Post by HENRI ROQUEFEUIL-BLANQUEFORT on Aug 22, 2013 11:32:07 GMT -5
Henri rode into the defensive courtyard of the gunpowder mill at a walk, glancing back toward Tybalt as if to scold him for his lack of faith in their success, scowling at his jibes. They were in. That was the most significant part of this battle, simply getting into the mill in the first place. Once inside, as long as the commander did not know what Chauvelin actually looked like, they should have no trouble getting as much powder as they could carry—and a promise for more later—and getting out again. Any discussion on the topic would have to wait for after the whole affair was complete.
As much as he respected the man, Sans-Gauche could be an exhausting lieutenant.
He took a breath, relieved that it had all gone as well as it did to this point. He willed the muscles in his shoulders to relax, unaware that he had tensed them so much. The courtyard was oddly silent, with no one sent out to greet them or arrange the transfer of the powder. Still, Tybalt knew the layout of the mill and could get them to where they needed to go—and perhaps whoever was in charge assumed that this Chauvelin knew they plan of the facility just as well.
His thoughts were interrupted by a low creaking, like a stable door too long ungreased. That must be our welcoming party. The trouble was that it wasn't coming from any of the stone buildings associated with the mill, but from somewhere behind them.
The gate. He turned back in the saddle to see it closing, slowly but inexorably. He felt a pang of dread, but assured himself this was normal procedure. Surely no one had set a trap for M. Chauvelin, and it could almost make sense—he clearly held some rank in the king's government to be sent off to gunpowder mills, and Henri knew they were quite aware of some form of partisan activity in the Fontainebleau Forest.
The closed gates would have to be a precaution against that. To make sure that this exchange could be carried out safely, without raiders coming in to interrupt while the men at the mill were otherwise engaged. He straightened back in his saddle, slowing his horse as he neared the center of the courtyard, and, once he had halted, prepared to dismount.
As much as he respected the man, Sans-Gauche could be an exhausting lieutenant.
He took a breath, relieved that it had all gone as well as it did to this point. He willed the muscles in his shoulders to relax, unaware that he had tensed them so much. The courtyard was oddly silent, with no one sent out to greet them or arrange the transfer of the powder. Still, Tybalt knew the layout of the mill and could get them to where they needed to go—and perhaps whoever was in charge assumed that this Chauvelin knew they plan of the facility just as well.
His thoughts were interrupted by a low creaking, like a stable door too long ungreased. That must be our welcoming party. The trouble was that it wasn't coming from any of the stone buildings associated with the mill, but from somewhere behind them.
The gate. He turned back in the saddle to see it closing, slowly but inexorably. He felt a pang of dread, but assured himself this was normal procedure. Surely no one had set a trap for M. Chauvelin, and it could almost make sense—he clearly held some rank in the king's government to be sent off to gunpowder mills, and Henri knew they were quite aware of some form of partisan activity in the Fontainebleau Forest.
The closed gates would have to be a precaution against that. To make sure that this exchange could be carried out safely, without raiders coming in to interrupt while the men at the mill were otherwise engaged. He straightened back in his saddle, slowing his horse as he neared the center of the courtyard, and, once he had halted, prepared to dismount.
