoxicated by the syllables concocted on the tongue. Feed her thought, she'd yieled a harvest of more ideas. Was he the same? Was he in his zenith no different than she? How strange they each should dislike one another before this moment...when they were suffering from the same maladies. Toobroad of an intelligence, too capable a body, too wanting to know the answers. Fear, desires masked. She nodded her head. "it is, it is a game of kings! You are not mad..." She calmed herself as he steaied the delicate bobble in his hands, touched her face. "It is not crazy in the least, that is precisely what is..what we have stumbled upon is greater than one kingdom's conquering of another, it is an orchestration of the more willing men to take on a willing man , a willing woman perhaps..to bend them as these rulers have bent others." She gently touched both of his shoulders, "Deus Ex Machina ..God from the Machine, that is what this called. The reconquering of the pennisula has little do with Moors and more to do with one crown's supremacy over the other. Those lesser will assist the greater only in so far as seeing what he obtains before he kills him. I am going to tell you why the Guardians would not let us touch Toledo even if we'd dreamed to do so, for Toledo...has much to do with Aragon, as does Grenada." She let him go to walk the great length of the room with noiseless steps patterened in the fashion of superior lady's training, of the standard desire that all on a person should prove noiseless. When had she learned to make her skirts whisper to near mute tones? The same as he'd learned to carry a man's burden through the hills. "Long ago during the first Reconquista, the kingdoms of Leon and Castilla merged to become one, Portugal was fighting against Muslims, and for her own independence, beginning in 718, and it was these powers that defeated some of the last enclaves in 1249, and by 1297 Portugal's borders were drawn...she is one of the first true nations in Europe. Yet the disputes between Castille wishing to expand and Portugal keeping herself went on an don, even with the mergers of the crown of Castille unto Aragon. For Aragon holds all of the Pennisula, except Portgual. Toledo was battle between the Portugese army and the Castallians, for the King of Portugal was in communique with the two Kings since beforethe merger, and all war was to hault. This was but a little before our arrival...that the man called Vaascao Sanchiz went with his Portuguese men to claim this former spanish capital for his King...for the armies had not received Castille unto Aragon. For Aragon holds all of the Pennisula, except Portgual. Toledo was battle between the Portugese army and the Castallians, for the King of Portugal was in communique with the two Kings since beforethe merger, and all war was to hault. This was but a little before our arrival...that the man called Vaascao Sanchiz went with his Portuguese men to claim this former spanish capital for his King...for the armies had not received the word to end the fighting. It became more a battle of vengence, I believe..than any of crown, but in any case, the Order knew what it was doing. The Knights Templar, the one here..as led by the Spaniards whom I shall name soon, saw opportunity to bely the lines of communication. It was said the Portuguese general ordered three hours of looting, but it was not so..and so Vaasco's deeds made him a man wanted by all of the crowns, yet now a tool..for he is indeed a butcher, for what the Spanish did to Portgual..he.visitied upon Toledo. It was there before, during, and after, that our priest-warrior went to answer the call of his lady, Arcelia la Coranado, the beautiful courtesan whomhe loved, and she him. She had the pages of the tree of life, the tree of knowledge, the phoenix, the eagles...that men were coming to collect, but she would pass to them to Peter, to save himself. To put together the puzzle. She knew that all of this was larger then crowned heads..she knew the Spanish men had established to assist the Kings of Spain, and the Amir of Morroco, all in the Templar name, come what outcome, for in someway they would have their power back. She told him of how the debts the king of france had to pay them, was little in comparison for their deaths. They were painted with the charges i told you, the men who died were not these charges though.Among those that live, are our own Templars of Skye..yet inside, and behind them, were men who fit those charges, and offered their brothers as a sacrifice. Some of them perhaps were told to join the order that arose after them, with new names. Money crossed hands, the treasure ships sailed here and to Morroco, and she knew where the coin, the jewel was stored. They needed a horror in Toledo for their own benefit, and to mask the truth. Arcelia was takenfor witch-craft, see, for what she obtained..she did so on the arm of the senors whom burned her. Yet I do not think she is dead, scarred perhaps but not dead. That is another tale. they would let us go no where near that place, Julian, for it is still inquisition held, allegedly by the true King of Spain, the aragonese, but many are loyal to their Castillian whom sits here, on the King's right side, him and his son...for his son has now joined the new line succession you see. So it is only a matter if the Castillian will be king in this lifetime, or his son after Aragon, and its heir. So how does one fix such a line of succession...bow your head in submission..and let it take you in. Each man does have the same goals, which makes them divine puppets for the Spanish templar. yet the Castlillian does not command the same influence as the Aragon, so it is truly him they wish to back. For no tonly was it his crown superior, but the Castillian offered up the English woman, for he could not wed her, for the Pope have it not...after all the disparity he caused his wife, the Infanta Maria, of Portugal. Toledo is a graveyard, and bloody, and even as they rebuild on it, they will use it to defame Portugal, they will say she is in league with the Moors, for who could do such unchristian things but them?"She breathed, turning to look at him as she said, "The Guardians have intercepted many communications, old and new, between Portugal and Espania, and the peace is faulty at best. The right word on the right day, will see portugal wiped from this pennisula. The Infanta, the Alfonso of Castile's wife..feels for her posistion. She is the timid woman we always see at supper or chapel, she looks so broken her husband had a mistress he abandoned her for and would have stayed if the Pope hadn't allowe dportugal to invade his land. This is why so many portuguese women are offered up in marriage of course, yet a border is a border. She would need an ally....now..in Aragon, in this court, we have Isabelle, a French woman of the old house Capet no longer in rule in France. She is given unto Edward as Queen, and he offends her honor despite the children she bares him. Had not our King come to England when he did, she would be its regent until her son was old enough to be king. Even now the things she says of her children are desparaging wrapped in false mother's prayers..she's abandoned them to whatever her husband deems fit. So they shall not be claimed as heirs to any throne, thus no competition. For surely they cannot be turned again despite a mother's heart after such unheathen ways as those of Skye. Maria would do well to be on the right side of the new Queen, as her queen given godhead fades, yet how? A larger throne benefits Isabella as much her own Alfonso, for it is Aragon that rules, not Castile. I believe Mistress Mariahas an ally, yet it is not the Queen herself despite the company they keep...it is the Queens highest lady, The Lady de Genville, the wife of the Chamberlain, Roger Mortimer, recall you those names? Mortimer, was Isabelle's lover in England ,helping to overthrow her own husband. Joan de Genville is his poor, cast aside wife, yet here they have a strange relationship..a triangle of sorts. Mortimer has been more in the bed of his wife than the Queen for he is pleased with her, and their romance cooled even before spain, yet the Aragonese thought enough of this Englishman to make him his chamberlain? Of old crowns, given new life...that fits among all the eventsI believe among these things, much is recorded for trhat scroll, for the waiting empty circles.. Toldeo's end, Isabelle's marriage, the mergers, yet the people deemed lesser are imporant...it is their ear to bend. Julian..I have seen..The Infanta...with Baroness de Genville..I believe they are conspiring to be free of spain, upon Genville's inheritance and a severance pay ...for Maria...they plan to escape back to the of the Celts..they are..." she fumbled over this, cheeks flushing a vivid shade of red.."I spied through the keyhole..discretly..of a secret passage. They are of a Sapphonistic persuasion.They band together for Isabelle uses them, only. The Baroness keeps Mortimer legitimate, Maria is the proper circle of friends to have. The ally the queen has taken for herself is none other than the Castillian's old mistress, Elenore Guzman..I think within these women we may find more motivation, more answer of past and present to connect. I believe..the Templar spy upon the lesser, yet are even commanded to follow the greater. They listen to Isabelle as much as they listen to her Alfonso, but it is Isabelle, and her former lover, Roger..that are their keystones here.Do you see? Two courts can not truly live as one..I believe among the men and women, each pries the other for information, and those around them take it without their knowing, back...back to Grenada. for that is close to the land of moors. " There was more, indeed, but she calmed her zeal to allow him ingest this before she fed him the last of her feast of news..(d) Julian Monroe He had always been a devoted listener, no matter how horrible his manners were or how he pretended to be so bored with the subject--always had he listened. When they were younger and she swept into his miserable life talking of the weather or the new book that passed her hands, he listened; even when she spoke between keeping the books, and Jean-Claude sat baited into her conversation like some fool in love--he still listened. Often..he would even sneak the book she left for his Master, and studied it page for page. However, now his attention was out the window as she spoke, watching the tower in the distance that kept the widow. Margot was their Master's age, hardly a girl, but even now as Janice spilled out the rest he knew. Yet, when he said she spied through a keyhole he could not help but turn a smirk over his shoulder, "Now, I know Claramae did not teach you that one." Turning to press against the seat on the window he continued to listen taking in each word and committing them to memory. "Two courts can not live as one..not with men like Roger..Isabelle.." He feared them greatly, but would NEVER admit it. "So this is about money..not loyalty or even faith." He could have laughed then, had he not been without merit. It seemed the ghosts they chased that kept him close to possibly having a faith, would in fact only fancy him a fool in the end. Old crowns..the words seemed as immortal as the paintings on the walls, for Kings older then the mountains. His hand came to his eyes, the tension there to spark light behind the his tightly shut lids. The scene was of England with the war of Spain, the border..their masters...the blood. He snapped back with a start raising his eyes to her own, and looking more tired then he ever had, "Have you wrote home? Do they know?" (d Janice deBrabant When the years were young and he thought her no more than a gangly, overtalkitive child with a too large nose he listened. When he made her sneer, he still listened. Was it to learn of things to exploit or out of genuine interest while not willing to admit oneself the source? Cheek still painted fresh in old watched shames, the maiden was still not too many heads from the young woman that wore the yellow frock. Far more genteel than the world around them, far more pure than the hell they deciphered. How strange innocence fathomed best the temptations avoided. Was it because the innocent were not afraid to admit the human condition? Saints were people, too. Julian earned her true affection. "No, the master did not. that was something I read in the books of ancient history, of the poet Sappho and her..preference. and the island of