The Gentleman

Brushing past the man who was quietly leaving, Baltasar focused on the man still seated within the booth. The nerve of this man to not even stand to greet him. Again, a mute sense of curiosity had brought him to the table and the acknowledgment of his name only fueled the flame. Baltasar, despite his curiosity, was not a stupid man. He could decide why he was here. This man knew of his dealings with the Bande and he would want an in.

Baltasar merely nodded at his rhetorical question, bright brown eyes following his movements and gaze with a critical gleam. As the two men hesitated in a space of mutual understanding and equal interest, he could see the warning in the other man’s eyes. Baltasar inclined his chin at the other man’s question. He paused for a beat before letting a small smile lift his face. “Yes, please. A tankard of ale would be just fine.” He took it upon himself to slide into the booth, settling into the seat and reclining just as he had witnessed the other man do. He was relatively safe, despite being in the presence of a snake. This relative safety caused him to be comfortable.

“What can I do for you, Antoine? I can’t imagine you would invite me over without some favor to ask.” He questioned, eyes trained on the other man.

Antoine leaned back deliberately, taking in the bright intelligence in Baltasar’s eyes. It would be unwise, he considered, to underestimate him. He only averted his attention for a moment as a serving girl made her way to their table to order their drinks. “That is rather discourteous to say, don’t you think,” Antoine inquired delicately. “I’m perfectly capable of holding a conversation that does not revolve around a certain favour.”

@heirtoashes

Things have gotten a little hairy.

Baltasar leaned against the splintering, wooden doorway with his arms crossed. The tavern once held such happiness and a carefree attitude. It was where he first met the Baptistes. This was the first place he’d come to when he’d landed in France. Despite his purpose here, he had found this place to mean home. It meant some semblance of safety to him. Now, with his darting eyes assessing the room, he distrusted every mongrel within it. His deep-seated hatred of France had relit in light of his own hired spies turning on him. How characteristic for a Frenchman to be a turncoat. How absolu-

Antoine.

Baltasar’s eyes zeroed in on the older man across the bar. The one who had been causing so much trouble with the Bande. His dark brown eyes were fixated on the man’s lips, attempting to decode his speech to one of his men. When the lips suddenly stopped, his eyes lifted to catch the gaze of the man. Both men were equally dangerous in their own respects but Baltasar knew very little about the other man; this lack of knowledge made him very wary of him. 

With the barest tap of his fingertips, he dismissed the gentleman he was speaking to, and fully regarded him. “Baltasar,” he acknowledged softly, “is it not?” Antoine smiled gently; his eyes steady above the curve of his lips, watchful. They were not particularly vicious eyes, nothing brutal or cruel about them, but they were indubitably the eyes of a well-fed predator.  Perhaps he was not hungry in the moment, and so Baltasar might be counted safe, but there was little evidence to show that if he desired it, that he could not easily devour him. Watch your step, little Spaniard, you’re safe now, those calm eyes seemed to project, but if we were to meet in the wrong circumstance, I wouldn’t give a bent pin for your survival.

He leaned back, open, magnanimous.

Tonight, was a night to impress and they held themselves appropriately for it. Back laced straight, body fluid as they granted themselves access to his apartment. It was not the first time they’d been invited to a stranger’s apartment, it was not the first time they’d come under the pretence of meeting a God. They sought out immortality as if they were magnetised to it. Their hand lingered on the door as they shut it behind them, unsure what to do with the visual of the alleged man of chaos in an impeccable Italian suit and oven mitts. Lips curled into a smile as they shrugged out of their coat, there was nothing too it but to sink into the domestic atmosphere. Tonight, was not going to be a stage of electric explosions. Wine and fine conversation they supposed.

There was a spark within the touch of their hands, an understanding that bloomed between their palms as Antoine flashed them a healthy swath of white pearls. “Antoine,” they murmured. “Please, call me Al and it is a pleasure to finally meet you.” They were sure of it now, that the man was truly as rumours suggested—Hyeõrungr. Even if the audience of a God was a comfort, they did not wish to make a wrong step when they were at the mercy of chaos and lies. So, they took an unusually cautious approach.

“Formalities are only due when there’s an audience, no?” They slipped themselves onto a high stool and leaned with two delicate elbows onto the counter top, idly observing the feast in its creation. They had been unsure what to expect and still, they were in the dark with this one. Thus far, they couldn’t decide if that intrigued them or bored them. Human or mortal, their memory had never been exceedingly good so they pulled a little orange notebook from their pocket and flipped it open to a blank page. “So, tell me Antoine where are you from and how did you happen upon, Chaos Ventures?”

