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Post by LUCIEN DE LA TOUR D'AZYR on Jul 14, 2013 18:06:44 GMT -5
It was barbaric. What otherwise civilized people could come to, once they listened to the wrong man. How dare these little schoolboys rouse a riot in these city streets? The rabble, the scum here of course was easily inflamed and incited, they would follow everyone that cried the loudest like sheep would follow their bellwether, and apparently the National Guard was powerless once again. Pathetic! Lucien knew it would need something like a fierce herding dog now to get these sheep in line again, but he also knew it wasn’t his position. He wasn’t one for the melee. Once started, there was little stopping this stampede anyway, and before he got into the line of fire, he better made sure to save his own hide. What would happen, after all? They wanted to start a barricade?! Pah! As if anyone would follow them there! They wouldn’t hold for a day, with only their little pistols and no other weapons. Lucien himself would be able to sit back and let the National Guardsmen do the dirty work, while he enjoyed the show. The best way now was to back out slowly and stealthily. He had been at this funeral march for one sole reason after all, to pay his last hommage to a man that once had been a brilliant general, before he had gone soft and sappy about the wellbeing of ‘the people’.
His father had known Lamarque, of course, and he had written to his son that while he could not come to Paris himself, for some urgent business detaining him, he would want to see Lucien there as representative of the De La Tour D’Azyr. There had been nothing in this letter about risking his own hide when things got awry. Stupid, stubborn Parisians! Why couldn’t they finally sit still and mind their daily work instead of always jabbing at their rightful superiors?! It was time to get out of here, before someone of that scum turned his attention away from the guards and decided it was time again to teach someone of higher blood a lesson!
But just as he was about to squeeze his way through the crowd that was now pushing to and fro in clear disarray, he saw a familiar figure just a few yards away but almost impossible to reach through the throng separating them. Sylvie St.Cyr. He’d recognize that lithe build and grace everywhere ! Something seemed to be wrong, some kind of trouble, and yet the hustle and bustle, the shouts and gunfire made it impossible to deem what exactly was the matter. Was she in any kind of danger, maybe? Not that he didn’t think that woman could handle herself – as he very well knew she could – but he still found himself rudely pushing a few men and women aside, half-drawing his rapier already as he approached. He would not let any filth touch her!
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SYLVIE ST-CYR
Aristocrat
French
Posts: 45
Joined: Feb 13, 2013 12:28:43 GMT -5
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Post by SYLVIE ST-CYR on Jul 29, 2013 23:12:45 GMT -5
| [atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 400px; background: url(http://i12.photobucket.com/albums/a223/Achillea/black-silk-repeating-background_zps22606a56.jpg); border-radius: 30px 30px 30px 30px; padding: 10px;] . i am the nightmare of your own desire i am the song that the devil sings It was unbelievable, Sylvie thought, recoiling into the closest doorway at the sight of a tide of grubby peasantry flooding down the street like an overflowing sewer. Many of their mouths gaped wide and they gabbled and screamed incoherently in their mangled French. Granted, the villeins could be excitable on top of their ignorance and stupidity, but this had to be a new low. It was as if the whole of Paris had taken leave of its senses.
With a frown, she shook her head impatiently. This was what came of letting a man whose head had clearly been as soft as his heart call the shots. Lamarque had been far too easy on these savages for far too long. And now, like the spoiled children they were, they were throwing a tantrum.
Regarding the old General with contempt, the Marquise hadn't troubled to attend his funeral. In fact, she wouldn't have been abroad in the city at all today if she hadn't run short on hemlock. With the St-Just bitch still swanning around arrogantly in France, she'd needed a good supply of the lethal herb, and it wasn't something one could simply send a scullery brat for. It also wasn't something openly sold, but she knew where all manner of 'exotic' substances could be acquired, and it hadn't been her first trip up that narrow, twisting alley.
It was the first time she'd emerged into utter chaos, though. Audible above the inchoate roar of the crowd, she could hear the crack of gunfire in the distance, reassuring her that somebody was at least trying to get matters under control. Good, she would leave them to it, get to her carriage, and go home.