Lesbos." She coughed into her balled fist, "I fear for the pair of them. The Infanta is quite a bargaining chip, I think her husband would offer her up himself if he could, he only wants Elenore Guzman. Elenore Guzman as a mistress is in a powerful posistion. The Aragonese has demanded he give his wife public due yet in return pays Elenore as an official mistress of the court. She is thus between each king, while serving one. Elenore holds many secrets, somehow we must learn them or speak with her, I favor the first. The woman is rather deplorable. Yet she is also expendable given the right day of the week, her father was a Jew. Of all things to have in common. Lady de Genville we must do everything in our utmost to see spared, for if she is willing she is a great tool for the years we missed and the months prior to our arrival. Yes, her and Maria. I did not think to be responsible for lives, just to learn, to leave. Yet.. we must take away the number of pawns. The names of the Templars are Senor Eliseo de Garza, and Senor Ricardo de Lugo. de Lugo has emerged unto Aragon recently, he is in charge of the order based in Morroco. de Garza, when were in Seville..was there. Beneath the Moor'splaza. After we took the priest with us, the Moor's had no more of a bargaining chip. They were not so good yes, yet not so terrible as to deserve what de Garza did to them. HIm and his man, a slave born of a woman from the Sudan and a Sevillian general, his name I do not know. Yet..they slaughtered every one of them. Put their bodies before the streets, saying they ceased an invasion of Moors, and the King calls him hero. Soon he will be here with de Lugo. These are the two men, Julian, that orchestrate so much from so many places.I have learned all these things same as you. Deviations from daily tasks..or within them. Through scrutiny, and secret eyes. The politics are as frightening as the pagan. A new world order you spoke of, remember that was the goal of all the fabled zealots looking for the Masterwork of the Ages, its keeper, and all those surrounding. This is no different. Truly, those whom subscribe to the rituals of any old gods believe that this is their fate to manipulate such crowns, to see the Inquisition as the fire from which all will be destroyed and reborn to their image, and from those ashes, their Godhead, their kings, will rise anew. Somehow, we must prevent Portgual's ruin yet keep Aragon intact, for if it is not, what will become of those whom ever had tie here?" Let loose, histeria would see the likes of them devoured for fear of old link, same as Isabelle allowed her children to Death's door. "I believe they would use the bodies of these monarchs in rituals...for this parchment, for...whatever aim they think. I have heard of cannibalism," she blanched, "all matter of unspeakable things. The war machine is already in the North of England if we cripple it hear mayhaps it shan't succeed." She did not want to consider the possibility it already did, she did not wan to imagine her beloved masters...those beyond them...all they knew brought under the heal of a false representation of God. A battle of crowns, of secrets, of pagan rite. "So then we also must cripple them from their funds, we must..somehow...somehow.." she laughed, "' destroy or pillage those treasure stores in the name of the King." In another room..not too unlike this one.. a woman who was not named nor yet considered fidgeted with a key she kept on her belt. Unknowing it was a false key, she knew what it went too. Indeed, the true key was held by a Frenchwoman of Embrun who had no idea what the key went to, and had held it for years. "Arcelia, is this also what you died to protect, something so far in france. If it goes to what you said..than Vaasco will be able to restore his name, he will be a hero, not an enemy. Your name will be vindicated, and perhaps mine may join his finally. So much work, sister, for so little simple wishes." Arcelia's fraternal twin, Luiza, had made it to court too..as well as all her secrets (d) Julian Monroe Leave it to Janice to find some reason to laugh or smile in such times, speaking of pirate terms he could not find anything funny, but still smirked at her thoughts. However, his arms would cross back over his chest as this thin frame perched once more against the table. He was a tall man, but one until recently had very little to fill. The months spent in Spain had been hard on his body, but so too were the results. "You speak like a crazy person, Janice." His words were criminal, but in good humor. There was so much to be done, and a man that had carried bound grasses in heavy heaps over his shoulders once never felt as though he would have ever hold up something so heavy again. Yet the weight now of the very world rested between the two of them. "Have you any ideas? A time?" Leave it to the mathematician to bring it back to numbers. "We must get word to Skye. From there, they can find Claramae..Jean-Claude..the King." He felt sick suddenly, worried now that he had dug too deeply into the fate of the widow. Greater men before him would have left her there, to suffer a fate of her sins..but he new them not to be her own. Julian needed to sit down, he could hardly thing with this news, now throw the method of physics at him? Cake. Where did they go from here? "We must stop this machine..I have what I can of Jean's machine." The one he would be very upset Julian is even mentioning, "But what of the engineer? The Lady, and that horrid smelly man the night you told Jean-Claude of your husbands leaving." He was being realistic for their sake, and had been all this time; no matter how many times it was confused with fear. (d Janice deBrabant "Why thank you, I hear insanity is a hallmark of real genius." Were that the case, each moment of paranoia would make them amazing, brilliant! She came to rest her body in a chair across the table, crossing thin legs. She revealed only tips of toes clad in boots. "Good, then you've studied ..these are literal and figurative machines. The engineer? Oh yes, I have no doubt they have pilfered those designs. The Mo'r Triath before he became King created a race, a race to master gunpowder, mechanics, all things in that association. All of the fortune the Templars have, they would have gladly exploited his discoveries.Taken the work of his fellows here. Spain is already possessed of many advantages from its contact with the Moorish cultures, if it weren't for the Templars most of Scotland would still be terribly backward, but this side of the world is very forward. They already have a calvary, that much like our own, has mastered lighter arms. Improvements in metal..the crossbow mechanims..They would be the deadliest force in Europe. I have no doubt that is on English soil, bow to bow, gun to gun. England is the most advanced of the Mo'r Triath's other holdings. We have a short time, I propose within the day we see our letter sent forth. Which means we have less than half of the day to find a suitable sending point, twenty-four hours unto a day, half is twelve, let us say by mid morning, ninth hour perhaps Time here...when will they move the woman n the tower, did they specify a number of days? We must use this as our indicator.For surely they are using it as the same. Everything on a marker. Let us assume Toledo was decimated no less than thirty to forty five days prior, fifty, a max. Hence one month by half, no more than two. This means that planning surely would have taken no less than three months prior, six too extended prior so we shall say the greatest mechanisms of the second phase total five months, for in the months prior the focus was making a marriage for Aragon with Isabelle. which means as we come here, thinking to expedite the work...they are already coming towards the close.The war just...helps it. With England, even with the Amir of Morroco, yes..holy wars indeed. So then, let us assume that the conquest of England is to be finished natrually by summer's conclusion, if not earlier, this places itbefore lammas tide, which is but weeks away. Which means by the fall, England is subject to the unified Spanish crowns, by fall...the Castillian Alfonso would either be made a govenor of this new England...or perhaps dead, dead would you not agree? He wishes the first but surely the second is the motive..then Portgual..nothing will stand in the way for all of Castille would truly belong to Aragon with his death. Which means for the fall..September say youthirty days from now...they will move to take the rest of England, and down into the desers. This means Monroe that we have approxmately nine hours by the morrow to send our word as covertly as possible and less than 21 days to undonearly ten months of their work, and interrupt the final two. Both politically, and sacrilgiously of course. I will not allow anymore blood to come to that devil's paper....say..you hear mass from the priests..do any of them deliver the mass in the morning for the royal family?" (d) Julian MonroeHe ran the numbers, compared them with two other reports, and even if they took out a man a minute it would be nothing compared to what they could in turn return with force. "There must be some flaw. Something that would undo it all. Why do I feel we are missing something?" He stood to pace again, simply not able to think without doing so. It used to drive Jean-Claude crazy. "I do not know when they will move her, and frankly..I do not understand why I even care, but something happens to my head when she is around. I feel that there is reason. I had met the man first, out of pure luck. He knows Ada..somehow. I can never get that far until he is gone again, and then here he shows once more. His interest with the widow in the tower unnerves me, but somehow he knows. He has ties with France, big ones. He knows more of the dark arts then any I know, and I know this only because his manuscript is flawless." A confession of sorts that he cared enough to check. "They call Ada the witch of Embrun..saying that would have her killed, just as that Falco said they will kill Margot if she resists. They will kill us both, if any heard what we speak." He took a deep breath as it all sank in, and found the chair once more running his fingers through his hair that had become a bit too long for his taste; hard to manage. He would never tell her the truth as to why he goes to mass, the darkness that he saw when he thought of his future, or the way he was certain every time they started in prayer how it felt as though a dragon was clinging to his ribcage. The feeling of fingers pulling on the inside of his chest did him in, and the ache there was like nothing he could ever dream. He had visions of the worlds end, and heard deep hateful laughter in his sleep. Was it a hard stretch to realize why Jean-Claude did not trust him fully. "Yes..they are always there. It is something that everyone looks highly upon this King I have learned. I have heard nothing of home. I do not know if Jean survived his sickness, forgive me if I have been neglectful, but I just have this.." Feeling didn't subscribe it properly, but then again he knew so little of them. He was an awkward man who had not known love, nor what it was like to be without. He grew up feeling nothing, and until the last few years he had not known what it was like to even feel alive. The only proof of that night? The scars that ran up the middle of his wrists, but those were stories that did not get told; especially to Janice. He became rather serious around his mouth, his eyes soon to follow as they came from the floor to meet her own again. A topic to cross his lips that had been the constant pull upon his mind, and with it matured him enough to move forward with this assignment. "We may not survive this, think of me the cynical ass as you wish, but think of this too..Janice, all odds are against us. I would think after hearing this, even Claramae would have a heart to pull you away, though not as swiftly as Jean." She was a bit more cold then he. The thought of the two then came within his mind, and though he knew them both to have their lovers he could think of a more defining pair. There was a certain chill that had filled the room when Jean-Claude stood beside Claramae whispering back and forth while perfectly controlled manners kept an open invitation in the room, while the royals were given their crowns. The sight was intimidating, yet still filled him with pride, but even now he knew that this was what they prepared