He studied the lithe muse as they made his way into his home, a dry amusement sparkling in his eyes at the divinity that shimmered between their fingertips. Loki inclined his head, meeting their gaze for a long, curious moment. Al,” he returned politely. “I’m not particularly certain what…pantheon you call home, but whatever it is, it is quite…unfamiliar to me.” The Norse God chuckled lightly at their response, making his way to the counter where they could be face to face. He busied himself with pouring two glasses of amber-coloured liquid. “There’s always an audience of a kind,” he jested softly, “even if the audience is only ourselves.”

Hello all,

Here are my list of canon plots I’d like to do for both of my boys. Let me know if any of you guys are interested!

Fighting Fit: Tristan d’Aumont, famously dauntless Musketeer, has to learn how to find his feet again, literally. Someone who is willing to be patient enough to work with him on his fighting once more and learning his adjustments in a training thread that comes at a perfect time just as war looms upon the horizon. 

The Genesis of Strategy: More than anything, Tristan needs to learn about the intricacies of wartime strategy, which can open up more than a few spots for attention from rather unconventional teachers and even more unconventional methods.

As the door opened and she saw the man for the first time, Simone knew that her suspicions had been correct. The power behind his eyes was none that she had ever seen in a normal man and even as he smiled, she could almost see the amusement on his face. If she could sense his godly nature, she had no doubt that he could do the same for her, but that was beside the point. As long as he didn’t figure out which goddess she was, then everything would be fine.

Smiling politely at him, she stepped inside his office, noting the very clean atmosphere. What drew her eyes, however, was the breathtaking view of the skyline. It reminded her of a simplier time on Mount Olympus–before she had to deal with the petty human squables on a daily basis. Turning her gaze back toward his ofice, she noted the organized way his desk was. It almost seemed too ordinary for a man like him.

At his voice, she gave him her attention. “Yes, it has been quite the journey, monsieur. It is an honor to finally meet you.” She smiled sweetly at him, doing her best to look as innocent as Astraea tended to look.

Antoine smiled politely, but his eyes remained on her features, questioning, intent. After another moment of discrete examination, he reached out and lightly clasped her hand in his in a handshake, not unaware of the sudden electricity that arched between their skin. “The honour is mine,” he added, “mademoiselle.” Lightly, he released her hand, and made his way to his desk, where he busied himself in pouring himself some tea.

“Although I am undoubtably pleased to have such a talented young lady in my employ,” he continued, pouring amicably, “I did wonder if you were perhaps, overqualified for the position. This will be mainly an administrative appointment, I hope you understand?” He smiled at her again, his hazel eyes taking on flecks of green in the early morning light.

@heirtoashes

Of all the gods that she managed to hunt down, Antoine seemed to be the most illusive. It was feeling more than concrete fact that convinced her that he was not just a well placed and ambitious human. It was all a little too perfect and Athena could sense a lie when she saw one.

She started the case under the guise of corruption within his magazine. Her superiors thought it stupid, but she easily convinced them that even if he wasn’t corrupt, then there would still be potential knowledge there given the vast amount of powerful people this man had under his employment. Two meetings later and here she was, dressed in an outfit she only wore when trying to impress people on her missions, to “work” for a man who she knew to be very dangerous.

His eyes met hers, deliberate, and his lips quirked in a subtle smile. There was a sense of amusement, the divinity screaming at him beneath her fragile human skin. Still, he played along, opening the door wider courteously, gesturing for her to enter his minimalistic, elegant office. It was mainly white, with several ceiling to floor windows to allow a generous view of the Parisian skyline and full-length posters of past magazine issues to round out the decoration.  A pot of green tea was visible on a tray at the corner of the single desk, a few neatly organised folders, a sleek computer, a notebook and pen. It hardly seemed like the place that an empire was run from, but there they were.

With a wry twist of his mouth, Armaud eyed Antoine’s hand on his own and fought off the urge to shake him off like an petulant child. It was downright insulting. He never asked for Antoine’s pity or concern, and he wasn’t about to do so now. The thought of pity disgusted him, made the furnace of Armaud’s heart flare up with new coal thrown onto the fire, furious and reactive. If he could, Armaud would wring the feeling, rip in to shreds, and destroy it. His grief was his own, Philippe was his brother to mourn, not Antoine’s, and no amount of paltry consolation would be enough to alleviate Armaud’s pains. Whatever sadness Armaud felt prior dried in the wake Antoine’s touch, and he remembered where he was, reminded himself Antoine was not his friend but a reprobate who had violated Armaud’s autonomy for his own gain. They weren’t children anymore. Antoine was a criminal with no compunctions about killing, and in his unique way, Armaud was no better. 