Flicking her skirt away from a filthy, scraggly old beggar who passed too close, Sylvie took a step out of the doorway and toward her conveyance ... and quickly realized two things. One, her coachman was nowhere in sight. And, two, some young man with an unruly mop of blond hair was astride the horse. Her earlier disgusted amazement was nothing compared to her appalled disbelief as the brazen thief heeled the beast in the ribs and took it, and the carriage her carriage off down the street.
She was still staring, stunned and speechless with fury, when a ragged urchin, busy looking behind him at the gunfire and not at where he was going, ran straight into her. Jolted out of her paralysis, she backhanded the boy almost automatically. She was very fit for a woman of her station and she hit with all her strength. Her rings gashed and gouged his face as he was knocked spinning away.
Still, she could tell it was only a temporary respite. The flood of people was only increasing, and her only means of transport was gone. She was alone and stranded among this ... this rabble. For the first time, she felt a faint thread of fear. This could not be happening! Not to her!
Then, as if summoned by her need and sent from on high, the marquise glimpsed a familiar face. Lucien! she thought with intense relief, watching him force his way through the masses to her, several inches of steel bared in warning to any who would bar his way. She'd never been so glad to see any man, and she whispered his name huskily when he reached her side, catching at his sleeve with her still-bloody hand.
|| tagged: Lucien || notes: none yet ||
lyrics: "Black Unicorn" by Heather Alexander |
Table made by Satara of Caution 2.0!
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Post by LUCIEN DE LA TOUR D'AZYR on Aug 8, 2013 5:13:56 GMT -5
There was a surge of people now where before it had only been a trickling in a certain direction, and Lucien was glad to be a little taller than the average peasant, or else he might have lost all orientation in the throng. How much worse must it be for the Marquise! She might be a viper, but even a viper could be trampled to mush by horse hooves and well-placed human feet! There would be a few last bites and stings out of defiance,but in the end she would have to yield. And he had to prevent that! Sylvie was too important for their cause, she alone possessed the brain and the scrupulousness to match, she alone had it in her to dominate the nobles in her own way, or dispose of their adversaries. She might be a psyhopath, but Lord, was she an alluring one! Besides, coming to her rescue might put him further in her good books,and that could benefit him in oh-so-many ways…
And then he was beside her,and he saw the flicker of relief in her eyes for the briefest moments, which surprised,but also reassured him. So even the Ice Queen had a human core, the core of a woman’s heart. He knew he should never voice these words for they would be his last, but it was a good information to file away and maybe, one day, use to his advantage. He flinched the tiniest bit when she grabbed his sleeve with a bloody hand, more out of disgust than concern, but he was quick to ascertain: “Are you hurt, Mylady? Come, let’s get you somewhere where we both can breathe freely!”
Free from the stink of peasants around them, so much was for sure. Already some of them were stirring and hissing at hearing Sylvie’s title being spoken, but Lucien was on his guard.A quick flick of his wrist brought the thin blade in an arch in front of them, buying them some space, but he was careful not to spill blood. That could be their last action ever to have performed, in the mood this rabble was right now. Overhastyness was also not very advisable right now, so he started forward slowly, aiming for one of the side alleys, where there hopefully would not be too many people blocking their way. And the safest would also be to vanish into the opposite direction of where they were heading. He did not aspire to see his way blocked by a barricade today.
His gaze darted between the mass of people, individual faces, the tip of his blade and Sylvie’s face, anxious to watch out for any indication of hers or the crowd’s that there might be something unpleasant afoot. “There’s nothing sacred to this mob”, he pressed out between clenched teeth.
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SYLVIE ST-CYR
Aristocrat
French
Posts: 45
Joined: Feb 13, 2013 12:28:43 GMT -5
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Post by SYLVIE ST-CYR on Aug 27, 2013 10:22:05 GMT -5
| [atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 400px; background: url(http://i12.photobucket.com/albums/a223/Achillea/black-silk-repeating-background_zps22606a56.jpg); border-radius: 30px 30px 30px 30px; padding: 10px;] . i am the nightmare of your own desire i am the song that the devil sings Sylvie stayed close to Lucien, though she was careful not to interfere with his sword arm. She might never have touched a blade longer than a stiletto herself, but plenty of men had fought duels over her while she'd looked on with avid attention. She watched intently now, hoping for blood, mildly disappointed when the lowborn filth seemed to keep evading her champion's steel.