for. It was a service to the King, but more importantly a service to humanity. "Have you said your prayers?" Sarcasm at her, and her faith would never die. However, he was a bit more kind about it. (d Janice deBrabant "The only flaw was in believing that our presence would dismantle the machine in its entirty, but if we are swift we might cripple it enough to buy true time to take it apart bit by bit, from England, or wherever. What I do know is that woman in the tower..like our Ada, our Jean-Claude, Claramae...all of them do not deserve to die. They will die, if the Inquisition establishes true roots in England. No doubt they will have furnished names, and we can not allow Spain to fight the Amir, we must leave this to Skye, inspire Portugal to truly live up to her alliance with Skye, for they have none of spain. Claramae would tell me to go home, Jean-Claude would have pulled me away swiftly, but even Claramae would not make me a willing sacrifice..but..consider this as well..If we can make it home, even one of us..with members of this court..we not only save the lives of our masters, but we indeed disable this machine. Deus Ex Machina. God from the machine. They accomplish it by using God as the machine, and stripping holiness under the same commands it is given. Further yet. If evidence of this can be given unto his holiness, it would allow them to think all the Templar are Spanish, and it would give the true order a chance to breathe in piece in Scotland, as well as the King, as they be come busy here.Julian...I have been given invitation to the archives, they would no doubt allow me to see it, if not to test the abilities of a woman translator or female intelligence. I've no doubt someone would seekto burn me. It is no mystery papal spies are aware of me through the King, if I reveal myself, in some way....if all else fails ..it is surely enough of a way to get you home." ((d) Julian Monroe "Get me home long enough to get help, or to save my life. The first I might consider, but the second...you can think again." He spoke in a rather stern tone narrowing his eyes on her, "You embarrass me enough, with your perfect dialect, your constant smiles, and being able to pull Jean-Claude away from anything the moment you walk into the room. I will die before I make it home without you, unless it is to assist..but even then. There would have to be no other way." He may have found his footing on this trip, but still there was the tone everyone had known him for. "Let them use God if they wish, perhaps then we should fight back with fear." An idea stuck him rather quickly, and it was present there across his face. "What if we used the opposite." Before she would be given a chance to protest, "What if we could weaken the faith? Turn them against God..they would have nothing to go on." He rolled the idea through his head a few times, before contradicting his own idea with another, "The Spanish are too devoted, they would see right through it..but what the natives? Those who live outside this city. Jean-Claude has that drug..The one that kills the brain." A secret perhaps his Master would not wish out. "I feel that is the best place to weaken this Order." (d Janice deBrabant "Julian, oh for pity's sake. Everyone places me upon the most ludacrist if of pedastools. To be loved is one thing, venerated like an idol is sagrilege all the masters are guilty ofsimply because of my parentage. I was raised with multi linguistic people it i snatrual, and lived in a nunnery, again, secondary information. Your master cares deeply of me, and I of him, but the person who stops all time ismistress Adelaide. I can not repay him enough for the kindness he has shown me, and the smiling? Would you have me weep daily, hourly? I refuse to become the very thing any would expect, and should I die well it is another cost forthe cause. If you went back I'd expect you to go back, tell them, and be of assistance for them. Surely the Church would be done of me by then, and if not well..you'd know. But if you go back you go back." She crossed her arms and huffed, scolding him as if all extraordinary about her was due to the utter practical of the world. "Make them aethiests thus negate the driving cause, this would do well to cripple those of them that are zealots..those who live outside the city vary, large, small...are you speaking of the citizenry? God..Julian, drugging the order itself is....dangerous, we may do terrible things with that drug..yet.. it must never touch the populace. We will not make innocent people scape goats as the order has. I won't allow that. It is a tactic they would employ though." She got up, rubbing her face, "Come, we have more to see, more to discuss.." de Garza and de Lugo surely had the same means of science, muscle, and esoterics to consider the same things. No doubt they would drug a man as part of a curse if ordered. Surely they had something devilish planned forany of the three kings on the pennisula or the court itself, why not beat them too it? "I have Master Laurence's paralysis formulas..and knowledge of her hold patterns.. we can start here...and then move beyond this city yes..I think we should start with one of the pagans first, or two. One who takes confessions..the other who conducts mass." That was vicious! (d)
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Post by Janice Olivia Monroe on Aug 1, 2010 17:29:01 GMT -6
Interlude: Arcelia's Arrival Aragon by night was not too unlike Toledo by night; torches lit the way through flat streets or those carving up in to hillsides. It did have the same feel as Toledo though, for it was hard, that cross section of Leon and Castille, to replicate. Spaniards could behave as if each seperate kingdom unto each province was a different part of the world all together. She laughed at that, finding the people would never divulge to their ruler that the unity he sought by calling it Espania would never really manifest so long as people viewed their greater or lesser individuals by regional distinction. When Arcelia laughed, she did so with grace. Honey softened the recovering places of the throat still choking on acrid smoke. It smoothed the damages with practice. Indeed, it had reinvented her tone but a little. Enough to conceal her, but not enough for the true not to pick her. This was fine as with study in the records of the church she learned her name had not been recorded in the list of the damned. "When a man is done," she mused to no one imparticular, "they behave as such extremists. The Portuguese were better behaved than our native sons." From the smooth edge of a building, her escort arrived, offering his arm for the business at hand. It was late. Still above her head unknowing two youth who would prove to be an alliance bickered on the nature of things. Her mannerisms were smoother: "To the money lender. He has a great many of my things, sent in advance. His collateral has been given doubly, so I need the holding back to..establish myself.""If he objects, which he may.."
"Then it will either be return my things, or when at court it is made aware to De Garza that he did not do his job as thoroughly as he thought. No, think not ill of me. I would wish the man to survive, for I survived. Yet we will all not play fools anymore. We play for keeps, Senor. So much so you abandoned the Portuguese army to become a courtier in a matter of hours."The man's name was not important, but Arcelia was. Arcelia had survived the fires famed to, by her lover's own description, to have killed her. Not without a reminder, beneath the gloved hands, one still suffered from the heat's kiss. A place upon the back of her legs might always. Suffering was what she endured and what the two young people in the castle desired to cause for the sake of their mission. Seperate, they would be joined in this by Arcelia. Perhaps even her sister. Time would tell..
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Post by Julian Luke Monroe on Aug 2, 2010 23:40:48 GMT -6
"For pity's sake? Janice, you are so blind. For someone as intelligent as you are, you really did walk through that whole thing with your eyes covered didn't you?" He crossed his arms against her own, squaring with her as only he could. He was a tall youth whose years deprived of steady meals kept his frame thin, but slowly through the months it was building. Julian had broad shoulders, and a certain naive nature that often did in his manners. "Jean-Claude made himself sick over you, worried night and day, cherished the moments you came to visit after, but you have no idea how incredibly hurt he was to learn of your marriage. You didn't even stop by to see him, or tell him..nothing. So if you think I'm putting you on a pedestal Angel, you have another thing coming. You damn near killed him with your naive nature, but no..I still would not see you weep. Just sometimes.." He held up his hands fighting for the word, wondering if he could fit his fingers around her neck…until he pulled her against him wrapping his arms around her. She was a petite woman, that could no be denied, with a big nose, and bright eyes. However, somewhere he really did admire her. It simply had been a form of jealousy all these years, "Sometimes I wish you..were.." Hell he didn't know, "Not always smiling so much." He was jealous of that too.
It was a strange motion, this affection, but it was enough to break through his character as he squeezed her. Nothing showed across his face, not a smile nor a hint of sadness. Julian simply was awkward, even in this small show of affection it seemed strange or forced, as if at any moment he would pull away to find some hidden path along the hem for a weakness. However, it was the pounding of his heart against the thin layers of fabric was the only proof that he was in fact human, and not some carving from stone; with that he released her standing then across from her with his arms falling to his side.
"I don't have family. I have Jean-Claude, Ada," Even if they hated one another, he still could not help but think her kin, "And you." He waved his hand, not counting the Order yet he had yet to really know them. "This f**ked up family is better then any happy home I've ever read about. We stick together, and no matter how much I didn't want to come. I.." He really couldn't find the words, but searched as if walking through a labyrinth, "I'm really glad I did." With that he took a big breath, and would let her take the words as she pleased before he finally pulled his head back into the game. I'm not going home without you.
"We all come into this world sceptic. All it would take is proof." Leave to Julian to go from a topic of love and affection, to simple and utter disaster. "If we can get her formula perhaps we can find a way to mix the two. We could say it is work of the devil, or even against the will of God?" Why was it he didn't feel any remorse for the subject? Did she? She was the one who had a devoted faith. He turned in place to follow her, "Or what if.." He started down the hall, turning to wait on her as he knew she still had much to tell him, "What if there is a way to alter it?"
He would need her steady hands, to monitor the dosage for there was a part of him he could not explain, and even Jean-Claude did not trust him.
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Post by Janice Olivia Monroe on Aug 3, 2010 0:42:51 GMT -6
The ramblings on the topic of poison were stalled as he moved across the table to touch her. Julian never sought the honor of her nearness until Spain. Why? Why did he take protective stances, throw out devil-dog glares? Why did the boy who spent the their youth belittling her at every opportunity stand as the man to challenge her at the impass? Why was it that in their zeal to reach the answer they soared so high above all possible logical to spiral out of control into the secrets of all mankind? A need of him was admitted to in controlled context. A thank you, a nod of head, a statement catching each just shy of normalcy. Yet this? Crossed arms pressed against curve willow branches thickened up to be a woman. If he made the mistake to think she would mis-step, he was wrong. The mathmetician would have to calculate the audacity of his words with the multiplication of her responsa. The sheer offense levied divided by a long, trying silence. Measure the eyes Monroe. Measure the width and breadth of her astonishment at all your words, yet remark in parenthesis how the eyes also seemed to spark at every word in her head yet to be said.
