#brount

Wikipedia lists at least 40 breeds of extant & extinct mastiffs, so I don't know which is the most realistic for Max to have had. This one is called the French mastiff or Dogue de Bordeaux, though it was apparently more common in southern France:

Poor Brount 😔

I seem to remember there being confusion over this; I... cannot clarify anything and am still confused. But I kinda like imagining him with this big pensive wrinkly dog that trudges along beside him or flops heavily on the hearth and watches dolefully as he thinks and writes and would definitely have torn out Tallien's throat if only he'd been alerted to the proceedings.

Saintspierre had another ugly lil baby…

Happy Valentine's Day!!!

Today I wanted to show you a relaxed Maxime at night, surrounded by those little things that make you feel good. The sound of your dog snoring as he lies on top of you... the sound of the quiet night. The moonlight caressing your sleeping face and the warm candlelight slowly fading as dreams fill your mind.

Woof barkbark arf bark, woof grrr bark ruff barkbark arf!

Ruff arf arf woof grrr

Frevtober prompt for October 6th.

The autumn chill made him shiver, so Maxime pulled his coat closer and quickened his pace. Walks with Brount had been more difficult lately, due to his frail health. He must have a fever again.

The big dog ran merrily around him, chasing fallen leaves that fluttered in the wind and were red and yellow at this time of year. The paths in the park were full of leaves, and the children playing there were throwing them at each other and squealing with joy. It was like it was raining gold, Maxime thought as he passed them.

The gold and red leaves swirled through the air, turning into colorful circles before his eyes. He knew immediately what it meant as darkness began to descend slowly on his consciousness...

“Monsieur? Monsieur, are you alright?”

Maxime opened his eyes and blinked. Something was wrong. The world suddenly seemed to be made of a thousand tiny pieces. He raised his hands to his head and removed his broken glasses. He saw two small boys staring at him in fear. He tried to smile.

“You’re bleeding. You fell, Monsieur,” one of them said. Brount licked Maxime’s bruised, bloody face and looked impatiently, as if wanting to know why he was sitting on the ground. Yes, why was he still sitting there?

“It’s nothing, boys. I’m fine,” Maxime tried to reassure the children, and he started to get up. They watched him for a moment as he staggered out of the park, his coat still covered in leaves.

“You shouldn’t be walking outside alone in this condition,” Saint-Just said when he stopped to pick Maxime up later that evening. From Éléonore he learned what had happened and why his friend was looking as if he had been fighting. “Actually, you’d better stay in bed. You’re sick.”