He could not allow any sentimentalities to cloud his dealings with Antoine and righted his frame of mind, steeled his heart again, and as soon as Antoine released Armaud’s hand did Armaud move to clasp his hands together, secured them to prevent any other garish displays of concern.

“I suppose then,” said Armaud, “you do this out of some hidden sense of patriotism to the so-called true heir to the throne. You assume I have some plan to dethrone Alexandre and to grab power for myself, but you have no idea where my loyalties to the crown lie. You assume whatever you remember about me in the past is good enough to inform you on the way I behaved in the decades since we last spoke. But say I do have something–some tedious plot or another. What do you gain here, Antoine?”

Antoine was far from blind, and further was stupid. He could sense the brief, bright flare of animosity that had sparked between them at the contact, and understood that it was not the contact but the imposition of what it meant that drove it. Due to that, he didn’t reach out again, his head lightly tilted, his attention focused, calm, absolute. There was the slightest flicker of a smile when Armaud’s hand retracted and secured itself, far from even accidental brushings.

He remembered hearing a sharp bang, and it wasn’t long after when he fell to the ground, crashing violently into the mud. Shadows emerged from the nearby woods, all around. He couldn’t remember how many there were, he couldn’t even see properly, all he could remember was a devastating neigh, the shrill cry from his horse that sends shivers down his spine and is still echoing in his mind. He remember standing up as he was aching all over from the fall, with blood trickling down his forehead through unknown injuries, the pain was paralyzing yet he didn’t remember feeling panic. It was as if he had accepted his doom, as if he, as a prey being hunted, had accepted his fate.

Then a bullet scraped his shoulder, and he fell again, not getting up this time.

Herbert woke to a sudden bump and the muffled sound of distant chattering from all around with his head still heavy. As his hearing and sight slowly returned to him, he noticed he was lying down, dragged on a wooden cart. He twitched and turned, noticing a few men glancing his way as they exchanged comments between themselves. He had many questions but all he could manage was a faint groan followed by coughs and hisses of pain between his gritted teeth. He turned to his side, only to tumble back when he felt the sharp pain in his shoulder, he coughed again when he thought he heard a man speak to him. Before he thought to reply, before he could form a coherent sentence, he felt the cart halt and he was then assisted down and led into a large building. He didn’t quite catch a sight of it clearly, he didn’t know where he was, but he saw the stained glass windows, and all he could think about was that it was a sanctuary.

In there he saw a man, a rather large and graceful figure leant back in a chair, intimidating yet alluring. Herbert dropped to his weakened knees as the man half carrying him released his grip on his unscathed arm, then the figure on the chair rose. He stammered.

“M-monsieur…” Then the man spoke to him, his voice deep and calming, almost sounding like he was amused. Herbert flinched at the throbbing pain and grasped his injured shoulder as the man spoke, he gaze flickering, weak, under the soft light. As his conscious slowly cleared up, he briefly surveyed the hall.

“M-mon cheval,” he finally uttered in a quiet hush, “is he alive?” His mind was still a stirring mess, concern and disbelief compromising his defences. Herbert held no power in that moment, and all words seem to choke him as penetrating gazes surrounded him.

He was tempted to pull away as the mysterious man offered him hospitality, and he would have. He struggled to form appropriate phrases, an expression of gratitude might do, but it somehow seemed off. “Some water would do… thank you.” He replied calmly, his voice subtly adrift. He just wanted to lie down, to sleep, to be away from all the trouble. For a moment he wanted it even more than he wanted answers. Distantly, he heard the younger version of himself sobbing.

“I should not stay long.” He straightened his back despite the pain.

Antoine watched the man drop to his knees with an expression of mild interest, his gestures neat as he wiped the majority of blood from his haggard features. With the same air of grace, he handed the dirtied rag to one of the men beside him. Water was provided to Herbert by another of Antoine’s band, and then, with a nod, the great man banished them from the room. The door, heavy as it was, closed behind them firm as a punctuation mark.

Alone, he returned his attention to the gentleman in front of him, who looked, understandably, traumatised. Antoine considered that It shouldn’t be particularly difficult to earn his good will. Those steady eyes met Herbert’s, relaxed, completely in control of the situation. Good will or not, there was little reason to lie to him. On the contrary to what many considered, Antoine was not fond of lying or liars, mainly due to the profound effort involved.

“Your horse was shot from under you,” he replied, careful to keep his voice as even and calm as possible. “Unfortunately, it has died. I’m sorry.” And it was unfortunate. Antoine didn’t enjoy killing animals unnecessarily, took little pleasure in it. He accepted it occasionally as collateral damage, but he wasn’t above offering a light condolences. “However,” he added, with a flicker of a smile, a tilt of his head, “we can supply you with another.”