It took a serious mark of learned control to think before she spoke. Once, he accused her of forever running off at the mouth. Now, it was his unexplored emotions jeopardizing him to be vunerable as he uttered a personal truth. It was better to be desired in his world than cast aside, wasn't it? To hold some backwards meaning than to be the thing he loathed. Jealousy was better than hatred. Still it was an argument, and if he thought nothing would return to him he would be wrong.
"No, I was not naieve, Julian, despite what you might think for you could be no farther from the truth. If anything, I became keenly aware, too aware. Where you spent your hours insulting, scathing..I had already been a year, if not more, in the thick of it. I cleaved to each bit of my innocence even as I longed to surrender it, to learn of this world...a world your master had a hand in showing me. The masters are brilliant individuals, but they are no less flawed than us. In their flaws their brilliance shines all the more and so I loved them, I loved them for their ability to transcend humanity, and for how human they were..far more than anything else. Yet that would seem self serving to mention, shelfish, no Monroe? You are no different in that!" She opened her hands, placed them flat upon the table as her voice all but slid down like a snake, "To this day, I love him. In my youth and in my marriage I loved him, yet to what extent? To balance his books, to wear his dresses...to never touch him, never adore him a woman would? " The color of her eyes darkened like a storm on the horizon flashing lightning only to echo with thunder heads yet to crack. Going still, she nearly wanted to laugh. What a comedy this became, from talk of business where they found common ground to this. A painful, youthful passion she was still prone to exhibit. Glass shards he forced her to walk on with him. "I am the girl who became a woman and in his love of me would be ever a doll if he could help it. I am not made of glass, I believe they consider you similiar in some way. Flawed some how, not privy to this or that? If you are going to play this game with me Monroe play with a damn full deck of cards," the word escaped, as she exhaled the heat of a dragon.
Thank God she was forgiving.
"Nothing I have ever desired has manifested with ease, nor has my life been charmed. You seem to think this, but let me be plain it is not. I come to this family a case of old duty and great pity in the absence of my father's work. There was none who did not look at me this way. 'Poor child' they said, and still do. Does it not sound familiar Julian? Have you not been, are you not still, some bright boy to them yet to shine amongst the stars yet for all their talk they will not let you go. It was of that..until...I took for myself. My virginity, all for the sake of a cause. My body, my intelligence, everything. It was taken back. Even my love, and in my loyalty I loathed to hurt them yet to wait for them to allow me to experience would be to wait forever. Still, in the end..I am alone. At least I knew. Master Jean-Claude will have Ada all of his days. Master St. Laurence will have her Vincere. They will have their legends, and at legend's end one another. That is everything. Easier for me to be an idealic obsession than a living, breathing entity. I am not naieve, you fool. Perhaps if anything, intelligent in how I apply my rebellion. As horrible and tragic as it all became. You watched him languish in his hurt over me yet to what end? It is not as if Jean-Claude came upon my door step to make a mistress of me if Mistress Adelaide would allow it so. It was not until now that I went beyond, and it was not the careful application of their whim that did this, it was my work. Same as your own despite what they insisted you do. Yet inspite of all this, they are all I have. The way in which I will be alone is softened by the companionship I know. Mother, father. Brother, sister. Uncle, Aunt. They are all things. What is gone will never be returned, so it is natural for progency to seek for themselves while remembering where they came. I will always love them, and strive to assist them."
In the shards of her broken heart, she assembled her smile, her laugh, her own sense of self worth.
She gathered her things while speaking, moving from his lasting words on how he considered her family only to say, "We are a family strange, broken as we are strung together. My life from then until they found me was a farce, a carefully crafted illusion. They are the reality whom live in some strange world that shouldn't be real, but is. At least in that illusion, we may change the dream. You have called me many things, Monroe, but I will rend your face red as fire if you call me naieve again. I am not nor have been so dumb as most would consider me to be in those ways. Nor are you." He was merely young, new. He was learning. He deserved to make his mistakes! In her offense she still saw the bond formed. "We are family, Julian. You are a thorn in my side, and I yours, but we are family. What we have endured here they will never see, will never know, only you and I. That counts for something. You are the only one here who does not treat me as a 'thing'..and has had some care for what might bother me. You a least have had a care always in the mention of the Austrian. I love him to this day, loathe him, but love him. My love is as permanent as my loyalty to my family. Should you ever elect to tease me about that as well, or use it to insult..we will see what our masters have made of us." In the end, she smiled. Was it truly so terrible? How deep, how far would Julian go to carve himself as himself no matter what was instilled in him or what others thought for him? The smile was her attribute, not theirs. They rarely ever smiled in earnest.
"It will not be too hard to make Aragon sceptic, it already is diseased in other matters. The forumla lays in my being and the finished product in our things." Eyes turned down to his hands, saying nothing, then to her own. What would they do, what horrors would they turn loose among the chimeras, hydras, and golems? "Blame it upon God, blame it on the Devil, if we perfect it, it may give us an amunition so powerful we may bargain with both. " De Garza, De Lugo. The Templars themselves. The warrior priest would never forgive them but the time for idle spycraft was nearing its end.
If they wished to play with puppets on strings they would make their own. If they wished devils, they could unleash them.
These were the progency of elegant darkness, after all.
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Post by Men of Skye on Aug 3, 2010 17:40:52 GMT -6
While Angels Dream Somewhere on a Spanish plain.....Months of fighting… the Spaniards were strong, well equipped, but the men who fought them were not like well-trained regiments, but like heathens upon the horse. Bloodlust were their actions, merciless was their forte, for the cost, a pentinece the dead would have to suffer. And in his camp, a Spartan way of life, the man touched the scar upon his face… his mind wandered.
Nighttime in Toledo. The shimmering air is filled with the scent of sweet perfume as the dim figure of a visitor is seen in the shadows. Inside, the room is hung with draperies and chandeliers. Cushions litter the floor while customer laid down on the couch, listening to the sweet voice of the woman partially clothed. She sang, subtly moving her body, the graceful gestures of her hands, and suggestive looks casting a spell on her male audience. Eyes meet and wordless messages are sent. Their outcome is easy to guess....
And the man would grind his teeth and clean his handgonne… for the nights his mind dreamed of were long gone… He had razed the city that his beloved lived. If she were caught, she would be hung as a Spanish sympathizer of the Portuguese… a death sentence of its own kind.
Even upon the inquiry of mental status by his own men, Vaasco would tug upon the leather edge of a wide brimmed hat, pulling it down further upon his forehead. “Si, I am alright…” his voice deep and gruff… the Portuguese language similar to the Spanish. One man sat down upon the rock next to his leader. “Vaasco… I have reports from Morocco…” and the man lifted his head, narrow, whispey-brown eyes peered at him; the flickering flame of the fire sparked evil visions. “Speak Paco…”
And as the soldier spoke of new weapons being used against their Muslim enemies, the man cast an evil smirk. And as the soldier spoke of the emergence of a new face, and his connections to the north, the hat was finally pushed back upon a head full of dark hair. “Si??” and the wickedness of his demeanor shown forth. “I would so love to be fighting with this man… for he has courage to stand against many and not show fear… and to engage the christian men of the north to aid in his battle… Bravado… sheer bravado, Paco…” his Portuguese displaying a man of class, if not that of a learned man.
“Carnian legions? How did this man accomplish that? For they are solitarians… wishing only to be left alone…” and in his question being asked, it was revealed that the man of rebellion is coupled with a woman of substance, not a slave as previously reported. Vaasco could only laugh as Paco gave his reports of the battles of the Tamazgha.
But all that would change as Paco would read the reports of England… “This King Adam… I would so love to meet this man, and his warrior Queen…” …for he had heard of the White Hound… and this landless knight over the years… He propped his chin upon the barrel of his handgonne. “Paco… we are in a changing world… one where Kings of old are soon to fall… and new Crowns sit upon more deserving heads…” But all of a sudden, the attitude changed and he looked at his third in command…
“Any word from our search for de Garza… Anything from Seville? ” Paco shook his head again… “Damn… That man is the key to a fortune and Espania’s deep pockets, Paco… he MUST be found. We could use his resources.” Vaascvo lifted his head... "Anything of Mortimer? He told us that he would have a place for us?" Paco sighed and shook his head. "Bastard... if I get mi hands on him, he shall sing with the angels... for he has flirted with the devil himself."
“Any word from Toledo? Has anyone seen the Lady?” Of course, Vaasco was speaking of his beloved Luiza. Had she made it out of the city? Or had his own death dealing army kill her by accident? He had warned her… he tried to take her away before it was too late… but she had her own agenda… His stomach growled in twisted fate… and he looked at Paco, who bowed his head, shaking it slowly answering his question in the negative. “Graci…” and he bowed his head… “let me know if anything is found out…” and he once more hid his eyes…. His third in command turning and walking away.
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Post by Julian Luke Monroe on Aug 3, 2010 21:34:43 GMT -6
The world suddenly went dark, the night sky seeming void of any light for even the moon was hidden behind the wrath of their argument and concealed by the clouds as if seeking shelter while withering in the ribbon of silver that seemed to only shadow further away. The feeling shifted through pointed arguments with passing feelings of the roads ahead, and the choices that were made.
Janice spoke truth though blinded he felt by her true feeling of conquering the world with a single smile, but if any could do it..Janice could. No, it was not of her naive nature that put her there, but in fact her own rebellion for this much he understood save that he had never gone against Jean-Claude’s wishes. He had not been born into this life as she, or judged for his father’s work. In fact it was because of his father’s lack of work did the judgment pass so easily over him like the cold hard metal spurs of a whip. It would not be until she fell silent again would he finally add words as seemingly empty as the night sky. Yet..