"I am unharmed, my lord," the Marquise said, her sultry voice low. "It's not my blood." She glanced toward where the boy she'd struck had fallen, but he was nowhere in sight. She hoped he'd been trampled underfoot. "Merely ... faugh." It was an eloquent sound, equal parts disgust and anger. "Some ili di cagna* stole my carriage! And these creatures!"
She went in the direction Lucien guided her, grasping part of his logic immediately. A few of the side alleys were disgorging more people into the flow, like streams into a river, but most were clear. If they could get into one of the latter, they'd be away from the worst of the scum. Not to mention it would be harder for them to be surrounded.
Pulling her gaze from the milling about of grubby bodies in ragged, even dirtier clothes, she focused on their destination. Then, just as they were but a step or two away, it was blocked.
The obstruction was a woman, or so the Marquise guessed, it was difficult to tell whether the lumps on the obese, body were breasts or merely rolls of fat. Long grey hair straggled greasily from beneath a cap which bore a red, white, and blue republican cockade bold as brass. One eye was clouded the white of a cataract, and most of her teeth were gone, the remaining few almost as black as the nails tipping her stubby fingers. Worse than all of that, though, was the smell. Composed of equal parts sweat and stale urine, it was almost enough to overpower the stench of garlic on the creature's breath.
Horrified, Sylvie recoiled.
|| tagged: Lucien || notes: * son of a dog||
lyrics: "Black Unicorn" by Heather Alexander |
Table made by Satara of Caution 2.0!
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Post by LUCIEN DE LA TOUR D'AZYR on Aug 27, 2013 11:36:57 GMT -5
Lucien had never really liked Paris, it had to be said, he was disguste by the filth and the poverty which showed whenever you left the grand boulevards for a side street. Normally he tried to prevent that at all costs, and if he had to pass through there, he at least used a horse, so they would not dare to come anywhere near the thundering hooves of his mount. But now every single one of his nightmares seemed to come true, even though it was by far not a nightmare to be so close to Sylvie St. Cyr. If that was the price he had to pay for it… maybe he could bear it just this once, even though he already felt quite dirty just by being in this place. With only half an ear he listened to her elaborations about someone who had stolen her carriage, more interested in the way she talked than in the content. He always liked it when she interspersed those Italian snippets, it sounded quite sexy. And profligate as well…
“I am glad to hear that disgust is so far the only thing that ails you, Mylady!” he replied in a mixture of wickedness and galantry. She just had that effect on him, always adding a sultry subtext to his words, no matter the time and the circumstances.
At first it seemed like his plan was bearing fruit, as the people rather minded their own business than causing them any trouble, but then the two of them suddenly found their path blocked by a … veritable monstrosity. It ought to be a woman perhaps, one of the older decrepit whores, one of those Lucien would not want to touch even with a pole of three meters length! But now they were so close he could even feel the foulness of her breath, and he could understand the Marquise as she recoiled in horror. Instinctively, the blade came up between the woman and him and he was careful only to breathe through the mouth as he hissed: “Get out of our way, old frump!”
But the woman only cackled, putting her fleshy fingers forward to make a grab for Sylvie greedily as she wheezed: “Ooooh, pretty pretty. Ah do wunt yer coat an’ yer things, snookums. Won’t ye givem te good ol’ Momma Burnett?” Growling, Lucien raised the hand with his sword and brandished it in front of the woman’s face. “I said: Get out of our way!”
Whether it was the old tart’s slow reactions or Lucien’s own subconscious will he did not know, but the blunt side of his blade hit her over her temple, leaving a gash and sending her stumbling backwards. He used the moment to brush past her, careful still not to touch her at all costs, but as he pulled Sylvie with him, he already heard a cry of anger and saw a few rogues who had until then only watched start forward at his unexpected show of violence.
They were closing in on them rapidly, but yet they were not blocking the path further, just coming at them from behind.
With a swift motion, he turned around to face them, once again trying to push Sylvie behind him. One of the men, a burly figure with a chest like a barrel, barely covered by a smith’s apron, was reaching for a huge hammer and approached further. Lucien’s face hardened. “Run Sylvie, I’ll buy you time”, he hissed, his eyes blazing in an almost maniac light. He would teach this rabble a lesson, now the dice had been cast.
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