#brandedknife

Sometimes I make things into music boxes because I have an actual obsession. 

@brandedknife

The soiree had begun at sundown, when the sun sank beyond the shifting horizon of the the tied, in a splendor of coronal golds and the crepuscular indigos matched and mirrored by the sky and sea. The boon of candlelight cast the softest of shadows, darkening corners for the provenance of secrecy, sure to be utilized later when wine dilutes the blue blood and their inhibitions in kind.

The nobles filed in, in high spirits from the supper, to the leitmotif of the chamber group striking up plaintive Serkonan airs. Corvo noted the arrival of the Viscount Luixa, the upjumped actor turned landed gentry, wearing his sinister smile as easily as his purchased nobility. He was a large figure, only slightly more imposing than that of his young protege, the nameless, scowling thing at his side of whom Corvo had heard too many rumors to count. His protector, his guard, his student, his slave, his shield, his lover. 

But that was none of his business. His charge was to stand alongside the gendarme as a glorified sentinel. As though anyone had any interest in assassinating the dilettantes and the northern nobles come for holiday or convalescence. Not that he had minded. The Duke was hardly a stalwart sort of employer, and halfway through the night would begin to ply Corvo with high-priced liquors and low-bred girls.

Tonight, the Duke had begun early, the jewel -bright of twilight barely dissipated before he was pushing goblet after jeweled goblet filled with his favorite red, and asking which songs he prefers the musicians play, and which was more likely to inspire his guests to cut a caper. It didn’t take long for Corvo to feel the pleasant light-headedness that swallowed him soft and whole, but which also had the unfortunate complication of inspiring him to mischief. 

Shoulders back, chest puffed out, doing his level best to assert some semblance of sobriety and/or authority, Corvo marched up to the viscount and frowned. “My lord.” The title felt unpleasant from his tongue. “The Lady Postlethwaite wishes an audience in the hedge maze. She insisted that you bring her a bottle of rose when you do so. She was quite insistent you attend her presently.”

The lord had looked sidelong at his young man, half knowing, half longingly, as though he were loathe to part from him, but still eager for whatever libidinous tryst was sure to await him withing the twists of the hedges. “Would it be too much to ask that you keep Mr Daud company?” he asked smoothly, touching his well-manicured fingers to the bend of Daud’s arm. It was almost an affectionate gesture. “He does so poorly at functions without me, I should dislike to know he’d enjoying himself even less apart from me.” 

Corvo’s eyes lit up, and he bowed deeply, reverentially, like a sunflower. “It would be my pleasure, naturally, my lord,” he replied, this time the words coming easily to his loosened tongue. 

The viscount departed (with a bottle of rose snatched from the tray of an entering footman), and Corvo smiled pleasantly— if awkwardly— at his new charge. “The Duke’s hedge maze is more complicated than he realizes, I think,” he confided as he led them both towards the waiting table full of canapés and petit fours and all the standard viennoiserie present at such events. “He constructed it around his terraced garden about three years ago, I’m told. For the express purpose of being both discrete and discreet. If you know what I mean. So I think it’s safe to assume your lord will not be returning so soon.”

an intentional KNOCK of shoulder against shoulder has his ale filled pint spilling its contents quite tremendously, and in an arc of glistening drops, the man’s tunic was now stained piss yellow. the sharp inhale between his teeth is followed by a stream of apologies, exaggerated by the rapid wiping by a quickly napped towel.  ❛ outsiders BALLS -- terribly sorry, mate, terribly sorry. ❜ perhaps the thick, foreign accent was enough of a distraction in itself as his knobbed fingers drifted behind the stranger’s rear ( nice arse. ) and snagged hold of the purse. a flutter of triumph breathed out in his chest, the weight of fresh coin having settled easy in his own trouser pocket. 

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