“It is because of this I would not return home without you. Think of how I am being judged as it is, they hardly trusted me or they would not have sent your guardian’s to keep their precious angel safe. No, it may have been your call to surrender your body, and fate that it was to the hand of my Master. He would not have taken you in his small moment of weakness, but he wanted to. It would have been only there did he protect you Janice like the doll you accuse him of making you. No, he would have sent you to the finest schools, set up on your behalf a trust that you would never have to worry of your next meal, and a dowry to insure that you married into a fitting house. He wanted to show you the world so that you could make mistakes there and build you a home out of the small rewards. You were the one who ran away with some fool knight who hated you for your humble attire, and wished you to never work. Little by little you stopped coming to our store, little by little until no more. Your knight killed that of you, and it is in this that I show you your own naive nature. Look at your reflection in the mirror. He did nothing but hold you back, when all around you they wanted to lift you up.” A hand came to point to the closest one, “You hide your emotions so well, but trust me I can see right through them. You must know by now that this is why I’ve done my part not to poke at your heart, you’ve not once thrown your superior birthright or education in my face, even though you have perfect cause to. “
He was not so young as she thought, mistakes were made in matters far worse then her own, for her foolishness went with marrying the first knight in shining armor that crossed her path—his had been with the ability to solve any problem by way of equations and formulas, but never being able to work through his emotions. Jean-Claude had taken it as his attempt to leave this world, but Julian simply tried to realize that he was alive. His was not a cold outlook on life, but a dead one. He didn’t feel, and when the blood had raced down his fingers, dripping into pools that he could almost see his reflection, he understood. My apprentice is very sick, you will have to excuse him from his studies…I am not certain I shall allow him to return. He spoke to the woman who directed the class, who had come to respect Jean-Claude, but he would not hear of one more tale how Julian’s hands were abused simply because he did not believe. It was in that night did he realize he held too tightly to the boy, fought too many of these battles for him, and forced him on a faith that simply was not his own. There had been many nights the priests of the church would come to Jean-Claude with text written by the farmer’s son, and the argument to follow would forever be his greatest downfall in the eyes of the world; Jean-Claude only loved him more.
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Why?! Why do you not believe, Julian?!”
“Because it can’t be explained? Jean-Claude, am I supposed to believe something could part the ocean when even YOU can’t get it a small beaker to stay?? Or that a man could live in the belly of a whale!?!”
“Its called faith!!”
“Its ridiculous!!”
Jean-Claude would stand silent for a moment, though slowly a small smirk would form over his lips as he pulled the boy in leading him back to his bed. “Yes… but must you constantly bring it to the church’s attention?” They wanted to punish him for an opinion, and in turn made him feel as though he was sick. “I just won’t stand to watch you burn, Julian..keep it to yourself…write It in your journal. Was like asking him not to breath, he wanted someone who understood. His opinions were not wrong, they simply were his own .
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Her smile was not so different, nor was it rare, and for this he was thankful that she could be without the miserable nature Claramae seemed about her. He was certain the Master would have left him for dead. It had always been Jean-Claude to smile, show signs of human life behind the dangerous games they played, and often he made up for what Claramae seemed to lack by way of expression. Yet did it mean she was heartless? No. She had a story someday he would unlock, and write down in the legend of the Ebony Hall. So in this he must be thankful that Janice did indeed have a beautiful smile, one that even he could not deny. However, he stood a constant argument with himself, and didn’t know what was worse that she knew how to mask her hurt, or didn’t have it all. In his youth perhaps he had been so sick to hurt her just to make sure she was in fact human too, but somehow he never provoked a single tear. Her heart was bleeding before him now was it not? In their moment of silence he took a heavy breath, but could have broke down..telling her this was like lifting a weight of his chest. She didn’t hit him, or draw blood of his flesh; of his heart perhaps, but nothing broke on his skin. He would die before he would silence her, correct her, tell her to go back to her dresses, or remind her of her place. No, Julian Monroe, did not think himself superior because of his sex, but he would be damned if he let her think him any less because she felt he didn’t understand.
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Post by Janice Olivia Monroe on Aug 4, 2010 0:35:37 GMT -6
"Understand, and fall in to the darkness with me. We needn't go back to earth just yet. Understand, I haven't had a chance to write my name across the stars..." A Game of Crowns, Part 2 Janice deBrabant The silver edge of Luna penetrated the thicket of black clouds. Behind them was a midnight sky surrounding, their argument the only stars that mattered in the atmosphere littered with inconsequential balls of light. She closed her arms around her well ordered, precise pieces of evidence. It was strange; the languages of the world toppled beneath the ability of ear to depict tone, mind to take apart what was foreign to replace with familiar and for all of it the world was still confusing. People moved in circles beyond her scope. She never felt apart of of anything. Yet to mention the Austrian, the young woman shut her eyes against the woman in the mirror. One last piece of personal truth escaped her lips after he was finished: "How kind of Jean-Claude. How generous, I will never forget him for what he does or seeks to do. I know this, and knew it. The Austrian was a man no less complex than the rest of us. He held the same rudimentary problem.He lacked the fortitude to resolve the conclusion in any manner befitting what he alleged he had: patience, diligence, commitment. He loved me in plain clothes, yet saw no less than what any have seen beyond them, the woman who wears what you see now with some sense of baring. He knew I destested court yet had the ability to navigate it with ease. Where I sought peace he decreed challenge. He wished the better of me yet it was already on the verge of being while the better of himself was no where to be seen for he could not let his past go. He let it beat him. With it, he gave nothing but scorn to the world until the bastian of protection we had made for ourselves gave way." It was time to look at herself, him on the outskirt of the yellow haze produced by the gown she wore. An aura great enough to wrap around the pair eminated from inside out. Nothing, nothing could kill the victory of this beautiful self-preservation. "He loved me, for it was in marriage to him I become a Lady, not by any other way. In the end his love for me could not outweigh a due he felt not given a man, and I believe a jealousy. He, too, believed things would always come 'easily' unto the likes of even a woman where his experience counted for little.For all the victory of Skye, for all she championed he could not see past the blunt edge of his nose." She turned about to look at him, "You will not tell him I said this, your master and mine, but consider. What school could he have sent me to that was not already created by his hand, what knowledge bestowed in a university that Master Laurence could not but pull from heaven or Sorschal from his beautiful mind? What gift of life purchasedbeyond the walls of the hall when for all his love of Oxford or Cambridge..Julian, we have it? I am not nobility to the world at large, I only matter in worlds like this. Closed doors, secret society, second lives. In this world. I am the daughter of a Grandmaster..do not forget of what. It was as much self preservation to learn the skills as it was knowledge, and a sign of God. He was a Jew, Julian." She whispered as if walls had secrets, "He fled Pogroms, my sire Elusha. His brother too, and his brother, my uncle..is still a father to me. In such I'v ehad too. Both were physicians, and in the end his brother whom raised me as his own had a hand that trembled too much for the great work of his brother..and he was an apothecary, in a village just beyond Avignon. My mother was a catholic who became a jew who hid under her catholocism so severely I think she tried to save all of our souls.I could hardly go beyond our garden gate, and then when I did..it was to a nunnery. Then unto the hands of Sorschal and St. Laurence, when Papa as I knew him, and Mama had been killed. The truth of what I grew in is hardly queenly. Any elegance in my life is subject to our Masters, our family. I was to have been married upon arrival, did you know? Yet he was old and died..as old men do. Claramae lagged to find me another match..she thought none suitable and upon discovering my bumpkinish manner, whom could she give me to? Then..this." She gently put a finger to her temple, "I think they all were trying to spare me a mundane life, yet there is no sin in a simple life, well loved ,as simple as can be made for the circumstances. That is why I ceased to come, not out of a lack of love for you and him, out of building that life. I believed in my workMarius believed in the immediate. He was more damaged than I ever will be, which is strange to say the least." She looked at her hands, then with them one touched the side of his face, "We will know more freedom in the very thingsthat frighten us..the depth of our own skill, the breadth of our own talents. In the end it is but an elegant plan layed out by another for you. You are here, and without you Julian, I do not think I would be alive. Without you.. I wouldn't have anyone to argue with, or to understand."I knew him so shortly, it was my folly to wed so..but my folly to make. Yet in the end they would have picked another for me perhaps..my duty would have done the same, followed what might have been theirs. But we live in error as we do in success. Hm?" She looked toward the door then. "Outside of that door, the game will change..but we will play for keeps. We will play, and go home." (d) Julian Monroe "You act like I do not know your story, Janice, but you forget how closely I work in secret. I hate the courts, but I know how to navigate them as well. However, it is easier to understand their secrets when they spit them in your direction. Distrust turned many hands over me, and you would be surprised at how many I push away." Just as he did her own then, it was not of hatred did he wish to be free of her touch, but it felt so nice. His was not such a miserable existence, but she was getting dangerously close to breaking every rule. "I know your favorite color, your favorite flower, and I know that you hate it when they thought you too young to attend their meetings. I wasn't able to go with Jean-Claude the night you came down those stairs, but through his memories I lived it." He recalled that night many times, "I was 15 then." He was one year younger then her as she was 16 then, "I know simple life, and when you were trapped in a garden I was growing one to try and feed my starving family while my father was off in the war on Aberdeen soil. He didn't return. I became a man then, but nothing could save them from the winter. It was so cold, my mother didn't know the baby had died against her breast. Jean-Claude paid her for me, and I never went back. So you and I are not so different..I only see you moving through life with an air about you. I wish I could understand." He had not been abused as a child no, nor was it one any different then any of the country folk, but it had simply been the lack of love. "My father was Robert Munro, A chief to our small clan that nearly all died out during the war." Julian no longer had the thick accent that had been of his father; endless hours under Jean-Claude's careful eye did he practice, but when he was truly angry...it was there. They changed the spelling for sake of identity and introduced him to the world a new man. "This.." He motioned for the door, the world around them, "It just feels right? I don't understand what happened." The raw emotion in his voice brought to life that Scottish brogue that Skye was known for, with long vowels and flowing forms. "But it just clicked, on the that damn horse, in that tavern, here.." He brought his hands once more to run over his face trying to make her understand, "Right now..my mind its turning ideas, formulas..equations. I couldn't go home if you begged me. Ada came to get me..She said Jean-Claude was dying, but even on his deathbed I knew he did not wish me there. Not when it meant not finishing." He closed hiseyes for a moment taking a deep breath, "Do I make any sense?" He asked her rather desperate for a true answer. "Even when we finish here, must we go home?" (d Janice deBrabant It was her turn to listen again. What made it so easy to take in all the words when they'd tossed back scenarios ten thousand times in the last few years, ten thousand times when seeming never to really listen but the sharp minds were sponges absorbing it all? His hand was not at all unpleasent; to understand better you touched to validate with senses to study every nuance. Unseen crevice came to appear under the hand as strand of hair were pushed away. One year apart in age, worlds apart in origin, yet practical neighbors in the stories. 'I am sorry,' would be a fool's thing to say aloud but the eyes said it enough, but it was not a pity excuded secondary. Understanding. Wasn't this what it was all about. Vocal undercurrent betrayed false English to show that a boy still spoke Scotts inside of the man. Lessons for the voice were meant to make smooth, pleasant, and elevated banal peasent tones. Somewhere twixt English and French was her voice's dominion against the bedrock of all the others. Emphatic furstration pleaded with her more so than his words so in the end he said "Not right away. Forever they say to see the world do they not, so it shall be. When we do go home Julian, things will not be the same. Do not let them be. You will be a hero. We are both awkward models for such things." Two hands captured his, a gentle kiss atop them for promise beforeshe looked to that door again. "For all my love of home, for all created there, it will be hard to fill a bookstore with Spain. Nothing waits for me in that store, in my home, but my work. So when we are done we will make it so there is more to this..so when we return home, it will not be the same." Fear of solitude, fear of never-ending banality, of uncomforted hours was enough for one to throw themselves on a wing and a prayer. She began to move again to the door for the priest would surely be waiting. The halls were just as they left them, yet they were not as they had been before. Through the long corridors a distinct lack of air blowing made everything stagnant. Summer heart began to decorate her throat with tiny beads of perspiration. Around another bend, before words come be spoken again, the pair would be shocked to see they were not alone. Had the new Queen of Spain seen them? Taking no chance, Janice lowered her body before the she-wolf's potential gaze. Once, Rosalind had worn the crown of Aragon upon a head of brown. Princess of Corsica was the title here she kept, so she imagined Rosalind's words as steadying mechanisms as she piloted her body in practiced actions. This woman, this...Queen..could spell danger. (d) to be continued..
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Post by Janice Olivia Monroe on Aug 7, 2010 22:31:32 GMT -6
Tell me all of your desires, all of your hopes and dreams. I will tell you a lie only to be replaced by the truth if you are quick enough, strong enough. Desire it enough. When the darkness finds crown heads discussing the will of all mankind with a few to decide, when your plans and mine are intertwined...I will lay it all aside to know your desires, hopes, and dreams in the blackness that surrounds us.
A Game of Crowns, Part 2: Knowledge
Janice deBrabant Are we lost more if we remain or we stay.. it was a theory, a challenge to unravel, and by staying what more do we gain. Something is missing; while we have been play-acting things have moved in other ways, yet not what is desired.A person could do two things at once; to think was not to smile at the present world. The mind was a window to a place all its own. No matter how beautiful, no matter how stunning Aragon proved to be by way of its court, its people were married. Provinces were provincial places for the twisted to reside in false security. Night had transpired to a day that drunk in vast quantities of sunlight enough to make lady's move lazy fan swings with more zeal to abate the flower scented pandemic. Perfume on skin decayed on those who had not bathed. It is not the..dominion of all to bathe frequently..there is a childish belief it disturbs the humors..still.. ladies crossed the floor in groups, men in pairs. No one had the will to hunt, or dance, or make the day worthwhile. A man of too much rich food spoke to Danielle on the nature of the times, "Such a pretty thing, what concern for politics have you? Eh, I will tell you. A woman of learning intrigues me. Your head is full of knowledge yet you are not beyond manners, so they say of a woman who learns. Too full of herself, to disobdient. Your brother must thank God for such a learned, yet calm young woman." He was too rotund to do anything athletic, yet to be still meant he'd listened much to happenings of his old home. With no more than a smile (not stooping to the level of dunderheaded laughter as some youth would do) her language replied to his ancestral though he spoke French enough for conversation. Mix mangled, mix matched French so abusive to the ears it was better for him to cease 'impressing' her. "Toledo was what comes of business not well handled. You see, a crown united over all isn't so practical, when you have many provinces to govern! Do you understand, my sweet?" She nodded her head before he continued, "Toledo is bunrt to a crisp. It needs a twin now, they say Madrid, or Leon, will be that twin unless there is a sovereign crown presence there to inforce the orders of the Castillian crown. Now, Aragon has taken it, to make his problem, but there is talk he wants a presence there, as in days of old. A god-sanctioned, infallible god-head with enough power that his highest majesty gives him.." In this she learned that unity came with heavy consequences. Aragon wanted to focus its military presence outward, and away in expansion of the empire it created, not in consolidation of what it was already was supposed to own. The fervor behind national identity was high then? "It surely can not continue to allow that horrible man, Vaasco Saanchiz, to continue? They say he follows Portugal's say, yet did not the King say he wished no violent end? It is ..very confusing to understand, yet not so when you explain it to me.." "A pity, no father between you both. If I were such a man, I would see you taken care of.." His fat, grimy paw patted her hand. "Saanchiz will not harm here, little one. He wishes the crown to comecloser to him. he is a coward, he heads north, instead of here to the West, where the true..picking is. Maybe they will come out of Lisbon for him. Their majesties are concerning themselves with greater things. To fight among themselves, or the Moors, in Grenada. It is said they are making plans to retake Seville, and have strengthed a Muslim Kingdom there.." The interesting news lifted the eyebrow of Janice on the inside while the face of Danielle remained placid, gentle, and kid. It was not so hard. Merely give Danielle a face she wore long ago..the convent face. "Thank you, senor. For now i must leave you. It is time for prayer, and it has been promised we would make a been promised we would make a study of something very...precious..to an associate." Through a lift of the eye Devaraeux came forward to collect the pious student only for his mouth to sneer as they walked away, "Where is your 'brother', you are playing with fire...can you not see his intentions.." "Oui, I can see them well," she whispered now in french, "And where is your 'brother', Devareux, did you not that the fat one sat beside de Garza himself over cards? The fat one isLeonese, as is de Garza. He is here you failed to tell us. We've been wasting time on books, riddles and clues. Well, I have. Monroe has not. Give me your arm, priest." "What for? I am returning you.." "We are moving, out. De Garza is out and if he is here, it means a source of his funds are here. It means..one of your valuable little goals, and mine, is here. Take me out or so help me I will let my 'brother' use you for one of his injections." He gave pause, looking at an exterior that flickered back no reaction other than an arched eyebrow. "You should have left me in Seville to die, a man of God. You do not know what you touch.." "I know that my King will wish to know neither a Crusade nor Jihad is coming to his throne, he will wish his templars restored to good standing as he has faith in them where you seem to have lost it. You are too afraid for a man who knows more than we about what he wont share. You haven't spoken with Julian, and you are afraid to tell me, why, because I am female? Be advised if your mouth stays too long sealed, and one of our Guardians pays price for you.." He could finish the rest. Had it come to that, killing priests they were supposed to take home? When you needed a full deck of cards, you pulled them from anywhere. Without much delay the priest, baffled by the experience, realized that his agenda would need to mesh with the youths. Only the youth could save some or all of the heads in court. Only the youth could find the treasure, only the youth could get them home. Some detested heat but she found the change in weather from the rain invigorating. On feet they went, for it was too much to burden horses (d) Julian Monroe My days are haunted by the thought, Of men in coils of Justince caught, With stone and steel, in chain and cell, Of men condemned to living hell, --Yet blame them not. In my sun-joy their dark I see: For what they are and had to be Blame nature, red in tooth and claw, Blame laws beyond all human law--Blame Destiny ( The Damned, Robert William Service) He was damned, for all of hell. The blood of the church had spilled on the streets, in the screams of last night, and the fluid from the man's spine there within his case of many tricks. It was a secret ingredient, a bit too gruesome for the weak, and even Julian felt himself grow weak when a single drop of the yellow substance touched the heat mixture. He lived in the laughter the water seemed to make as if only for a moment to turn as red as the world when eyes were closed, and in an instance returned. He would keep this much to himself. In a world of make belief and pretend they could all be heroes upon distant shores, but the seriousness of the assignment kept his head just where it should. It was a deadly blow, the knife at the base of the spine, but the fight for the widow had been enough to shake from the world their view of the 'brother' as an innocent. For weeks now he had played them all, with distant eyes that seemed beyond it all, and very weary of the concept of court. It was a gift really, Janice and her ability to sink into the heart of it all, with his like a wolf picking off the weakest. Widows, with children well grown and gone were left with lives endless spent, knowing their time had come and gone; searching then for a new way out. Their hearts went out the youth upon the wall, who would have rather be anywhere but in the pit of lions, but of course very well brave enough to venture. Julian simply didn't see a reason why. Janice had her fill with men of the sort she spoke with, who thought of her a flower so pure still holding that bit of blood inside that was far more precious then any man. Their wives were all dried up, with petals dropping and beautiful blossoms all nearly wilted away--a perfect target. What reputation did he have to keep? The younger of the court thought him weak, too thin, and always writing..of what good was that in a man? Perhaps it was poetry, and in sorts...to him it was the most perfect sonnet. Factors combined through basic laws in physics, where equations were like formulas--a truth that all in life there was an order. We meant of words..One night they had asked, and he shook his head, his jaded concept on life would have laughed as they sneered. It was a nice break in the weather, as he felt his work done enough for the moments reputation of conceptual formulas, Claramae was genius and it was no wonder Jean-Claude kept her so close. He was a man of madness who didn't have her ability to wait for results. It was clear she spent her hours in study, and clear that Jean-Claude did it all at once. The change was nice, as once stated, and he was thankful for the wash a fresh change, and a thankful out look on the world. Did you see the way he pawed at Danielle..His eyes in that moment could have thawed the ice as he broke from his notes, and the giggles of the courtiers were soon masked behind manicured nails. They were surprised when he moved past them, for at least that was one noble trait he did have; this miserable unmannered man. He came upon them like the rapture. (d Set In Her Way: Macabre mind of associates were not the thing to probe - in part - but she was terribly intrigued with the daydreams or the night sweat ramblings of the priest. Could he serve to make those men who'd come before him jealous? Courtiers chuckled at the attention the poor sister was drawing, "He has already had three wives, you know." one said directly to him as if that were the fat-one's every intention. Mocking Julian was easy to do, as easy as breathing. His poetry made him too romantic with no action for no wife did he have nor mistress would he take. Was he inspired of the sodomy? No, for even the resident sons of the practice could not turn his eye with subtle hints,serving only to make the matter more a ponderance over odd-end games of chess or sewing circle? "Thank God the man comes to save her, what do you think he is about? A guard perhaps, he seems very pious for a man." "Maybe he tellsher not to lose her heart to the elephant from the menagerie or she will die under him on the wedding night, poor thing." Janice felt Julian' shadow move moments before it did, the corner of her eye watching as he moved toward the last place she stood. Theirs was an odd relationship. For all the pretend at this farce of family alleigance, it really was there. Not that leaving with the priest was any better in his mind, yet give pause: Precious little took Janice beyond the court, so why now to the outside world, why now beyond the Aragon cage of conduct? "He will not like it, but it will serve him all the same. You are right, I have not been forthcoming.." The priest was beginning a story, hurry, Julian, or you'd miss it. She was not an instrument of destruction nor was she weak anymore; the beautiful body wore the work of Julian's hand today as much as his master's. A gown of black and blue on top with liquid death swirling against her necklace, concocted smoke in the studs against her ears. "I had only one objective, and his was the same as mine until now, Father...now it is many we must complete. We will do some of it now, be forthcoming (d) Julian Monroe He had killed everyone last night, buried their bodies in the sands. Any who saw his face, in the chase that free'd the widow from her tower, even the poor blacksmith. It was to protect their assignment, for what would a few lives be to save a hundred? Or even just the one. "He who?" What were they talking about? In all the glory of the day, the sun played well across their skin, and he moved to straighten the clasp of her necklace so that it was not showing. He did make that gown..or of sorts, the hem down her back had been redone, because he didn't care and the Lady Harper finished. He worried of that old goat, wondering if she was well and waiting on news of their Master as he was. She was the middle ground, who ran the shop like a ship, and always knew were her ducks were. (d Janice deBrabant and Peter DeVareux"He, you, neither the fat man's pawing or our associates lack of talking, but both will be remedied now. Walk with us?" The priest turned away anytime the pair touched like he was privy to some intimacy he shouldn't see. She swept up her hair to assist him in the task of concealing the necklace clasp. For hands he said needed help in the formulas, they were steady now. His fear was a strange thing; like her own, it lived, breathed, and curled inside of the body yet in him it made spastic action while for her it could create a paralysis greater than anything in the little viles. "Oui, it is time. You seem to have deviated from your course," he said with a flat tone, his hand swift to place Janice's atop his arm, and his other on that "Enough to find things in the night where you should not find them, I was young and curious. I believed knowledge was more than what was being fed to me. To be a glutton, instead of fed rations. I wanted that sin more than you knowand for it, here..the Moors took me. They do not know enough of orders, but they know enough to see that I was important to something or someone. The Templars yes. Perhaps to your..findings, young man. My only care is for my brothers now, this marking has been the bane of me all of the years. You should learn not to touch fire, it is pretty until it burns you." Beyond the castle, beyond the walls to the streets they wandered, sloping down the hill to the populace. Giving him something to reckon, she said, "On our way to you, we bowed our heads before Queen Isabelle. She did not see us, or if she did, had no care to make recognition. She was not alone?" He shook his head,causing his graying hair to sway like a lullaby for a child. "De Garza, the Queen, the King, and their..Chamberlain we may say, are often together at night, plotting. But of late on my own walks,:" for he never slept to avoid the night-terrors, "I have seen only Senor de Garza,his slave,and the Queen. He plots with her secretly, in greater contexts, for she is commanding as much power now as her former lover, yet is more careful in how to apply it. Toledo does make the Portuguese look in great guilt yet Mortimer did not get what he wanted from it, Sanchiz in his presence. Instead the Butcher moves to the North, he listens to de Garza. de Garza has been known to pay a great many hands at once to take the stronger, it has always been his practice.. De Garza is trying to convince Isabelle to keep Sanchiz to themselves, to not work through Mortimer, it is working with her loyalties. There, I am forward." She looked up at him, then to Julian, "so you are not only waiting on us to tell you things, your sickness has its uses.." "Oui, I still need to protect my brothers. So it seems i must rely on you both, yet how will you do so? In Grenada I came close, so close but your..men..diverted me from bringing you with me. Recall you Grenada, the stop we made? There are Muslims there, peacable, long our point of contacts..I received a letter of recommendation from them that I might go within their old University here. De Garza is looking for the way to de Lugo's riches. You see one has not told the other of how they come across their funds. Also, de Garza must keep something here..or hewould not linger." The priest watched their faces for signs of attentiveness, almost disturbed by how intense Janice viewed him, "I think...one of the old treasure stores is hereand with it, hidden plans. Objectives, anything! I can not go back empty handed. Nor can you. It is...imperative to find this store of wealth, to hobble it." "then why do we not let de Garza lead us ever close? I brought you out in truth to do this, that we might see the inner workings..up close. They say he indulges in many fineries and uses them to conceal many things.." "What will you do, make him think you are sweet and that one a poet...at courtno one knows of me.." "Precisely why you may make our introduction, you do not look the same, nor behave the same. With that in mind, your letter of recommendation will be of great weight, yetif you would have told us sooner, you would know that her Serene Highness, her Grace, of Corsica is a far better reference. My brother's poetry is fetching quite a bit of notice, and when translated, so are other skills." They all played against one another..even Janice and Julian..for so long, with so much. Could they all come together now? "Fine. God help me, I will trust you, implictly. But heed me all the same Somethings you should not touch, theboth of you. They say De Garza is beginning to bend the ear of the Castilian King.." "For what?" "To be rid of the Infanta." (d) Julian Monroe It was his spite did he wish to go to the other side of Janice, take her hand just as the priest had, but it would not have been part of his role. Perhaps he would have truly thrown the man off by going to the left of the priest and offering his arm to the 'old' fool. From their first moments in deep dark caverns he had not trusted this man, nor the brotherhood he represented. He felt certain that the demons that filled his chest and clawed at his ribcage would have been proof enough for that truth. It was in the weak minds did ideas like death and decay thrive, but in the strength of a stout soul whose ideas were well upon their right path did the idea become nothing but the past. It was confirmed in this very moment, all that he doubted of the man. "You must be a very fitting fool to think we have told you everything, or have told you the truth at all." Easy Monroe, the sarcasm very thick on his tongue, like the bile he had to keep down when he went to mass. Julian had put his trust in that man, that day in the cave, and it stung greatly to realize it was all a lie. It was when he went quiet to listen once more did he think the most, taking in words as if reading them from the pages of one of her books; he could not fathom the idea of letting it all go. An eye for an eye, but here..A secret for a lie. Julian would follow in the wake of the pair, never far from the constant tall figure that seemed more her shadow then ever. In days that came too early, Julian found himself questioning their words. "So what is it you are asking, Father?" His voice no more then a dry thin line as it smoothed over the air. (d Peter DeVareux "That there are far more important things than any disagreeance, and far more dangerous things that His Majesty, nor do the Templars, ever ask of you. I am going to ask you to keep your faith, as I keep mine in you." His voice deepened as they continued on through the sun, the pace would have made any perspire, "You are just as foolish boy, they know you walk late at night, calling you moon-prince or some poetic drival. But who do you think will not notice, how long can you cover your trail, and do not begin to school me when it has only been of late you have told your 'sister' everything? A sin for a sin. If anything, you will leave me. If I die, than I die. Your objective will be completed in that the two who asked you of my origins will have answers. It is all connected now. To kill the Infanta, to, incite or capture portugal..it is all important to the objective. Have you not heard of the war in Algiers, boy? They have already begun the Crusade..it is just not called by name. Cripple it, and if you must leave me to die." " Busy yourself...: The stern voice subsided as in the distance, he thought he saw..but..no. Ghosts could be made of the living, and as the woman pulled up the cowl of the hood only to be gone, he cured himself of the idea that hisArcelia was haunting him (d) NocturneSansFin: Julian snorted, "I would have left you for dead in the dungeon worry you not about that, Old man." He had a certain air about him that often come off as arrogant, but often he simply was misunderstood. Yet, in this day? He spoke the truth, and after their fight in the hidden rooms he could think with a clear mind. In another life he would have been a perfect diplomat, some aristocrat with perfect breeding, but in this one he walked in it with his third eye. However, in that moment he went silent letting the priests attention fall back upon Janice as she was very much the steady hands of this operation.Julian felt this man lying. He had silenced any who saw him, "The widow has a reputation, so what is you have said to have seen? Me lurking for answers or feasting on her skill?" Margot was known for her seduction, sketched with chalk on the floor, she was a very learned woman. Every alarm started in the youth's mind as the figures in the distance came to life. To kill the Infanta..Capture Portugal? This was not part of their assignment? Suddenly it all became clear. A glance to his 'sister' as she had become quiet, but this was the calm before the storm. Janice always gave her voice, often only when it was needed, but it was always there. (d Peter DeVareux and Janice deBrabant "There is more than one way to die, young man," DeVareux snapped back with an air of lost control, for a moment the sight of the alleged ghost of his beloved broke his heart. This boy with all the promise, all the chance he could never reclaim. Mistakes could be made, advantage won, things lost but it could all be corrected because Julian was in the early seasons of his life. He turned his head away "You learning, digging for things beyond the venture you came for. Or do you want your own reasons to be here? You are young now, I was young once." Janice gave a firm pull on the priests arm to quiet him, her mind working. "Young or old, this is complicated..a game of crowns we've figured, and if we do not play it..they could embroil the Penninsula. Is that what they seek, regardless, both of them seem intent these Templars on making some sort of war, devouring itself. It depends it seems on which crown will win what occurs. I do not care," she huffed softly, slipping then from the priest's hold to alone. "It complicates the specifics but they must be sorted out, we aren't dumb, if we freeze their assets, make the right kills..save the right lives than this will not return to where we left. For if the Moors are fueled enough they will blame it upon our King and come for him, and if the Spaniards are too powerful than nothing will be safe here, they will eat one another alive! Portugal is an ally of the King and is needed..so then it stands to reason your...quandry grows as well. You are alive, and you will stay alive!" She sneered, moving along the path as if she knew where they were going so the priest move ahead of them. He peered about the corner...searching, never to find what he wanted. But she watched him, her heart breaking in his ever step. She yearned to touch him, but who were these people he was with? The young ones made him sneer, the girl. had earned a gaze meant only for her. Fire ridden marks on a beautiful frame would not do..so she waited to heal. She knew, Arcelia, everywhere Peter would go, yet didn' tknow why he took the two youth toward the crumbling building Why he knocked upon the door, and why it was answered by a man in a cowl. Finger pointed at the priest in a manner accusing him of divulging secrets without yet saying a word of why, yet all it took was his letter to silence them. "We have to finish this Julian," she said as the priest negotiated their entrance, "And we may stay anywhere you desire..anywhere but here..anywhere under the stars in Spain but here.." Once anything was found..they had to leave, they had to move. Everything seemed so..out of reach. So wrong. Lives to save, nations in their hands. This was not what they came here for! Only for Skye. The mission would lead them all over..she knew, but Aragon as much as it was tempting to even her...was horrifying. Yet the fear began to creep away slowly, oh so slowly..seeing the soft glow inside. More curiosity? (d) octurneSansFin: "Janice.." Her true name, whispered as slowly he lead her back if only to put distance between he and the priest. "Everything about this feels so wrong. We didn't come here for this." He almost pleaded with her, "He is talking words of treason against the Spanish crown and our own." In simple ways it could have been, Spain had that affect on the very mind--its exotic nature and seeming constant state of life. "Think of this..had I not heard the gossip, of some old fat man pawwing at you? You would be here alone, meaning he would have lead you here." Even lower did his voice go, as he stood close enough that perhaps they could have spoke in a voice that was hardly anything over the vibration from his chest. "He does not trust me..thinks me weak." He touched her shoulder with his palm keeping close to her ear so that the confession would not leave upon unwanted ears. "You have to know as much as I do, what is beyond that door is not good...and..where are the guardians?" The priest had pulled them from the rest, all facts that only the jaded would pick up. Janice wanted to save the world, a noble cause of her, but she would keep going until there was never an end. It was his reason for being here to point out the darker in it all, but was this how he would in turn keep her on track?The way he turned to open himself to the entrance would be proof enough he would follow well indeed, and finish this task if she wished it no matter how many phantoms cried behind his eyes to run away. (d Janice deBrabantDestiny peered around a corner; oil lamps from a foreign bazaar flickerred open flame near walls like tall screens. Age hid the true worth of a place, a secret in its own right. She should grow so sick on secrets that they would all suffocate her yet the scent of wisdom wafted up more inviting than jasmine flower. She remained back with Julian, locked in his hold as he told her the things a mind already processed, the practical, and that for their lives they should run. But, "If we do not hobble their legs Julian, they will turn this madness on our home. Think of what will become of the masters, if anything faulters here. Master de Aquitaine, Master Inveryne, even Master Peregrine are in such danger by this faultering place half a world away. If those men have what they desire, they will have everything. We are months behind, and nothing to be done for it! What if Master St. Laurence is already.. dead.." she crept fingers up his ascot to grip it. "Did you not see the look on the guardian's faces? How hard it is to move word from one place to the other..even for them. He acts like a man who is still alone, a man who believes he is doomed, even as we pulled him from Seville. The William Sable and Richard Burns will be damned too, and they've done nothing. This will move the Church julian... We can't do anything..but finish what was started, and spare these devils. Find the angels among them, but spare them all. The only ones that must be dealt with are the turners of the gears of this war machine. A war in Algiers? These men are ruthless, but so have our masters been. If for nothing else, for them. We owe them everything. De Garza is in their, the first...light in all of these clouds." When she released him it was with pride she lifted her head to walk in the Muslim's invisible palace of knowledge. So much brought to spain, yet so much quashed for it was not in the realm of Christ. DeVareux was not a villian; a complicated entity with a task spanning years. He pointed to the wall for them, amidst scents of coffee and wine. "The Tree of Life, the Tree of knowledge, from the pictures. Our lives are in one anothers hands." (d) Julian Monroe There was a great part of him that was excited, perhaps in way that would classify them both as lesser soldiers and more scholars. The Muslim's were perfected in their medicine, and their math? What of the text? His palms started to get a little warm as the nerves did build up, but she was right. He would have his work cut out for him, and thankfully put a few blank pages in his book.It would be a good death. Julian would be the last one in, feeling the eyes of another on his back even in the broad daylight seemed enough to chill him, and he turned his attention over his shoulder for a moment to seek out the gaze. He would not brush off the feeling, but would simply put it aside for now. "Stay close to me." He whispered, but perhaps this was one of the many things that were different about him by ways of men in her life--Julian knew he relied heavily upon her, and was not so shamed to admit it. (d Janice de Brabant "Yes." One word breathed all the promise it needed as the door sealed the warm summer day away. Inside the heat was a different animal; muted, subdued by a breeze from a source that she couldn't see. It made no sense but sense wasthe last thing to be cleaved to. Mon Ange threaded her small hands around his arm. Moment's bush with death did little to kill excitement. Hiding her voice, only he could denote the sheer joy, "Julian, this place is as old as the middle Muslim kingdom of the past..it is everything from the pages. Look, look! The hawk, yet in Arabic surrounding. There, there! Scrolls.. he has done it. This is the source of the drawings their enclave. I believe he comes here now as a man de Garza reaches out for. He must be dead, the priest, with Arcelia. So they think.." She looked only the part ofa reserved woman, unsure of herself, supported by the one trusted fellow. DeVareux would prove to them his fealty to his brothers in Scotland, to it's King, as well as to the God binding them all with prophecy of madness. How careful they looked, how genuine! Maneuvering about over their offered drinks, discussing business of ages. It was not so unlike the Templar Hall back home, she thought. The warrior-priest was given permission to move as he pleased..his heart aching, yet elevated. Was it home to him? Could he be blamed? "You are as you have been in court, your reputation will proceed you, be vigilant." He leaned among them before guiding them to the table of the man who looked across a map of the Eastern world. Beside him sat a black man, his head wrapped in cloth his hands in black shroud..his face pricked by purposeful scar tatoo. Smooth, liquid sound flowed from his mouth, like a river. "Senor de Garza, a moment of your time..." (d) Julian Monroe"Jean-Claude would be.." He didn't finish, but happy? Ecstatic? Passed out on the floor? Take your pick. "It even smells old in here." Simply not a man of words, he did well to simply keep quiet. However that had not been something to tear at the place. No, it was indeed a compliment, or a simply observation. "Look..Occam's Razor." They knew nothing of what had happened in England, but the manuscript known even here; no doubt it had been laughed at over and over again, by complex Arabic knowledge. Their barbaric waysmoved medicine further then any other nation, "Biruni.." He wanted to bite at his lip to keep from being so ingested with the ideas that were around him, as it would have been unprofessional, but this was his small amount of weakness. The Father would be given a cold look, through his horrible manners were kept in check, and the cut of his words in place. (d Janice de'Brabant and Senor de Garza"all of them, and we are here.." Of all the work must be done let this place stay erect? "Translations ..and originals. Alone this place is worth..it.." Antique mind calculations were lost as she saw the works of "Rumi.." De Garza seemed annoyed to be turned from his work, yet it was good to see the little French pair in his associate's company. "Ah, you have piqued their interest I see, for the private collection? They say in court the girl is beautiful and the boy pensive, but intelligent." DeVareux presented them- of Avignon, Danielle, and Jean. How fitting, was it not? She lowered her body in reverant respect while still holding her brothers arm. "Oui, we are most happy to serve. It is said to benefit the friendship between France and Espania, such things." Her hand was taken, put to lips that were unchapped. He was well taken care of for his age, indeed. "So sweet. And you, de'Avignon. I hear you are a man of poems, and formulas. A cultured mind." A hand to shake. Were they not so sealed to themselves, this man might have tempted them with all the wisdom in the world. Their talent, their folly. "His Lordship tells me that you have been on progess through Espania, Castille, Leon, and Grenada, before here. Such a journey. What do you think of the land?" (d)
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